The Golden Mountain Murders (10 page)

“Matthew. Middle name Mark. My mother wanted to cover as many apostles as possible.”

Although Lily had already answered Fong’s question, Fong was anxious for Matthew Mark to answer it. “Well, Matthew Mark, why are you helping me with this?”

“As a gay man I have seen what AIDS can do.” He took a deep breath then added, “Up close. We all have.”

So that’s who his people are, Fong thought. It answered a host of Fong’s other questions. “I did not mean to invade into your privacy.”

Matthew pointed to his right. “Down there is Kitsilano – once all hippies, now upscale condos, most of which leak every time it rains, and it rains a lot. The street we’re on leads out to the university lands at the end of Point Grey.”

“The university has one of the postal codes I sent you, right?”

“Yes. The other postal code is for Vancouver’s largest hospital.”

Fong thought about that as he watched the foot traffic on West Fourth. Young people and baby carriages – fruit stands and open bars – and space – everywhere excess space. “Drive me to the university.”

The traffic thinned as they drove along and then swung north on Macdonald and travelled along the south bank of the harbour estuary. After passing through a forested area, they finally approached the university lands.

Several young people gathered at the side of the road and then disappeared in single file down a path in the woods. They all held bath towels, but none wore bathing suits and none carried bathing suits.

“What’s down there?”

“First an open area called the meadows, then Wreck Beach. It has the only warm water in the entire area and, oh yeah, it’s a nude beach.” The young man was smiling, clearly interested to see Fong’s response to that.

For some reason the thought, Robert would like this, popped into his head. He filed it away.

Seeing that he wasn’t going to get any noticeable response from Fong, Matthew said, “The university lands begin in earnest farther up the road.”

Fong was not prepared for the wealth and privilege – students, many Chinese, lounging in expensive clothing enjoying the sun. The place had a museum of its own and, according to the signs, a golf course. Finally he said, “Are there scientific labs on campus?”

“To the right behind this large building.”

“And is there a medical school?”

“It’s part of the science faculty. It’s very exclusive and expensive.”

Fong nodded, thinking, No kidding. The buildings themselves screamed expensive and exclusive – as no doubt was their intention. For a second Fong thought of Robert in his overcoat out here – the picture didn’t sit easily.

The young man handed him a map of the campus. Fong took it and noted the buildings that the young man had pointed out. “Okay, take me into town. Is this place always like this?”

“The university?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a bit sterile, I agree.”

“The Chinese kids look English.”

“American actually. If you think that’s bad, you should see the South Asians – Indian Indians as they’re sometimes called out here.”

Fong nodded as the young man swung the cab in a wide U-turn.

They travelled through the wealth of the British Properties, Shaughnessy and Kerrisdale, then out towards the other major university in Burnaby. The wealth quickly backed off and was replaced by an almost surly poverty. Fong recognized what was now common in China after the “economic miracle”: the anger of exclusion.

The car took the steep inclines up to Simon Fraser University without any strain. Fong looked at the young man who simply smiled, “It looks like a cab but there’s real guts in this thing. I have a friend who’s a mechanic; he thought we might need the extra power.”

Fong nodded and sat back. The university appeared all at once as the cab took a long steep curve. It sat atop a smallish mountain. The columns and porticos gave it a mildly Mussolini/Aztec fascist look. Fong found it bleak.

Matthew circled the campus and pulled into a dirt lot. Immediately, a well-dressed Han Chinese male and a Chinese man who was as wide as he was tall, clearly the muscle, climbed in back with Fong. Without prompting, Fong held up his hands and the muscle frisked him. He almost laughed when the man announced, “He’s not carrying.” Would these guys be able to speak if it wasn’t for John Woo?

Matthew swung the cab onto the campus’s perimeter road and drove the speed limit. Fong looked at the new passengers. Dalong Fada, the pseudo-religious political party, was outlawed in China. But it was very strong in Vancouver and had been enlisted by Matthew to back up his people. The Dalong Fada members had insisted on meeting Fong – first, because he was a powerful Mainland Chinese cop, and second, because they were aware of his connection with Joan Shui, who had at one time been a Dalong Fada operative.

Fong turned to the well-dressed Dalong Fada leader and said, “I appreciate any help I can get in this matter, but what does Dalong Fada have to gain by assisting me?”

“We repay our debts.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“True. Our debt is to your lover, Joan Shui.”

Fong didn’t know what to do with that bit of information so he forged into the upcoming plans. The Dalong Fada leader listened closely and added a few suggestions then ended their conversation quickly and slid out of the car just before Matthew finished their second loop around the campus. Fong stuck out his hand, “Thanks.”

The Dalong Fada leader didn’t take his hand. He leaned into the car and said, “Don’t underestimate your enemies. I don’t underestimate mine.” Then he added, “By the by, you’re being followed.”

Fong had known that for some time, but Matthew was shocked. “They’re good, that’s why you didn’t see them,” Fong said. “It looks like a four-car surveillance – two off-white Fords, a blue Subaru Outback and a black Passat.”

“What should I do?”

“Just drive. We’re not going anywhere secret, just touring this fine city.”

Fong glanced in the rear-view mirror. The Subaru pulled over and made a left as the black Passat pulled out ahead of them and seemingly sped away. Matthew turned around to face Fong. “The road’s in front of you, not behind. Is your restaurant ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then just drive.”

Taking the Second Narrows Bridge, they travelled through the upscale suburbs of North Vancouver. They took the Capilano Road exit and headed north up a deep gorge. “What’s up this way?” Fong asked.

“The Capilano suspension bridge. It’s a big tourist thing.”

“I’m not a tourist, Matthew.”

“I know that. But I wanted to show you what Canada looks like racially. Everywhere in the city we drive you’ll think that this is a big multiracial city. Lots of Asians. But in the tourist spots it’s old Canada – white, white, white.”

To Matthew’s surprise Fong ordered him to stop the car and he got out. “Stay here,” Fong said and began to walk up the steep incline. Such Zhong Fong “walks” had become legendary in the offices of Special Investigations, Shanghai District. No one ever accompanied him and he often returned with unusual insights.

He headed back through the woods. Quickly he was surrounded by astounding trees that soared straight up seemingly a hundred metres into the sky. There were indeed tourists here, and in fact they were all Caucasians. Farther on, he paid the fee and entered the park. He stepped past the tourist shop, with its wide and active picnic area, and once again headed into what he learned from a pamphlet were Douglas Fir woods. A few kilometres farther he saw a more private camping spot where a few brave picnickers had brought their lunch this far up the gorge. Not much farther was a fish-hatchery complex and beyond that the famous Capilano suspension bridge that was built in the late 1890s by early settlers, with the help of local natives.

Fong found the suspension bridge, with the river thundering over boulders beneath it, more than a little treacherous. A bit of rain and getting across would be a real challenge. The boards of the bridge were bolted into place but still seemed flimsy. And the thing constantly swayed! At the very centre of the bridge he leaned over and spotted a six-stone figure on the riverbank below. Each stone was balanced atop other stones and formed a semblance of a human shape – more importantly, each captured some sense of human movement itself. He looked back and started his return. Every time he approached an oncoming tourist, one of them would have to turn sideways to let the other pass. The word “defensible” popped into his head.

Back at the cab Matthew put away his cell phone and asked, “Do you think we lost them? No one’s come this way?”

Fong looked up the road. “How much farther north does this road go?”

“A kilometre or two.”

Fong shook his head, “Then we haven’t lost them. They know there’s nowhere for us to go up here. Let’s go back. I need to see more.”

They drove out of the gorge, continued past the entrance to the web of roads that lead to the Lions Gate Bridge and entered West Vancouver, which literally climbed the side of the mountain. “At home rice paddies climb mountains, here it’s rich homes.”

The young man grunted a yes to that – what else was he to say. He lived there too.

On one of the upper-level streets Matthew pulled the cab to the side of the road and Fong got out again. The air here was cooler. They were higher up the mountain. The high-rise section of the city was now below them, across the water, to the south. He looked at the manicured gardens and the carefully painted house fronts. A weird word came to mind as he looked at them – “geegaw.” He remembered it as having something to do with gingerbread houses but couldn’t remember exactly what. A few grownups on bicycles, complete with helmets and wearing what Fong assumed were bicycle-riding clothes, passed him. Then a skateboarder took a tight corner behind him and whizzed by. Fong began to trot to keep the boarder in his line of vision. The boy took a second corner at terrific speed then flipped the board over and landed flat on its top and continued down the hill. Flew down the hill. Flying. The boy was flying, Fong thought as he walked back to the cab. When he approached Matthew, he asked, “Are they common?”

“The skateboarders?”

“If that’s what they are called.”

“Yes, there are lots of skateboarders.”

“Is it just for wealthy people?”

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know why,” he said, but it was a lie. Fong never distrusted his instincts. He knew that there was no such thing as coincidence – just meaning forcing itself upon our consciousness. Things that fly were now important to him. “I want to see more of them.”

Matthew drove across the Lions Gate Bridge and through Stanley Park. Fong marvelled at the open green space and the brightly coloured rollerbladers all going in the same direction. When they passed a police officer on Rollerblades evidently giving a rollerblader a ticket for going in the wrong direction, Fong thought he had fallen asleep and had awakened in some silly dream. He mentioned it.

Matthew’s retort surprised him, “It makes sense. This is Western Canada, Inspector, not the East. Westerners are pretty practical people. Any law that doesn’t make sense has a tendency to be ignored and quickly removed from the law books. People out here aren’t crazy about government intruding on their lives – except when it makes sense.”

Fong watched the skaters. So many, and such a narrow path. He nodded – yes it made sense to all go in one direction.

Matthew drove along the north side of the city centre and swung south again crossing the Burrard Street Bridge. On Sixth he stopped the cab and pointed at a series of stores. “Skateboarders,” he said.

Fong got out and approached the shops. He was immediately assaulted by the alternative language and nuance of the place. Equipment covered every inch of every wall. The music, if it was music, was shrill and played very loudly. The salespeople – all young, all pierced, all tattooed – were a bit suspicious of a middle-aged Chinese man in their midst. One salesperson flicked back the long hair from his face and approached Fong. “Are you looking for something particular, sir?”

Fong thought about that – he certainly was. “Is it hard to do this skateboarding?”

The clerk laughed a clear unapologetic guffaw, “I wouldn’t suggest it for someone of your age.”

“That isn’t what I asked. Is it hard to do this skateboarding?”

A little put off by the harshness of Fong’s response, the clerk took a beat before he spoke, “At first it’s very hard to even stand on it. Then it gets easier for a bit. But to get any sort of real proficiency – to be good at it – is extremely hard and takes real practice and dedication.”

Fong was pleased with the answer and a bit surprised that the long-haired salesperson was so well spoken, “Does it have a big following?”

“Do you mean do lots of people skateboard?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Lots of young people – no one your age – that I know of.”

“Is there a place where they do this?”

“Well, there are a few skateboard parks.” He gave Fong directions.

The skateboard park was a revelation to Fong. A marvel of poured concrete ramps and metal rails and boys on boards – seemingly attached to boards and wheels – no,
of
boards and wheels – and glory. Fong watched in amazement as they whizzed past him, then up ramps and flipping and turning, baggy pants, hats backwards – and smiles, understanding that they were as alive as they would ever be in their lives – that they were flying.

And somehow they took Fong with them. He was there as over and over the boys flew, committing sins against both gravity and self-preservation on their boards. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, slides on a metal rail then flips the board and takes a moulded curve with grace – like the wind slewing down a mountain valley. A lanky older boy nose slides a board down, over and around a hill with the ease of a cat’s tail rubbing a pant leg. A bare-chested boy leaps a metal rail and lands on his moving board with no more concern than a man opening a door for a lady. A rollerblader draws the ire of several skateboarders – this flying is for boarders, not skaters. Over and over again a young teen in a brown T-shirt lands his skateboard on a raised, bent metal pipe, stays there then flips himself and his board back to the pavement. Fong assumed there were names for all the apparatus and the manoeuvres, but they didn’t concern him. The names were just an attempt to make rational the flying. A heavy Pakistani boy’s skinny father yells, “Done yet!” “No,” the boy says and the vastly more slender and more talented white boys around him applaud his pluck. A teenage girl, the only female present, brings a new elegance to the moves – a real sexiness. A teenager – a Rasta-curled black youth flips his board over the iron rail and lands on it smoothly with both feet. The board never varies its speed, the boy’s head stays perfectly level – eyes and mouth wide open – swallowing large gulps of the air – in flight – and tasting God.