He picked two songs to play on his computer, "Ends" by Everlast. And "Things Have Changed" by Dylan. He turned the volume way up.
The rap music was strangely soothing to him. And equally disturbing. He closed his eyes and got caught up in the sad rhythm of the song as he thought about what they were saying, how everything seemed to be about the ends.
Sometimes kids did indeed get murdered for the ends.
And he wondered if the all-wise Bob Dylan was right once again.
People were crazy. And people were strange. Justin knew that he used to care, too. He just wasn't sure if things had changed.
He took another deep breath.
Then he put both songs on again and went and had a beer all on his own.
21
Ling stared at Togo. His face was impassive. She thought she knew everything about him, thought she understood every nuance of his body language and each and every tic, grimace, stare, or smile he was able to muster. But she couldn't tell now if his complete lack of emotion was because he had been humiliated earlier and was angry, because he was trying to save face in front of her, or because he was trying to hide the fact that he found the woman they were watching-the blond woman coming out of the policeman's house-attractive.
He had never indicated to her that he had ever desired another woman. But she could see that this one fascinated him. She was so American, so confident looking, so casual in her sexuality.
Ling realized that she was wet between her legs. She didn't know if it was because she was thinking about Togo and this other woman or if it was because she was remembering the way he'd been humiliated, thinking about how vulnerable he had been in the big office building.
She was the reason for his humiliation.
And knowing that made her even more aroused.
They had been summoned to give a report, an update on their activities. They went to a big glass building that seemed to rise nearly to the sun. They had never met there before, it was a new place for them, and it was nearly empty. Almost no one was working on the summer weekend. A security guard had instructions to send them up in the elevator, and when they got out on a high floor, they were met by another security guard and shown to a wonderful room, with thick carpeting, many television screens built into the paneled walls, and a black marble table that shone like polished glass.
They were kept waiting before the familiar man had come into the room. Ling knew his name. And she knew that he was rich and had much power. That was all she really knew about him. Except that he was old. But even at his age, he stood straight, and his face was so chiseled it looked as if it were made from stone. There was something about this man that made her want to obey him. She did not understand why, although she had a vague inkling that the kind of power he possessed was comparable to hers, possibly even greater. Whenever he needed them, they were told where to meet. They were told to do whatever he asked, to follow his instructions exactly as he gave them. And he usually gave them in Chinese. He spoke Cantonese and it was quite good. Not perfect but reasonable. And he spoke it confidently. During their meetings he never said much. He asked several questions, told them what they were to do next. That's all. But she was always impressed with the way he communicated with them. He used their native tongue far more often than he used his own. She assumed that was for Togo's benefit; her English was far better than his. Sometimes Ling actually believed that Togo didn't speak English. She knew he understood it. She spoke to him in English sometimes, and, although he always responded in Hunanese, he knew what she was asking or saying. But sometimes this man spoke in English and Togo never acknowledged comprehension. So when the man spoke in English, he usually spoke to Ling.
This time she remembered he spoke to Togo in Cantonese. He ignored her almost completely. "Tell me how it went with the FBI woman," and Togo had said that everything had gone well. That's when the man pulled out an American newspaper. He showed them the headline. It was all about the unattractive woman, the one that Ling had left to die with dignity. She saw nothing wrong with what the paper said, but the man said the woman had lived long enough to send a message. He told her what the paper did not reveaclass="underline" that the woman had used her own blood to write words on her body. He told them the words-he said them in English, he did not translate-but they meant nothing to Ling. She did not know if Togo understood their meaning because he said nothing and did nothing. But according to the man, what the unattractive woman had communicated was not a good thing. It meant she knew more than she was supposed to know. What she had done could cause them problems. Severe problems.
As the man spoke, he grew angrier. He shoved the paper in front of Togo's face. Togo didn't flinch. His eyes never even shifted. And when the man said, "What happened?" Togo didn't answer. He still did not move.
The older man then moved to Ling. He said, "I know it was not him. He would not leave someone alive to do this. But to you it is a game we are playing. It has always been a game for you."
She wondered what he meant by the word "always." Had he known her for so long? Had he been watching her since she was young? She wondered if he was too old to desire her. She could not tell from his eyes. He did not let his eyes ever linger on her.
He walked back over to Togo, stood inches away from him, said, "Are you so weak that you let her play games?" Then he suddenly slapped Togo hard across the face. The noise reverberated in the spacious room but still Togo did not move or respond. "It is your fault," he said to Togo. "She may be playing a game, but you are the one who is supposed to be in control. You are the one we trust to understand the stakes."
For one moment, Ling thought that the man standing in front of them was going to kill Togo. Pull out a gun and put a bullet in his brain. She knew that even then Togo would say nothing, would never acknowledge that what had happened had been her fault. He loved her too much to ever betray her.
But the man did not shoot anyone. She realized he was not the type of man to use a gun. That's not the way he controlled people. Instead, he just turned his back on them and said, "What's done can't be undone. We must try to learn from it and move on." He faced Togo and pointed at the newspaper and said, "What did you learn from her?"
Now Togo said his first words. He quietly explained that they had learned more names. Names that would bring them closer to what they were searching for.
"What names?"
Togo told him. The man nodded as if the information was not new. Still, he seemed pleased.
"You must be particularly careful now. The people on this list are more important than the others. And more dangerous. I want to learn what they know and where they go. They may be helpful, and if they are, use them. If they are not, you may leave them alone. But if they get in your way, if they stop you from doing what you must do, you do whatever is necessary. This is most definitely not a game. Do you understand?"
Togo nodded. And said the first words she'd ever heard him say in English: "I understand."
When the man turned away, Ling smiled.
And she was smiling again as she stood outside the house of one of the men on the list. The man the unattractive woman had said was a policeman.
Justin Westwood. That was the name. Ling could remember the way the woman had hissed the two words, almost as if speaking the name aloud would be her dying breath. Seeing him now, she recognized him. She had seen him on the street. He had been in the unattractive woman's car. She had seen his eyes that day and she had liked what she'd seen. He looked strong. And angry. Maybe a little bit careless.
He looked like he would, at some point, be fun to kill.
And so would the blond woman. The woman Togo was staring at so intently. Ling saw his chest rise and fall, the way it did after she had made love to him.