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From his knowledge of triad business practices, David deduced that the triad was keeping the immigrants in one place—not in Chinatown proper, maybe Monterey Park—where they were picked up in the morning. From there, they were driven to work, transported back to the apartment or warehouse in the evening, and locked up for the night. These immigrants were, in effect, prisoners.
“You are a hero, Mr. Zhao.” David then clarified this for those who were listening: “With your help, we saved many lives on the boat. What I say is, once a hero, always a hero. I hope you will remember that.”
Zhao looked away. David couldn’t tell if Zhao was embarrassed or frightened. Their conversation came to an abrupt end when Hulan walked up. Zhao slunk away, and David and Hulan left to rendezvous with Noel Gardner and Peter Sun, who they were scheduled to meet at the corner of Broadway and College.
For lunch Hulan said she wanted to go to the Princess Garden, a Hong Kong-style dim sum restaurant in a mall on Hill Street. The restaurant seated about five hundred people, so the atmosphere was lively as parties prattled and called out orders to the waitresses, who walked through the aisles pushing carts laden with different kinds of tea cakes. Soon the table was covered with plates of rice noodles, Chinese broccoli, which a waitress deftly cut with pinking shears, little bamboo steamers stuffed with barbecued pork buns, dumplings filled with shrimp and water chestnuts, and tiny custard tarts. Investigator Sun declared that the dumplings were a hundred times better than any you could get in Beijing and almost as good as those made in Guangzhou, where his family was from.
Over lunch they talked about what they’d seen and learned so far. They’d found out that the Rising Phoenix, the strongest of the local gangs, had a forceful presence in Chinatown. “But whenever I mention the names of Spencer Lee and Yingyee Lee,” Hulan remarked, “the people suddenly can’t remember a thing. So I think your information is right. Those two, if not at the very top of the organization, are very high up.” Hulan plucked up some of the broccoli and put it on David’s plate. “Aren’t you wondering why I chose this place?”
David patted her thigh under the table. “I wasn’t going to press you. I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”
“Spencer Lee eats at VIP Harbor Seafood in Monterey Park on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He comes here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“And today is Monday.”
“I’m sure at this very minute our Mr. Lee is awaiting our arrival in one of the private dining rooms.” Hulan tilted her head and smiled demurely.
David marveled at how easily Hulan had been able to get that information. “Most of the people we talked to today were new immigrants,” she explained. “I’m sure they recognized me as someone from the MPS.”
“They sure saw us coming,” added Gardner, to which Peter bobbed his head in vigorous agreement.
“Exactly,” Hulan said, then popped a dumpling in her mouth. After a few seconds, she said, “That man you were talking with knew what I was.”
“Zhao? How could you tell?”
“Didn’t you see how he reacted when I walked up? They left China to get away from people like us, hey, Investigator Sun?”
Peter nodded and kept chewing.
“Are you talking about the same Zhao who helped us at Terminal Island?” Gardner asked.
“The very one,” David answered, then described Zhao’s situation. “I feel sorry for him. It’s hardly the dream of America that he envisioned.”
“That’s a problem for people who come here,” Hulan said, her tone suddenly severe. When everyone turned their attention to her, she amended, “What I mean is, people build up an idea of the United States, how their problems will be solved, how they will strike it rich. But they really can’t leave the past behind, and the future for an immigrant like your Zhao is very bleak, no?”
David absentmindedly stirred the tips of his chopsticks in the little porcelain dish that contained his portion of hot mustard and chili paste. “Noel, could you drop what you’re doing with the banks? I’d like you and Peter to stake out the place where Zhao is working. Could you do that?”
“Sure, but why?”
“I want to know Zhao’s daily routine. I want to know where the immigrants are kept at night. I want to be able to pick up Zhao on a moment’s notice.”
“Why?”
&
nbsp; “Because he wants to help me.”
“You have a lot of faith in this Zhao,” Hulan observed.
“I don’t know why, but I do.”
“It’s only going to cause him trouble,” she said. “You realize that, don’t you? ‘Sweep the snow in front of your own doorstep, and do not bother about the frost on your neighbor’s roof.’ He should mind his own business.”
As soon as they finished their meal, Gardner and Peter left to begin their surveillance. A few minutes later, Hulan led the way back toward the front of the restaurant, turned down a hallway, and, without knocking, entered a private dining room where a group of businessmen were eating. Hulan asked a few questions in Chinese. One of the men answered and Hulan went on to the next room, where another dozen men dressed in suits sat at a large round table. The lazy Susan in the middle was filled with a variety of steamed and fried dumplings, as well as noodles, roast duck, and slivers of jellyfish.
“To say we are expecting you would not do this occasion justice,” said a young man wearing small dark glasses.
“You are Spencer Lee?” Hulan asked.
