Changes (16 page)

The pieces came together in my mind and I finally understood.  Or, at least, I thought I did.

"When you practice, visualizing an opponent is good.  Your attitude, though, must not be one of fighting…it must be one of mischief.  Your goal is not to strike or break or maim or kill.  Your goal is to tag and trap and lure… to play with them as a cat plays with a mouse."

"I understand, Master, but…"

He smiled and said, "But you know in your head what each movement is really for, yes?"

"Yes," I said.  Most of the postures in the form illustrated techniques that, when done correctly, were not only lethal, but brutally so. 

"This is not your concern.  Your concern is to practice correctly, in the spirit of play.  When we play, we are as children.  We relax, we smile, we enjoy.  When we fight, there is tension.  Tension is not Tai Chi Chuan.

"When I practice ‘Brush Knee’, all that I am is ‘Brush Knee’.  This is
Wei Wu Wei,
to do without doing.  When I am ‘Brush Knee’ or ‘White Crane Spreading Wings’ or any other movement, I am like a child.  The person who steps outside of nature’s harmony to strike me will find that I am as formless and soft as a cloud.  I only move – no attack or defense – only move; if they are broken or injured within my movement, well, they had no business being there.  A person who jumps in the ocean should not be surprised to get wet, yes?  This is his problem, not mine.  I will not fret about this; all that I do is in the spirit of play."

It had been a long time since I had practiced just for the joy of it, since I had kept a spirit of play.  Too often, my shadow opponent took on a face.

Too often, my practice
was
stiff.

It had been a few years since I’d truly practiced Tai Chi Chuan; all this time, I’d been fantasizing about a revenge I could never have.

49

When the day’s lesson was finished I walked across the street, through the cold rain, and unlocked Tracy’s car.  She’d handed me the keys when she’d stumbled in, bleary-eyed from work, at five in the morning.  Before falling into bed and passing out, she told me to wake her by two o’clock so we would have enough time to eat and shop before we had to get ready. 

With all the excitement, I’d nearly forgotten – Tony Lau’s exhibit.

On the way home, I took a brief detour to drive past my place.  The police tape was gone, but the doors and my shop window were still boarded up.  The landlord still hadn’t given me a time or date for the repairs.  I thought about relocating, but I’d just started building a client base and moving now wouldn’t be great for business.

Of course, one had to be open for business to have a business, so there I was back to square one.  Depressing.  Really damned depressing.

I was too sore to practice and it was too early in the day to get drunk, even for me, so I did the only other thing I could think of to shake the blues – I went back to Tracy’s. 

After a shower and a turkey and swiss on wheat, I crept into the dark bedroom and slid into bed next to her.  I laid there and felt her beside me - the soft curve of her chest, rising and falling, in a thin cotton tank top. The long, elegant line of her legs. The heat of her breath.

Somewhere in the midst of that perfection, I slept.

50

Parking was hell, but we still made it in time to meet Knox and his wife, Marta, at the entrance to the museum at quarter to eight.  Marta was cute.  Short blonde hair, green eyes, tasteful red gown that still managed to show off some cleavage and leg, both of which were very worthy of display.  Everyone was introduced to everyone and we all went inside.

The museum was specially decorated for the exhibit.  Long silk banners emblazoned with Chinese calligraphy and I Ching trigrams hung from the ceiling in the sculpture hall.  Classical Chinese music played, and waitresses dressed in silk brocade
cheongsams
wandered the hall, offering champagne and appetizers.  Tracy and I grabbed some champagne and I picked up a program from a table by the door. 

‘Changes – Elements of the I Ching’ it read. 

Apparently, each of Lau’s sixty-four paintings depicted a different hexagram from the book of changes.  The pamphlet gave a short bio of the artist, conveniently leaving out anything about the family business, of course. 

"Holy shit,"  Tracy said, smiling slowly.

"What?"  I said following her line of vision to a small dj booth set inconspicuously in the corner and the bored kid working it.

"Chucky.  He used to dj at the bar," she said, heading in his direction.  I followed; in the long black evening gown she wore, being behind her was an enviable position.

"Yo, Chuck," she said as we approached.  A few older, artsy types in the vicinity cast snotty glances our way – apparently they didn’t think enthusiasm or excitement belonged in a museum – but Tracy never noticed and, thanks to my rough-and-tough demeanor, the uptight busybodies decided it was best for them to mind their own damned business.

"Bunny?  Christ, what brings you here?" The kid said.  I felt no warm fuzzies for ‘Chucky’ right from the start.  Maybe it was the shaved head, or the neck tattoo half hidden by his collar, but I like to think it was his eyes that clinched it.  To be more specific, they were all over my girl, and in a mighty familiar way.

"…’Bunny’?" I said.  If luck was with me, that didn’t come out half as snotty as it sounded in my head.  Tracy gave me a look. Whoops, no such luck.  Her tight-lipped smile spoke volumes.

"Randall, this is my
friend
Chucky.  Chucky, this is Randall."

Chucky grinned and threw his hand my way.  I shook the thing with just the right amount of firmness and for the right amount of time.  Big hands on that kid; long fingers.

Tracy nodded to me, clearly happy that I was playing nice. 

Screw that. I was pretty proud of myself for not immediately chiming in with, "Yeah, I’m Randall…Tracy’s
boyfriend."

"So, what brings you here?" Chucky said, turning back to Tracy.  Clearly he was done with me.  I slid a half step closer to Tracy, keeping well within the kid’s peripheral vision.  Childish? 

Sure.

Was I going to keep it up?

Damn skippy.

"Ah, the artist is a friend of Randall’s," she said.

To the kid’s credit, he didn’t say ‘who?’ like I would have in his place.

What he did say was, "Wicked.  Guy does cool stuff.  I mean, y’know, I prefer our work…"

He smiled.  Perfect teeth.  Tracy looked down at her champagne as if it suddenly had colonies of sea monkeys in it.  Her cheeks had a healthy tinge of pink to them.

"What work would that be?"  I said.  To the untrained ear, you really couldn’t tell my teeth were clenched or anything.  Tracy still meditated on the tiny bubbles; Chucky said, "Oh, we worked on a painting a while back."

I gave the appearance of detached interest, I hope, as I said, "Really?  Sounds great."

"Oh yeah, man, Bunny’s the best model I’ve ever worked with."

The sound I made resembled "Hm" but really meant "I want to feel your corneas squish between my fingers." 

Our eyes met, he and I, and there was no mistaking it – we understood each other just fine.

"So how did you manage to land this gig, Chucky?" Tracy said brightly.

Before Chucky could turn, I said, "This little nickname…Bunny…What’s that all about?  Where’d that come from?"

Tracy’s hand was on my elbow.  She said, "We’re losing John and Marta…Randall?"

Still looking at me, Chucky laughed and said, "Remember that old commercial with the bunny?  ‘It keeps going…and going…and going…’?  That’s my Bunny."

Even though she was doing her best to hide it, Tracy was red with embarrassment and anger.

"God damn it, Chuck," she hissed.

"What?" he said, playing totally innocent.

She turned and walked away, toward the ladies room; the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoed like thunder.

I glanced at Chucky.  He grinned and spread his hands and said, "Women, huh, man?  No hard feelings or anything, by the way… I mean that’s all ancient history."

Putting on my most charming smile, I said, "Hey, sure!  No problem.  But if you ever call her Bunny again, I will tear off your genitals with my bare hands and stuff them down your throat, alright Chucky-ole-pal?"

The grin slid off Chucky’s face and dribbled away; I held up my glass in a silent toast and left to find Tracy.

Knox and his wife were on their way into Lau’s gallery.  I knew John didn’t give a damn about the paintings, but he wanted a chance to have a friendly chat with Lau senior.

I didn’t plan on being so friendly.  I don’t take kindly to organized attacks, especially the kind that explode.  First, though, I had Tracy to think about.  When she emerged from the ladies room, she was perfectly composed but the look she gave me was serious and hurt and angry.  Before I had a chance to say anything, she said, "…Don’t look at me like that.  I didn’t tell you because I knew how you’d be about it.  It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t anything serious."

"Okay." 

"I hate when you get all jealous and shit.  I don’t need you puffing your chest out at every guy who looks my way, you know.  How would you like that shit?"

"Well…If you puffed your chest out at every guy that looked my way, they wouldn’t be looking my way for long," I said.

It didn’t even rank a smile.

"How long did it take before you threatened to beat him up?" She said.

I noticed just how fizzy my champagne was; I could see the attraction in just staring at it. 

She sighed wearily.  "I am going to go look at the exhibit and then I’m going home.  I’ve got a fucking headache."

She pushed past me and went into the gallery. 

I finished my champagne.

A distinguished looking Chinese man in a very expensive suit entered the museum. 

Judging by his escort – eight young, well-muscled guys in similar suits – I figured this was Jimmy Yi Lau, just the guy to take out my frustrations on.  Unfortunately for me, his guards led him through a side gallery before I got anywhere close to him.  With things going as they were, I decided to hit the gallery and find Knox.  I figured that, if nothing else, I could count on him not to piss on my already crappy evening.

The exhibit gallery was packed with the city’s pseudo elite; the opening night reception was strictly invitation only.  I was certain the mayor was there, and probably some other prominent local folks, but I wouldn’t know them if I saw them.  Out of the throng, I saw Tony Lau and Daniel, Knox and his wife, Jimmy Lau’s entourage, and, in a far corner, Tracy with an older couple.  She was smiling, at least, and seemed to be having a good time. 

I noticed the first painting, the hexagram
Khien
.  Done in the style of Chinese calligraphy, the image depicted two dragons, one black and silver and the other white and gold, entangled in the throes of battle.  That, or they were fucking.

"Pretentious and fruity, with hints of elderberry and peach, wouldn’t you say?"

I turned, acknowledged Knox’s presence, and said, "You find anything out?"

"Yeah.  That I hate this kind of shit."

"Have you no appreciation for culture, detective?" 

"Sure I do… I heard there are girls in Hong Kong that can do this really cool trick with a ping pong ball…"

"Filthy
Gwailo
."

"Count on it.  You see big daddy Lau?"

"Yeah, him and his goon squad," I said.

"I take it you two didn’t get to chat?"

"Not even close," I said.

He nodded.  "Me either.  Can’t imagine why a businessman would need an armed escort to go to an art museum."

"They’re armed?  How can you tell?"

"Well, those bulges by the armpit?  On each guy?  Either those are shoulder holsters, or Lau needs to change the name of his gang from Eight Tigers to The Abnormal Chest Tumor Boys."

I stared at him for a second before saying, "How many glasses of champagne have you had?"

"Three, why?"

"Abnormal Chest Tumor Boys?  Really?"

"What, I thought it was funny," he said.

"Should you even be drinking?  We got our prime suspect here, and you’re getting sauced."

"Like I need an intervention from
you
of all people.  Look, if I need to jump in and arrest Lau, I will, but that’s not going to happen, Lee.  Not here.  Too public, too much shit going on.  We’re not going to get the guy to slip up here.  So we just do what we can."

"Alright, fine.  Have another drink, I’ll tell Marta she’s driving."

"You got some kind of a master plan, Mr. Comedy?"

"Don’t I always?"

"No, not really," he said.

"Well, then there’s not really any point in starting now," I said.

I decided to fall back on what little plan I did have:  wander around, keep my ears open, occasionally make an ass of myself and see where that takes me.  In other words, pretty much the same stuff I always did. 

I saw Daniel alone, admiring a painting called ‘
Pi
– In search of beauty’.  Unlike the first, this one was a large canvas covered in thick, chunky layers of paint.  Remembering Tracy’s lesson of art appreciation, the picture – seemingly a portrait in earth tones – reminded me of melted crayons. 

"Kinda makes you want to reach out and touch it, doesn’t it?  Just to feel that texture…" I said.  Not the most elegant of openings, I know, but I had to say something.

"I have touched it," he said.

My mind scrambled for something to say, but I was born lacking the fundamental ability to small-talk.  Luckily, Daniel said, "Have you learned anything new?"

I sat beside him on a wooden bench in front of the painting.

"A great many things," I said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah… uh… some things your boss may not want to hear, actually."

He didn’t acknowledge that I’d said anything, though I knew he’d heard.

"Several things seem to indicate that Jimmy Lau is responsible for Mei Ling’s death."