While translating the “hi, how are ya’s” and the “isn’t it gettin’ hot out there” stuff Fong studied the consul general, a white bear of a man, with bushy eyebrows and a big gut. Fong had known Americans who could play at being American but were in fact quite bright. Such Americans were also quite dangerous, Fong had found.
“So what’ve you folks found out about the passing of an American citizen, one Richard Fallon?” Fong translated and was told to give the American what he had worked up. Fong handed over an edited version of Wang Jun’s report, with copies of only some of the photos and then gave the consul general a list of reports yet to come in and their prospective dates of arrival. There was no mention anywhere of the heart or its missing piece.
“Ghastly business this. You think there’s a chance you’ll find the guy who did this?”
Again Fong translated and was told to respond.
“It’s too early to tell. We have a few leads to follow and a lot of basic investigation to get moving before we can even estimate chances.”
The consul general nodded as if in agreement but instead of replying to Fong’s statement, he said, “Be careful, sonny boy, you’re in way over your head on this one.”
Struggling to keep a straight face, Fong smiled. “Would you care to elaborate.”
The consul general smiled back and, while nodding, said, “No.”
Fong told his colleagues that the consul general understood that things were in their early stages and that he wished to offer the police any services that he could in the investigations. Both Chinese officials nodded sagely. Without asking permission, Fong turned to the consul general.
“Was Richard Fallon an active law enforcement officer at the time of his death?”
“Yes ”
“Was he here on any sort of government business?”
“You’re cold.”
“It’s the air conditioning.”
“No, no. This has nothing to do with that.”
“And what does it have to do with?”
The Chinese officials asked for an explanation and were given an edited precis.
“Will you allow us to use your computers to track his credit cards?”
“I will not.”
“Why?” burst out Fong.
The American just smiled, rubbed his belly, and stood.
The Chinese men stood as well and followed him to the door.
At the door, as if it were an afterthought, the consul general put a hand on Fong’s shoulder and said, “I’ve got a teensy favour to ask. Mr. Fallon’s widow is coming into town tomorrow or the next day to, well, you know, tidy things up, and I’m sure that she would like to be kept abreast of your investigations. Americans are like that, aren’t they?”
Before Fong could translate, the consul general said the exact same thing, in fluent Shanghanese, even getting the complex idiom right. When he was finished, he laughed at the shock on the faces of the Chinese men.
In rapid-fire English, Fong said, “I don’t care for this game, if you have something to say to me, say it.”
“I thought you Chinese liked games.”
“This is not the time-”
“On the contrary. This is absolutely the right time for games. ‘At times of change humanity tests the new through the use of games.’”
“Who said that?”
With a smile that had absolutely no warmth, he snapped, “Me. Just now.”
At 11:37 P.M., April 19, just over twenty-five hours since the dismembered pieces of Richard Fallon’s body were found in an alley off Julu Lu, Zhong Fong called it a day. As in all investigations at this stage, he had a ton of work ahead of him before he could even guess where to begin. But it would have to wait. Now, he needed time to sit and think so he went out of the office, which everyone else had left long ago, and headed down to Zhong Shan Road. The evening was cool, the oppressive summer heat was still at bay, and the rainy season had not yet come. But it would.
Usually at night, before heading back to his apartment at the theatre academy, he walked the Bund and admired the stateliness of the building where he worked. He’d come a long way, but not in distance. He worked in the former English Concession and lived in the former French Concession but he had grown up in the part of Shanghai that no foreigners wanted, the Old City, the Chinese section of Shanghai. A mere fiveminute walk from glittering Nanjing Road or ever-sochic Huai Hai Road and you found it, just as it had been for so many years, as it would always be, he hoped. The real Shanghai, the Chinese Shanghai.
But it was not there that he headed this evening. Tonight he needed a place to think. Stepping out of his office he turned left and headed toward the confluence of the Huangpo River and the Su Zhou Creek.
Coming to the Beijing Road pedestrian underpass, he stopped and looked behind him. It was an old habit, but on that after today’s events he decided to revive. He scanned the faces. Most were Chinese. All were haggard at this hour of the night.
Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, Fong headed into the cool dampness of the tunnel. Unlike Western cities where these enclosures would have been filled with street people at this hour of the night, in Shanghai the tunnels were both safe and relatively empty. Only one beggar sat there. By his side was a filthy boy child of three or four. In his gnarled hands the old man held an ancient stringed instrument, an arhu. Fong approached him and put two kwai in his bowl. “Play me something, grandpa. Play me something and help me forget.”
With that Fong took a piece of newspaper from his coat pocket, spread it carefully on the ground, and sat down. He tilted his head back against the cool tiles of the tunnel and closed his eyes. The unearthly sounds of the arhu filled the tunnel and seemed to echo behind his forehead. They looped and bonged off the hard surfaces of his skull and finally pierced the softness of his brain. And there waiting, as she always waited, was Fu Tsong. Quick and lithe, and fire.
Something plunked down in his lap. Without opening his eyes he felt the tangled hair of the beggar boy. The boy sighed happily as he snuggled into Fong’s lap and in the stroke of a bow and the lilt of a melody was fast asleep. For a moment Fong thought that he was losing his mind.
Finally the blessing of sleep came to him, borne on a cool breeze, the haunt of the music, and a breath of faith.
Then the nightmare came-again.
DAY TWO
The second day proved no easier than the first. The lab reports came in and to no one’s surprise the blood on the wallet matched Richard Fallon’s, as did the partial fingerprints from the credit cards. The coroner’s report added a few details and confirmed that the most likely time of death was between 9:30 and 10:30 P.M. on April 18. As for the weapon, the coroner concluded that it was a thin instrument with at least a sixinch blade. It was double-sided and, most curiously, it was evidently used with both the left and the right hand. Bones were seldom cut or even nicked in the process; the incisions were made mostly through the joints, severing tendons and levering balls out of sockets. There was a distinct hole in each of the ball joints at the hip which could indicate that as well as having two razor-sharp edges, this particular weapon also had a point capable of puncturing bone.
Wang Jun’s men had waited in vain for the arrival of the street sweeper. So now they were trying to find where she lived, a thing harder to do than it sounds since so many people made their homes in alleys and under stairways. Barely places, let alone places with addresses.
The American consulate had finally returned Fong’s phone calls and had informed him that the consul general was out of the country on a personal matter and that they were not sure when he would be back. In the meantime, they went on, he could talk to the second assistant for Asian affairs should he need any further assistance from the consulate. Fong declined. Before hanging up he was informed that Mrs. Richard Fallon had boarded a JAL flight in Chicago that morning and should be in Shanghai at noon tomorrow and that the American consulate expected him to make himself available to Mrs. Fallon upon her arrival.