Double-Crossing Delancey Page 3

  Something much worse.

  “Money,” he mumbled, in an almost-inaudible, un-Charlie-like way. “Really, don’t have money.”

  Shah looked at me. I looked at Charlie. “The money you saved,” I said. “You have money put away for college. We talked about using some of that.”

  Charlie’s face was that of a puppy that hadn’t meant to get into the garbage and was very very sorry. I wondered in passing why all the men I knew thought dog-like looks would melt my heart. His beseeching eyes on mine, Charlie said, “You remember jackass brother-in-law?”

  I nodded.

  “Brother-in-law takes money for next great idea.”

  “Charlie. You let you brother-in-law have your money?”

  Charlie’s chin jutted forward. “In family account.”

  This was a very Chinese method of keeping money: in a joint account that could be accessed by a number of different family members. I wasn’t surprised to hear that Charlie’s brother-in-law was able to help himself. But: “He had the nerve? To take the joint money? After the disaster with the lighters?”

  Rajesh Shah looked confused. Joe must not have shared the story of his triumphant swindle of jackass brother-in-law. But that wasn’t my problem at the moment.

  Charlie was nodding. “Brother-in-law have big money-making idea. Need cash, give to cousin.”

  “And what did your cousin do with it?”

  “Cousin not mine. Cousin his,” Charlie rushed to assure me. This was a distinction Charlie had learned in America. In a Chinese family the difference is non-existent: relations are relations, at whatever distance.

  “His cousin,” I said, my tone reflecting growing impatience. “What did his cousin do with your money?”

  “Comes from China,” he said. “Comes from China, brings…”

  Charlie petered out. I finally had to demand, “Brings what?” Brought what, Lydia, I silently corrected myself. Or, bringing what. Even in the face of stress and strain, standards must be maintained. “What, Charlie?”

  In a voice as apologetic as his face, Charlie answered, “Bear gall.”

  I counted to ten. When I spoke, my tone was ice. “Your cousin — no, all right, his cousin — brought bear gall from China into the US?”

  Charlie nodded miserably.

  Rajesh Shah spoke. “Excuse me, I am sorry, please: what is bear gall?”

  My eyes still on Charlie, I answered, “It’s gooey brown stuff from the gall bladders of bears. Certain uneducated, foolish, ignorant Chinese people think it has medicinal properties. It doesn’t, and besides that it’s very painful to the bears to have it collected, and besides that it’s illegal to bring it into this country.”

  Charlie stared at the floor and said nothing.

  “How much, Charlie?” I asked. “How much did he bring?”

  Charlie mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Rajesh Shah also leaned forward as I demanded again, “How much?”

  Just barely louder, Charlie said, “Four pounds.”

  “Four pounds!” I exploded. “That could get him put away for twenty years! And your jackass brother-in-law. And you, Charlie!”

  “Me?” Charlie looked up quickly. “I don’t know they doing this! Just brother-in-law, his cousin!”

  “Tell that to the judge,” I said disgustedly.

  “Judge?” Charlie’s eyes were wide. I didn’t bother to explain.

  “I say this,” Charlie said, shaking his head slowly. “I say, stupid guys, now what you think? Selling bear gall on street? Sign, big characters, ‘Bear gall here?’ But brother-in-law say, so much bear gall, make twenty thousand of bucks, send Charlie to college. Someone in family get to be smart, then everyone listen smart guy.”

  “Sounds to me like in your family it’s too late for that.”

  “Excuse me.” This was Rajesh Shah again. I frowned and Charlie blushed but we both turned to him. It was, after all, his office. “I must admit surprise on hearing these numbers. Four pounds of this bear gall can bring twenty thousand dollars, actually?”

  “Probably more,” I grumbled. “If it’s a well-known brand people will pay close to five hundred dollars an ounce in this country because it’s so hard to get. Because it’s illegal,” I snarled in Charlie’s direction. “Because you can get arrested and put in jail for selling it. Or deported. Does your brother-in-law know that?”

  “Brother-in-law know very little, I think. But say, know guy, going buy. Then brother-in-law, cousin, don’t have bear gall, don’t get arrested. Jeff Yang, on Mott Street?”

  “Jeff Yang?” The words came slowly from my mouth. “Your brother-in-law is dealing with Jeff Yang?”

  “Not dealing yet. Doesn’t really know guy,” he admitted. “Just hear guy buys bear gall.”

  “Jeff Yang,” I said, emphasizing each word, as though I’d just discovered Charlie was a slow learner, “is the scum of the earth. I went to grade school with him, Charlie, I’ve known him forever. He used to steal other kids’ lunch money. He’d sell you his grandmother if he could get a good price. Charlie, listen to me. You will not do business with Jeff Yang. Your brother-in-law, your cousin, his cousin, your kitchen god, nobody will do business with Jeff Yang. You will go home and flush this disgusting stuff down the toilet immediately.”

  Charlie looked stricken. I stood. “Well, so much for our plan, Charlie,” I said. “Come on. Mr. Shah, I’m sorry we wasted your time.”

  Shah stood also. Reluctantly, so did Charlie.

  “It is unfortunate we cannot do business,” Shah said. He smiled in a kindly way at Charlie, then returned his gaze to me. “I must tell you, though, Miss Chin, that my door will continue to be open, if other possibilities occur to you.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “No offense, Mr. Shah, but I should have known better than to get involved in anything Joe Delancey had any part of. It can only lead to things like this, and worse.”

  Without a look at Charlie, I swept to the door and yanked it open. I nodded to the woman in the sari, crossed her office and stomped down the stairs. Charlie, with the look of a beaten pup, followed after.

  The dog thing got him nowhere.

  I was in my office early the next morning, stuffing papers in files and thinking I should sell my air-conditioner to Joe Delancey because it was a con artist, too — or maybe I could palm it off on Charlie’s brother-in-law — when the phone rang.

  Picking it up, I snapped, “Lydia Chin Investigations,” in two languages. Then, because whoever this was might not deserve to be snapped at, I added more politely, “Lydia Chin speaking. Can I help you?”

  “I think you can,” said a male voice from the other end. “How’re you doing, Lydia? This is Jeff Yang.”

  Maybe the snapping hadn’t been such a bad idea.

  “Jeff,” I said. “Goodbye.”

  “No,” came the instant response. “Not until you hear the proposition.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, because I could. “No.”

  “You can make money, and keep your friends out of trouble,” Jeff said. “Or you can not make money, and they can get in trouble. What’ll it be?”

  An echo in Jeff’s voice told me I was on the speakerphone in his so-called office, really a tiny room behind a Mott Street restaurant, and not a very good restaurant at that. Well, two could play that game. I punched my own speakerphone button and dropped into my desk chair.

  “Go to hell, Jeff.”

  “You know you don’t mean that.”

  “I mean so much more than that.”

  “I’ll buy it, Lydia. The whole four pounds.”

  “I have nothing to sell, especially to you.”

  “Well, you can stay out of it. Just tell me where to find this guy Charlie and his relations.”

  “Jeff,” I said, “I wouldn’t tell you where to find a bucket of water if you were on fire.”

  “I always liked you, too. Holding your teddy bear hostage until you kissed me was just my way of showing that. Let’s do busin
ess, Lydia.”

  “Even if I were inclined to do business with you, Jeff, which would be about two weeks after hell froze over, I wouldn’t risk my reputation for whatever piddly sum you’re about to offer and then cheat me out of.”

  “It’ll be a good price. In cash. You’ll have it at the same time as you turn over the goods.”

  “No cash, no goods, no thanks. If Chinatown found out I was

  dealing with you I’d never have a legit client again.”

  “I’ll send someone else. No one will know it’s me.”

  “Who, Rajesh Shah? Is that who’s in your office right now, Jeff? Is that why you have me on the damn speakerphone?”

  Jeff ignored my question, a sure way of answering it. “Lydia,” he said, “if you do a deal with me we can keep it quiet. If you don’t, I’ll do two things. One: I’ll spread the word in Chinatown that you did do a deal with me, and you can kiss your legit clients goodbye. But that’ll be the least of your problems, because two, I’ll drop a dime on you, and you’ll have to give the Customs people your friend Charlie and his brother-in-law to keep your own ass out of jail.”

  I was speechless. Then: “What?” I heard my voice, low and shocked. “Jeff, you — “

  “Don’t tell me I wouldn’t, because you know I would. Lychee nuts are about your speed, Lydia. Bear gall is out of your league. Five thousand dollars, by noon.”

  “Five thousand dollars? For four pounds?”

  “You’re not in a great negotiating position.”

  “Neither are you. I told Charlie yesterday to flush the stuff down the toilet.”

  “And you know,” Jeff said, “you just know that he didn’t. Five thousand, in the park, noon. Or your reputation is what goes down the toilet. And your friend Charlie goes to jail. Sent there by you.”

  Charlie in jail, sent there by me. That was an ugly picture and I wiped it from my mind, replacing it with a vision of Jeff Yang in his back-room office. With Rajesh Shah.

  “Ten,” I said.

  “Five.”

  “It’s Golden Venture brand.”

  “Wrapped and labelled?”

  “One-ounce packages.”

  The briefest of pauses, then, “Seven-five.”

  “I hope,” I said, “that every ounce you sell takes a year off your life.”

  “The same to you,” Jeff said. “See you in the park at noon.”

  “You must have missed it: I won’t be seen with you, Jeff. Charlie will be there.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He’ll find you. By your smell,” I added, and hung up.

  I called Charlie at the noodle factory. “I need you to be in the park at noon. With your brother-in-law’s package.”

  Of course Jeff had been right: the package had not gone down the toilet. “Only get half hour lunch,” Charlie said apologetically.

  “This shouldn’t take long.” I hung up.

  At noon, of course, I was in Sara Roosevelt Park too. I sat far away from the bench I had stationed Charlie at, half-screened by a hot dog vendor’s cart. I just wanted to make sure everything went all right: I felt responsible for this.

  It went without incident. I had shown Charlie a picture of Jeff Yang and he spotted him, followed him until he sat, and then, in a burst of creativity, ignored him, walked to a soda stand, bought himself a Coke, and meandered back to Jeff’s bench. He put down the brown paper bag he was carrying and popped the can open. Charlie and Jeff exchanged a few words of casual conversation, two strangers enjoying a sunny June day. Charlie asked to glance at Jeff’s newspaper, and Jeff obliged. Charlie opened the pages of the front section, slipping the back section unopened beneath him on the bench. When he was hidden behind the paper Jeff rose, told Charlie in a friendly way to keep the paper, and then set off down the path, the bag Charlie had arrived with under his arm.

  In the early evening of the next day the light was honey-colored, the sky was cobalt, and the trees were a glorious emerald green as I strolled through the same park, Charlie at my side.

  “Rajesh Shah, that man, I see him yesterday night, on Delancey Street,” Charlie said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He say, hear you have money now, Charlie. Asking if I want invest in lychees, still. From India.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, though I was pretty sure of the answer.

  “I tell him, have to speak to gaje. Say Charlie not investing on own anymore.”

  “Very good, Charlie. Very, very good.”

  I had bought us pretzels from a cart and was explaining to Charlie the difference between Kosher salt and the regular kind when a trio of men rose from a bench and stepped into our path.

  “Lydia,” said Joe, with his thousand-watt smile. Rajesh Shah, in turban and short-sleeved shirt, was on his left, and Jeff Yang, bulging shoulders straining his black muscle tee, was on his right. The grim and dark expressions on their faces wouldn’t have powered a nightlight.

  “Lydia,” Joe said again, holding on his palm a paper-wrapped rectangle the size of a mah-jongg tile. “Oh shining star of the east, what is this?”

  I peered at the label around its middle. “You don’t read Chinese, Joe? It says, ‘Golden Venture Brand Bear Gall, Finest In All China.’ “

  “Yes, exquisite one,” Joe agreed. “But what is it?”

  “Prune paste, Joe. The stuff they put in Danishes.” I gave him a big smile, too, and this time I was sure I hit a thousand watts.

  Charlie, beside me, was also grinning. Shah and Yang frowned yet more deeply. Joe just looked sad.

  “Did you try to sell it?” I asked sympathetically.

  “Indeed I did. And for my trouble was chased from the back alleys of Chinatown by dangerous men with meat cleavers. The damage to my reputation for veracity in those precincts is incalculable.”

  “No kidding? Nice side benefit,” I said.

  “Lydia.” Joe shook his head, as though the depth of his disappointment was bottomless. “You have cheated your Joe?”

  “Well, I was hoping you were behind Jeff’s offer,” I admitted, “but I was prepared to cheat Mr. Shah if he was all I could get.”

  “All the packages are prune paste? There is no bear gall?”

  “There isn’t, and there never was.”

  “You set us up?”

  “I did.”

  “Lydia,” Joe repeated, in a voice of deep grief. “You set up your Joe?”

  “My Joe, my foot. Show some respect. You were setting me up and I out-set you.”

  “I?” Bewildered innocence. “But — “

  “Oh, Joe. Indian lychees. You know, you keep saying I have all the instincts. I don’t, but I figured if I thought like you everything would work out.”

  “How so, my duplicitous darling?”

  “When I turned down your offer, right on that bench over there — which you knew I would — I asked myself, what would Joe do if he were turning down an offer from a middleman he didn’t trust?” Joe wrinkled his nose at “middleman” but didn’t protest. “Joe would try to cut the middleman out,” I said. “So let’s see how easy Joe makes it for me to cut him out. You led me around for awhile the next morning, and finally you let me see you with Mr. Shah.”

  “I did notice you following me,” Joe conceded.

  “I should hope so. I couldn’t have been more obvious except by waving to you. You really think that’s the best I can do? Joe, you show very little appreciation for my ecological niche.”

  “Touche, fair one. And then?”

  “Well, you clearly wanted me to go to Mr. Shah and do a deal, leaving you behind. Then you and he would split whatever cash Mr. Shah was able to con us out of, right? Of course there were never any Indian lychees anymore than there was bear gall. But when Charlie and I figured that out, who were we going to complain to? I was the one who’d said importing them was illegal in the first place.”

  Joe sighed. “So, knowing the sting was on, you stung first?”

  “Woul
dn’t you have?”

  “I would indeed. And Mr. Yang, so reviled by you when suggested by Charlie as a purchaser for the non-existent bear gall, had in fact been suggested by you to Charlie as a name to bring up at the appropriate moment, in order to draw in Mr. Shah?”

  Jeff Yang was glowering at Joe’s side. I said, “Well, Jeff was perfect for the spot. In a million years Jeff would never risk a nickel of his own on a deal like this. If he did a deal, someone would have to be financing it. I hope,” I said to Jeff, “you charged a commission. Something for your trouble.”