Chinese Cooking for Diamond Thieves (26 page)

“Maybe I just got tired of waiting for something to happen to me—to us—” I jerked my head in Corinne's direction. “Maybe it was time for something to happen to them instead,” I said.

She gave me a long look but said nothing other than to excuse herself and go off to do whatever FBI agents had to do after they've drawn their weapons. I assume it involved at least as much excitement as we were having. Finally, Langston came through the swinging doors and into the waiting room. He walked slowly and stiffly. A nurse was walking beside him.

“Aren't you supposed to be in a wheelchair?” I asked.

“Sitting down is not a priority for me,” Langston said. “I've just had a bullet taken out of my ass.”

“You did not,” the nurse said. She was blond and had large breasts. I tried to read her nametag, just because I like to try to remember people's names. I did not get past her breasts, though. They really were large. “The bullet grazed his cheek,” she said. “Barely.”

“And thank you for the compliment you gave to me on my ass back there,” Langston said.

She flushed. I glanced at Corinne. She looked back at me. Very softly, she said, “Does that sound like flirt talk to you?”

“Possibly.”

A cop came down the hall. I recognized him from the park.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine,” Langston said, “for someone who's just survived a gunshot.”

“Looked at the doctor's report,” he said. “‘Gunshot' might be exaggerating a bit. Doctor said he wiped the wound with some hydrogen peroxide and put a little dressing on it.”

“Was a gun shot at me?” Langston asked.

The cop nodded.

“Bullet connect with me?”

“Can't argue with that,” the cop said.

“Then I've survived a gunshot.”

“He's a little theatrical,” the nurse said.

“I might be weak from blood loss,” Langston said.

“We had a guy in here the other night who gashed his finger opening a can of tomato sauce,” the nurse said. “He bled more than you did.”

“So can I go home to recuperate and try to rebuild what's left of my life?” Langston asked.

The cop smiled. “Are you kidding?” he said. “You said it yourself. You're the victim of a gunshot wound. Do you have any idea how much paperwork we're going to be doing on you?” He pulled a clipboard from under his arm, thick with a sheaf of paper clipped on it. “We might as well get started.” Then he looked at Corinne and me.

“The hospital cafeteria has some of the best blueberry croissants in town,” he said. “You'll have time for them, trust me. Why don't you go get something to eat while we interview the wounded warrior here?”

 

“Do you think these are the best blueberry croissants in town?” Corinne asked me after she'd torn off another piece to contemplate it a moment before popping it into her mouth. I swallowed the last of my own.

“Not sure,” I said. “I do not have the broad spectrum of experience necessary to make that call.”

“Do you think it might be worthwhile for us to explore that subject further?”

“If the other blueberry croissants in town taste anything at all like this,” I said, “I think that'd be an excellent idea.”

Mr. Cataldi came through the entrance to the cafeteria and looked around. We weren't hard to find. On a Saturday evening, there were some people in scrubs sitting around drinking coffee and a couple of families eating. Otherwise, the cafeteria was empty. He sat down after filling a cup of coffee at the counter. He asked about Langston. Then he told us that Eyebrows and the Curl were in custody. They'd asked for a lawyer, he said.

“They say anything else?” I asked.

“They claim they were just trying to scare you.”

“Langston's ass says otherwise,” I said.

“They say that was an accident,” he said. “The one with the gun says he wasn't aiming at you. Their story is they were shooting to try to get you to stop. They think the bullet might have hit something and ricocheted into your friend.”

I thought about the tiger-shaped rock. Or bear-shaped rock. That sound I'd heard. It could have been a bullet ricocheting off a rock. It didn't sound like the way bullets ricochet on TV. As with the blueberry croissant situation in St. Louis, I had to admit it wasn't an area on which I had a lot of authority.

“Did they say why they were trying to scare us?” I asked.

“They said they would prefer to, ah, delay further inquiries until the arrival of counsel.”

“They really said that?” Corinne asked.

“I'm paraphrasing.”

“What are they going to be charged with?” I asked him.

“I don't know yet,” Mr. Cataldi said. “Technically, they're under the jurisdiction of the city of St. Louis. It'll be up to the prosecuting attorney. My guess is attempted murder.”

“Really?” Corinne asked, surprised.

“Cops in St. Louis take a dim view of thugs shooting at people in Forest Park,” Mr. Cataldi said. “It's bad for the city's image.”

“Not all that great an experience for those being shot at, either,” I said.

“How're you both doing?” Mr. Cataldi asked.

“Blueberry croissants are helping,” Corinne said. She picked up the last piece, the end of the flaky, crusty crescent, and appraised it before eating it.

He looked at me. “Ever been shot at?”

“Eric Fletcher got me in the arm with a BB gun when I was thirteen,” I said.

“Was it as serious a wound as your friend's?” he asked.

“Little more.”

Mr. Cataldi nodded. He took a sip of his coffee.

“One more thing,” Mr. Cataldi said. “According to their driver's licenses, neither of them are U.S. citizens. They both list Montreal as their residences.”

“O Canada,” I said.

Rule #27: Never be afraid to get someone's complete attention if the situation warrants it.

 

Two days after Eyebrows and the Curl made a run at us, they were still in custody. Ms. Masterson had called the day after the excitement to update me. A lawyer had appeared by the next morning, requesting bail for them. A prosecuting attorney for the city objected. The two were not citizens; if they were released on bond, there wasn't much to keep them in the country. Her argument was apparently persuasive. Both had been denied bail. Both were awaiting a hearing.

Corinne and I were back at the Eastern Palace, working the dinner shift. I was caught up with orders. I'd just plated stir-fried shrimp sprinkled with Dragon's Well tea. My guess was that Mr. Wen was dining with us. He was from Shanghai originally, had gone to college here. Now he was a local real estate baron in St. Louis. He liked the standards of Shanghai cuisine. He brought in clients at least once a week and ordered something from Shanghai. Like the shrimp. It was an easy dish to make, the shrimp stir-fried with just a light coating of egg whites and cornstarch, then tossed with fresh Dragon's Well tea leaves. I'd dribbled a little of the tea itself onto the shrimp, to accentuate the flavor, then tossed a sprinkle of the wet fresh-brewed leaves on top.

“You need any help, Jao-long?” I asked.

“Beef with broccoli,” he said.
“Da-bao.”
For “takeout.” We didn't need to look into the dining area, to the counter where the orders were placed. We both knew the customers wouldn't be Chinese. If the order had been for some real Chinese food, Jao-long would have never accepted my offer for help. The ants on the hill would have had to have been frantically crawling around, going completely crazy, before a chef would accept help from a colleague. We weren't nearly that busy. At any rate, accepting help to turn out an Americanized dish like beef and broccoli wasn't an admission that a chef was too busy. More likely it was a matter of sharing the boredom.

“Got it,” I'd said to Jao-long. And I'd started to go to the locker where we had cubes of beef ready.

“Guy out back looking for Corinne,” Thuy told me. He held a white plastic bucket, empty now. He'd been outside, dumping the limp, soggy leftovers from the stockpots into the dumpster. “Kind of weird. Why didn't he just come to the front?”

“Don't got it,” I said to Jao-long. I put down a long-handled spatula that in Mandarin is just called a
shao,
or spoon, but in kitchen slang is a
gui-tou,
literally a “turtle's head” (which is slang itself for a penis with a big head).

I went through the kitchen door, into the dining room, then to the lobby, where Angela Li, the hostess that evening, was talking to a couple who were standing there, probably waiting for their order of beef and broccoli. They'd have to wait. I passed them, went out the front door of the Palace. I circled around to the alley. I tried to steady my breathing. I was angry. Deep-down-inside angry. I'd been angry ever since the Curl and Eyebrows had tried to jump Corinne. Maybe even before then. I wasn't sure. I
was
sure I had a target for all that anger. I stepped around the corner of the building quickly to find it. Him. It was less than twenty steps to the back door now. The more of those steps I was able to make before he knew I was coming, the better it would be for me. I could see his head and shoulders over the dumpster between us. He had his back to me. I stayed as close to the wall as I could. As I came around the edge of the dumpster nearest to me, he pivoted around quickly. He was skinny. Wearing a beige, short-sleeved polo shirt and black slacks. His black hair and thin mustache were both salted with white. I figured he must be in his late forties. His small eyes darted around like he was searching for an escape route. At the same time, he looked like he was afraid to move at all.

“Where's Wenqian?” I asked him. Confusion showed on his face. I liked that. That was the tactic Bobby Chu had used on me back in Buffalo. I only hoped I'd be more successful than Chu had been. In a few more steps, I was right on top of the man. With the natural swing of my arms in stride, I brought my right arm forward and up. He saw it coming and reached out to push it away, but I twisted my forearm at the same time, creating enough torque to intercept his arm and go around it. I grabbed his throat. With my left hand, I got a grip on his crotch. Under the material of his pants, I could feel a soft, warm package. Males have a natural disinclination to grab another guy's crotch. There isn't anything natural about grabbing someone there, at least not for most guys. I felt a little queasy, just for a second, but my anger was stronger than any squeamishness. A lot. I grabbed and squeezed. Not too much. Enough to get his attention. In case my hand around his throat wasn't doing the trick. I heard him make a high-pitched squeal. For a second, I thought he might wet his pants. While I was able to overcome my reluctance to grope a man's crotch to inflict some damage or at least some serious intimidation, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do so if he peed into it.

“Where's Wenqian?” I asked him again. I'd used it before to confuse him and get an advantage. Now I was repeating it just because I didn't know what else to say. I squeezed tighter on his throat, surprised at how good it felt. I thought I might just keep doing this, just keep going. I felt hot, flushed, like someone had jabbed me with a needle full of adrenaline. What would it be like to just keep squeezing? I could imagine this feeling just getting better and better. Still holding him, I pivoted. He pivoted with me, up on his toes, prancing as quickly as he could. We looked like we were waltzing and he was really, really eager to follow my lead. I shoved him hard against the brick wall. His head went back, and I heard it crack dully. I was still seeing things through a red haze.

“How about instead of telling me about Wenqian, you and I do a little talking?” I said to him in a voice that didn't sound like mine.

He kept squealing. I really didn't want to have any long conversations with him anyway. What I very much wanted to do was just to keep squeezing, keep my grip on his throat and his crotch, and keep squeezing and watch his eyes start to bulge. Then I was aware that someone was holding my shoulder.

“Tucker!” It was Corinne. “Tucker! Back off.” She said this in Mandarin. She'd come out the back door. She was standing beside me, her hand gripping my shoulder tightly. Not as tightly as I was doing to the guy's throat and sack.

“You know him?” I asked her. But I kept looking at him.

“Let him go, Tucker,” she said. “Please.”

I released his crotch. It was still dry. All three of us stood there.

“Tucker,” Corinne said quietly. “Meet Mr. Sung. My ex-boss.”

Rule #5: When someone has a grip on your crotch, they deserve all your attention.

 

There are a lot of advantages in speaking another language. Any high school guidance counselor will be delighted to explain them. When those counselors are urging kids to sign up for freshman French, though, there's at least one advantage they probably don't mention. Even though it's a nice one. It's the one where you can understand what's being said in front of you without those doing the talking knowing that you understand it. Like I said before, I never got tired of that. Native French speakers or Spanish speakers might be a little careful in front of a stranger. They might figure their conversations with others can be overheard and understood. I'd never had any Mandarin-speaking Chinese I didn't know pay the slightest attention to me when they were speaking to one another in my presence. They saw a Caucasian face and assumed I thought they were speaking some exotic language no non-Chinese could possibly understand.

In Asian markets sometimes, I'd be standing beside a couple of old Chinese women. They would be muttering to one another about why those big hairy foreigners were coming into a place like this when they didn't know the first thing about cooking anything that was for sale there. I'd let it go on for a while, and then I'd speak up and say, “Yeah, I know what you mean. And they smell funny too.”