White Ginger (2 page)

Opening her eyes and turning reluctantly back to Yu, she said, “Fine. You win. Do you have a dollar?”

Yu looked from Bai to Lee and back again, obviously confused. “I think so.”

Bai's hand snaked its way across the top of her desk palm up. “Give me the dollar. Please.”

The girl's manner was uncertain. She slowly worked a bill loose from the pocket of her wet jeans and laid the soggy dollar on Bai's outstretched palm.

Bai's fist closed around the bill. “The dollar is payment for my services,” she stated with as much grace as she could muster. “We now have a contract. I'll find Jia for you.”

Yu bit down on her lower lip but couldn't hide her pleasure.

Bai noted the girl's reaction and frowned. She couldn't help feeling she'd been steered, roped, and trussed, the bill in her fist binding her more tightly than any knot. Her word had been given to a stray. And strays, she remembered, were always trouble.

A call to San Francisco's Police Department didn't yield any clues to Jia Yan's whereabouts. No one had reported her missing. After a moment's hesitation, Bai picked up the phone to call her contact in Child Protective Services. The call was a long shot, but if there'd been trouble in the Yan household, Jia might have been put into juvenile detention, which would explain her inability to communicate with the outside world.

When John Fong answered, Bai again went through the events leading to the girl's disappearance.

“There's nothing in the system on a Jia Yan,” John informed her.

“Do you have any incident reports on the Yan household, anything that might indicate a problem?”

“Nothing, Bai, but that's not unusual. The Chinese community is pretty tight-lipped.”

She thanked John and ended the call to lean back in her chair and brood.

Lee walked into the office to perch on the edge of her desk. “I got Yu's contact information and told her we'd call when we have news.”

Bai nodded in acknowledgment. “Jia hasn't been reported missing, and she's not in the juvenile system. It seems I don't have any choice but to go to see Mrs. Yan.”

“You'd better be careful. She won't like your interfering in her affairs.”

Bai snorted. “For reasons that remain a mystery to me, the woman has failed to embrace my every attempt to befriend her. Nonetheless, I'm going to ask nicely. I'm going to use my uncanny guile to ferret the truth out of her. As you well know, I'm a ferreting fool. She won't stand a chance against my awesome interrogation techniques.”

He stood and turned to face her. “I think I'll go with you.”

“Do you think I'll need assistance dealing with one matronly woman?”

“No, but I suspect it might turn into a brawl, and I don't want to miss out.”

The corner of Bai's mouth twitched up. She wasn't entirely sure having him along was necessary, but the determined look on his face told her she didn't have much choice. “I don't suppose it would hurt to have you tag along. Just don't start anything.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I don't think I'm the one you have to worry about.”

She stood to brush past him and into the lobby where she grabbed an umbrella from the stand next to the door. Lee stopped to lock the office behind her as she stepped down the stairs from the second-story landing. Pushing past the heavy glass door at the entry, Bai walked into the pouring rain and chaos of Chinatown.

The pavement beneath her feet shed water in tiny rivulets while vendors unloaded goods from double-parked vans. Hand-trucks, loaded with boxes, forced their way through the crowd like barroom bruisers. Voices trumpeted as people yelled over the din of rain and traffic. To the uninitiated it might seem like bedlam. To Bai it was home.

Despite the foul weather, people crowded the sidewalk. She was jostled as she struggled to open her umbrella. An elbow nudged her from behind to send her careening into a man wearing a garbage bag like a Mexican serape. She bounced off wet, black plastic and turned, angrily. A tug at her elbow caused her to turn again. Lee gently took the umbrella from her hand to open it as he steered her into the crowd.

They walked north on Grant as far as Sacramento Street before stopping at a red light. They stood behind a swarm of pedestrians as umbrellas bumped each other and jockeyed for position. Waiting at the edge of the crowd, next to the Hoshun Deli, Bai spied Cantonese roasted ducks hanging in the window, a gallows row of greasy delicacies.

She made a beeline over to press her face and hands against the glass.

“What now?” asked Lee.

She detected a note of impatience in his voice and turned her head to stare at him. “The ducks, they're talking to me.”

He shook his head and looked away. “I know I'm going be sorry I asked.” A lengthy pause revealed his inner struggle. “All right, I give up. What're they saying?”

“They're saying, ‘Forget that salad you were planning to have for lunch. Bite into my crisp, spicy skin. Taste my sweet, tender flesh while succulent fat rolls down your chin. And don't worry about it. You look good carrying a few extra pounds.'”

When Bai turned to gaze at Lee, his expression seemed doubtful. He peered at her with his lips canted to the side. “Those are some long-winded ducks.”

“Ducks are charmers. There's no doubt about it. And, sure, maybe they're a little chatty, but that's part of their charm. It certainly doesn't detract from their allure. Just look at them. Aren't they gorgeous?”

He pointed to a rack of barbecued pork. “I suppose the
cha shiu
ribs've got something to say, too.”

She turned to stare at the ribs, their surface a bright red but burned black around the edges. They glistened enticingly. She could almost smell the caramelized sugar through the glass. When she spoke, her voice was wistful. “Pigs are aggressive and very direct. The ribs just say, ‘Eat me. You know you want me.'”

Food had always conversed with her; since she'd turned thirty the conversations had become more intense, more confrontational. She craved fat and sugar.

Lee dismissed her comments with a wave of his hand. “Your spareribs sound a lot like a man I know.”

She glared at him.

“Pigs and men do seem to have a lot in common,” she said with disdain. “You certainly know how to ruin a girl's appetite.”

He took her hand in his. She smiled, convinced he'd seen the error of his ways.

“It's for your own good,” he said as he pulled her forcefully away from the window. “You'll thank me later.”

She balked. “I might thank you later,” she said as she turned to face him, “but I want you to know I'm not feeling it right now.”

“Think of this as an intervention.”

He linked arms to walk with her. They made their way nearly to Washington Street before stopping again. The Far East Café was located one door down from the corner. Large gold letters frayed with age displayed the café's name on dark glass. Peeling paint on the door served as an omen of neglect.

Lee closed their umbrella. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. He opened the door and ushered her through the entrance. Stopping just inside the doorway, Bai let her eyes adjust to the subdued lighting. She took her time to visually inventory her surroundings.

The café had changed. What had once been a meeting place for the geriatric set now catered to a much younger clientele. About a half dozen
Wah Ching
, young thugs, sat at tables in the far corner near the window. Their girlfriends sat with them. The crowd stared at them with disaffected interest.

Wah Ching
is a boy gang, teenagers mostly, though older members might reach into their thirties. They're triad wannabes with a reputation for being vicious. Their eventual goal is membership in a triad, though few have the aptitude or discipline to make it that far.

The boys sitting at the small tables looked like a mixed crew—short, tall, fat, and skinny. They dressed in leather jackets and dirty jeans with knee-length swag chains clipped to their belt loops. Heavy, industrial-type boots covered their feet. Tee-shirts, featuring heavy metal rock bands, rounded out the look. They'd apparently developed allergies to soap.

Bai's reputation in Chinatown was that of a well-connected, if somewhat meddlesome, woman. Her business was getting into other people's business. Lee's reputation was somewhat less affable. In his youth, he'd developed a reputation as a street fighter. But that had been years ago. He'd mellowed with age, for the most part.

The
Wah Ching
gave no indication they recognized either of them.

Bai nodded and smiled a greeting to the crowd who silently eyed them. Lee just stared at the bangers then turned away—a dismissal. They strolled over to take seats at the counter on round stools covered in pea-green Naugahyde. A green Formica counter, faded with age and chipped along the edges, provided a place to rest their elbows. The café smelled of old grease and burned coffee.

No one stood behind the counter. Bai couldn't see anyone through the service window to the kitchen. The place was quiet, too quiet. She stole another glance at the kids in the corner. They stared back with deadpan faces. Coffee mugs and soda glasses crowded the small tables in front of them. Half-eaten burgers congealed on plates.

As she reached over and grabbed a couple of menus off the back of the counter, a young Chinese woman shuffled out of the door leading to the kitchen. A drab girl with a flat face and wary eyes, she appeared to be in her late teens.

Bai smiled, hoping to set the girl at ease. “Hi, my name's Bai Jiang. What's your name?”

The girl didn't respond at first. When she did reply, her voice was sullen. “Ling. What do you want?”

Bai squared her shoulders. The girl's attitude bordered on disrespect. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Don't open a shop unless you like to smile'?”

Ling held a pencil poised over an order pad. She glared at Bai, her bottom lip thrust out in defiance. “You ever hear the saying, ‘Bite me—I could care less'?”

Bai's jaw tightened, and her fists clenched. She started to rise off her stool, but something about the girl gave her pause. Bai could see fear in her eyes. The girl tried to hide the fright behind a brittle veneer of indifference, but Bai could feel it in the stale air of the café, like a wool blanket on a hot night.

Reining in her anger, Bai settled back onto her stool and replied mildly. “Two cups of coffee to start. Is Mrs. Yan here? I was hoping to speak with her.”

Ling looked surprised. The girl turned abruptly to face the
Wah Ching
and gestured curtly before scuttling back into the kitchen. Chair legs scraped against linoleum to catch Bai's attention as the gang members stood. They sauntered in her direction as she and Lee swiveled around on their stools to face the young thugs.

A heavyset kid in front addressed Bai. “My name's Jimmy Yan. What do you want with my mother?”

Jimmy stood about six feet tall with a round belly that appeared to be soft with fat. Long, greasy hair framed an oval face dotted with pimples. He loomed over her with a subtle threat in his pose. Bai suspected that's exactly what it was—a pose.

She turned up the wattage on her smile, determined to charm him. “I'd like to speak with her. It's a private matter.”

Bai liked to delude herself into thinking she could unravel any mystery with a kind word and a gracious smile. Jimmy looked around to make eye contact with his boys. He smirked at them knowingly.

When he turned back to Bai, his voice was flippant. “My mother's gone back to China. You got somethin' to say, you need to say it to me.”

Bai glanced at Lee, who pursed his lips in a sign things weren't going well. She didn't need him to tell her that. She'd managed to “ferret” it out on her own. But she wouldn't be deterred.

“When did your mother leave for China?”

“That's none of your business. You're kind of a nosy fuckin' bitch.”

Jimmy grinned as he appended the insult. The
Wah Ching
chuckled at the disrespect. Their girls tittered from the other side of the room.

She refused to let her smile falter. “You're not the first person to mention that.”

“Nor the last, no doubt,” interjected Lee as he turned on his stool to speak to her.

His expression was amused. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Whothefuck are you?” Jimmy demanded.

Lee spun around on his stool to face Jimmy. His tone was pleasant when he spoke. “My name's Lee. Lee Li. As you might have guessed, my parents weren't terribly imaginative. My therapist says that's why I'm so prone to acting out. I have a deep need to prove I'm nothing like my parents, though, in retrospect, it seems that we're all destined to inherit some of their traits as a matter of genetic predisposition. From what I've heard, you, for instance, are much like your mother.”