Dragonfire

Six

At nine-thirty Monday morning I was sitting in a cubicle at the Hall of Justice with an inspector named Richard Loo. I did not know him, but he knew who I was; there wasn’t a cop in the city who didn’t know who I was these days. When I went up to General Works and told the desk man I wanted to see somebody on the Gang Task Force, I had to wait less than five minutes before Loo came out. Two minutes after that we were in the cubicle for a private talk.

The Gang Task Force had been formed in 1977, when a pair of Chinese youth gangs — the foreign-born Wah Ching and the American-born Chung Ching Yee or “Joe Boys,” named after its leader — had gone on a rampage against each other over territorial rights to gambling and extortion rackets. There had been open warfare on the streets, several shootings and killings in and out of Chinatown, and it had culminated when three Joe Boys armed with automatic weapons walked into a popular Washington Street restaurant one Sunday night and opened fire on a group of Wah Ching; five people had been killed and eleven others injured. The Golden Dragon Massacre, as the media called it after the name of the restaurant, had made headlines all over the country and led to the mayor posting a $25,000 reward for information leading to the conviction of the gunmen. The Gang Task Force, comprised of white and Oriental cops, had tracked down the perpetrators and put an end to the warfare. In order to keep it from flaring up again, and to maintain a close watch on underworld activities in the Chinese community, they remained an active arm of the Department.

Loo had been with the task force since its inception, he told me. He was in his late thirties, polite, quiet, studious-looking in a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a neat business suit. He shook my good hand with an air of respectful solemnity, murmured sympathetic words about Eberhardt and what had happened to me; I got the impression that he was apologizing, not for himself but for the Chinese population in general, and that in his own way he was just as angry as I was. On the way to the cubicle he wondered solicitously if I ought to be up and around so soon. I told him I was a fast healer, lied about how I felt, and he let it go at that.

Now, sitting across a table from me, he said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. All the doors seem to be closed in Chinatown. The shooting of a police officer... well, no one wants to get involved.”

I was there to ask him about Mau Yee, but I did not want to make him suspicious by doing it straight out. There would be a way to work in the question later on. I said, “What about the case Eberhardt was working on? The death of a woman in one of the projects?”

“Doesn’t seem to be anything there. The woman, Polly Soon, fell from a walkway at the Ping Yuen project on Pacific — fifth-floor walkway, right outside her apartment. She was a common hooker, worked the bars along Grant and in North Beach.”

“Could she have been murdered?”

“The coroner didn’t find anything to make us think so,” Loo said. “Neither did the lieutenant. I talked to the same people he did, including an informer named Kam Fong; none of Polly Soon’s neighbors saw it happen, no one claims to know anything about it. She didn’t work with a pimp; strictly free lance. Half a dozen arrests for soliciting, but that’s all — no underworld ties of any kind. I think her death was probably an accident.”

“This informer — Kam Fong, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Had Eberhardt used him before?”

“A time or two. Fong is a drug addict, but his information is generally reliable; I use him myself.”

I made a mental note of the name. “Could there be a connection between Fong and the shooting?”

“I doubt it. I’ve known him for years; he’s a low-life, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with violence against a police officer. I’m as sure of him as one can be of such people.”

Loo did not have a very high opinion of drug addicts or informers. Or of anyone, no doubt, who failed to walk the straight and narrow in Chinatown. Chinese cops tended to be less tolerant of the criminal element among their race than any other ethnic group. It had to do with pride; the Chinese were a fiercely proud people.

I asked, “What about paid assassins? There can’t be that many in Chinatown who’d take a contract on a cop.”

He made a wry mouth. “More than you’d think. Boo how doy — body-washers for the criminal tongs, most of them former youth-gang members. I know at least three Hui Sip who might do it for the right price.”

“Hui Sip?”

“The tong that controls most of the gambling in Chinatown, among other things. But they’re clever; we haven’t been able to get enough on the elders to put them away.”

“Are there many tongs like that these days?”

“Not many, no,” Loo said. “Most of them are fraternal, harmless social clubs. The Six Companies keeps a tight rein on them. But there are still a couple. They’re the ones who corrupt the kids, get them to do their dirty work.”

The Chinese Six Companies was an organization founded in the nineteenth century to oversee and mediate activities within the community, and to work for betterment of the lot of Chinese in America. Their authority had been shaken somewhat in recent years, but they were still the ruling force in Chinatown.

I said, “You’ve talked to some of the body-washers?”

“Yes. With negative results.”

“How about one called Mau Yee?”

Loo looked surprised. “You know of Mau Yee?”

“I’ve heard the name,” I said carefully.

“A bad one. Not a cat, that boy — a snake.”

“Cat?”

“Mau Yee means ‘The Cat.’ His street name.”

“What’s his real name?”

“Jimmy Quon. An ABC — American-born Chinese — and one of the original Joe Boys.”

“Young guy, then?”

“Yes. Mid-twenties. He belongs to Hui Sip now; one of the three boo how doy I mentioned.” Loo shook his head. “A bad one,” he said again. “We’ve linked him to at least three murders in the past six years, but never with enough evidence for an indictment.”

“Was he one of those you talked to?”

“One of the first. But he has an alibi for the time of the shooting.”

“How strong?”

“We couldn’t shake it. He was playing pai gow with three other tong members, he claimed, and each of the three backed him up.”

I did not want to press for any more information on Jimmy Quon; I had what I’d come for, and I could find Quon all right on my own. I asked Loo a few more general questions, to ease out of the interview, and then thanked him for his time and got on my feet.

He said as we shook hands again, “We may not have uncovered much so far, but it’s only a matter of time before we get a break. Sooner or later we’ll find out who pulled the trigger.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sooner or later.”

I left him and rode the elevator down to the lobby. There was a bank of telephone booths off to one side; I entered one, opened the telephone directory. No listing for Jimmy Quon. But there was a listing for a Kam Fong, on Jackson Street. I wrote down the address and number in my notebook.

But I was not ready to look him up yet, or to do anything about Jimmy Quon. I needed more information on Mid-Pacific Electronics first, a better handle on that stock-transfer form I’d found in Eberhardt’s safe. If there was a connection between Mid-Pacific and the shooting, if Eberhardt was dirty, it would make plenty of difference in how I handled things with Mau Yee.

I drove down to the Financial District, put my car in a parking garage on Montgomery, and wandered around until I came to a small brokerage firm called Waller & Company. Inside, I told the receptionist I wanted to talk to someone about a stock purchase, and she set me up with a guy named Leo Vail.

Vail didn’t seem to recognize me; the photographs that had appeared in the newspapers had not been particularly good likenesses. Which was fine. I did not want to give him my right name because it would only lead to a bunch of questions. I said I was Andrew James and he bought that all right. He didn’t say anything about my arm being in a sling and I didn’t offer an explanation.

I said, “I’m interested in making a stock investment. A friend of mine told me about a company called Mid-Pacific Electronics, said they’d be a good buy, but I don’t know anything about them. So I thought I’d better check them out.”

Vail was in his fifties, gray-haired and energetic. He shifted around in his chair; you could see him thinking, sifting through his memory. “Mid-Pacific Electronics,” he said at length. “I’ve heard the name, but they’re not on the Exchange and I’m not familiar with them. If you don’t mind waiting a bit, I’ll see what we’ve got in our computer files.”

“No problem. Take your time.”

He went away somewhere. I sat and listened to people talking on the telephone, the clattering of machines. My left arm felt stiff and sore; I kept trying to flex the fingers, without much success. What if the arm stiffens up for good? I thought. What if I come out of this a cripple?

The hell with it, I thought. Eberhardt could come out with a lot worse than a stiffened arm.

It was ten minutes before Vail came back. He had a computer printout in one hand and he plunked it down on the desk as he sat again. “Sorry I took so long,” he said. “Computer was being used.”

“That’s okay.”

“Let’s see,” he said. He glanced over the printout. “Uh-huh. Yes. Mid-Pacific is a small firm, established in 1977. They haven’t gone public yet, but it seems that they’re planning to shortly.”

“A reputable outfit?”

“Oh yes. Quite respectable. And quite successful, evidently. They manufacture a component for industrial computers. One of the founders, Carl Emerson, owns a patent on it — some sort of revolutionary component, according to our data. That would explain Mid-Pacific’s overnight success in the field.”

“How many other founders besides Emerson?”

“Two. Philip Bexley and Orin Tedescu.”

“Tedescu. Is that T-e-d-e-s-c-u?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Do the three of them own all the company stock?”

“Yes. Emerson appears to have controlling interest, though.”

“Why are they planning to go public, do you know?”

“Not specifically, no. But I imagine it’s to raise capital for purposes of expansion. That’s the usual reason.”

“So you think Mid-Pacific would be a good buy?”

“I’d have to do some more investigating before I could recommend it,” Vail said. “But on the surface, yes, it would seem to be an excellent buy.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way of knowing yet what the stock will sell for.”

“Not until they announce how large a block they’re putting on the market. How many shares would you be interested in?”

“I don’t know. Say a thousand.”

“Well, if that much is available, and if the company continues to flourish, it could be a very lucrative investment. There are no guarantees, of course, but... it does look promising. Would you like me to gather more data for you, Mr. James?”

“If you would, I’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly.”

“How long will it take?”

“Oh, a day or so. If you’ll just give me your address and a number where I can reach you...”

“I’m leaving for Los Angeles on business pretty soon,” I said, “and I don’t plan to be home much in the interim. Could I call you instead?”

“Of course. Tomorrow, around this time?”

“Fine.”

He gave me one of his cards and I tucked it away in my wallet. He said it had been a pleasure; I said yes, it had. Then I went back out on the street to hunt up a telephone booth.

Emerson, Bexley, and Tedescu. Three names — three possibles. If they owned all of the Mid-Pacific stock, then it had to be one of them who had given Eberhardt that stock-transfer form. But why? What was the common denominator that linked a police lieutenant, a Chinese body-washer, and an outfit that manufactured a component for computers?

I found a phone booth in the lobby of one of the larger office buildings on Montgomery. Neither Emerson, Bexley, nor Tedescu was listed in the San Francisco directory. Which meant that they each had unlisted numbers, or lived somewhere outside the city, or both. I could go to the Pacific Telephone offices and look through the directories for the nine Bay Area counties, but that would take too much time and might not get me anything. There was a better way to handle it.

I put through a long-distance call to Ben Chadwick in Hollywood, charging it to my home phone. Chadwick was a private investigator who specialized in work for the major film companies, and he had done a favor or two for me in the past. When I got him on the line he spent a couple of minutes talking about the loss of my license and the shooting, what a shame it all was, how sorry he felt. But he sounded sincere. He was a pretty decent guy.

I finally got him off that by saying, “I need a favor, Ben. Nothing major; I’d do it myself if I could, but all my pipelines are closed up these days.”

“You’re not working, are you? Without a license?”

“No,” I lied. “It’s a favor for a friend.”

“Yeah, sure. What is it you need?”

“A check on three men who live up here — addresses, whether or not they have criminal records, that sort of thing. You’ve got police and DMV contacts; it shouldn’t take long. Can do?”

He sighed. “I suppose so. Who are they?”

“Carl Emerson, Philip Bexley, Orin Tedescu.” I spelled Tedescu’s name for him. “They own a company called Mid-Pacific Electronics. See if you can find out anything about that, too.”

“Okay. You still have your office?”

“Yes, but the phone’s disconnected. And I don’t know when I’ll be home. I’ll call you back later today.”

“I should be here. Take it easy, huh?”

“You know me,” I said.

“That’s what I mean,” he said, and rang off.

When I came out of the building I turned north and walked up to Pine. I wanted a look at the offices of Mid-Pacific Electronics now, and if I could manage it, a look at Emerson and Bexley and Tedescu.