Manhattan Mayhem

CHIN YONG-YUN MAKES A SHIDDACH by S. J. Rozan

I have four sons and a daughter.

All my children are filial, even my daughter, Ling Wan-ju, whose American name is Lydia. She is a private investigator. This is a profession I do not approve of. I also don’t care at all for my daughter’s partner, the white baboon. In addition, it does not make me happy that her work requires that she associate with criminals. I would object to her associating with police also, but her childhood friend Mary Kee is a police detective, an important position. But all in all, I may say-only because it is true-that my daughter does her work with great competence. Often she is quite successful. She is young. She will find a more fitting profession as she matures.

Especially now that she has time to consider her future, since I have begun helping her with some of her cases.

She tells me she doesn’t want me involved, but in fact she is just trying to protect me from the low atmosphere of the detecting world. Like my other children, my daughter has no real idea of my life in China, or in Hong Kong, before I came to America with my husband. Nothing in her world is new to me. This is why I’ve attempted to discourage her from being involved with the sort of people I myself have always tried to avoid. But, as I say, she is young.

Of my four sons, the older two are married to lovely Chinese women. Each has given me two grandchildren. My third son is in love with a man. They think I don’t know, but I do. I regret the lack of grandchildren this situation will produce, but my son is an artist, a photographer, probably too distracted by his art to have been a good father in any case. And his partner is a charming, polite young man who takes good care of him.

This leaves my youngest son, Tien Hua, who prefers to be called by his American name of Tim-although I, of course, don’t call him that. He is a partner in a large corporate law firm. Many young men his age have settled down to raise families, but my son is still single. This is unfortunate. A young man alone in a large apartment is not a natural thing. He makes a good deal of money, but he works long hours, leaving him little time to search for a girlfriend. If he were to pay more attention, he would find one immediately because, although his manner might be regarded as too formal (my daughter, with a roll of her eyes, says, “He’s a stiff”), my friends assure me that Tien Hua is quite a catch. Handsome, intelligent, earning a very good salary, with advancement possibilities at his firm. I’ve offered to take him to Old Lau, the matchmaker, who could introduce us to any number of lovely, accomplished young ladies. The Jewish grandmothers at the senior center also have this custom. They call it “making a shidduch.” I’ve told this to my son, that this is a time-honored way in many cultures for young people to meet.

He thanks me but says he is too busy to date.

I believed that was true, until the phone call from him that started this case.

I was in my kitchen, measuring rice into the electric cooker, when the red telephone rang.

“Ma, I need to talk to Lydia right away. She doesn’t answer her phone.”

“Your sister isn’t here. She’s working.”

“That’s no reason for her not to answer her phone.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Ma! I need her.”

My son’s voice, usually controlled, was surprisingly distraught. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t tell you. I need Lydia.”

My two youngest children are not close. Even as upset as he obviously was, Tien Hua would not call Ling Wan-ju to unburden himself. A suspicion took hold of me. “Are you intending to hire her professionally?”

“What if I am?”

His tone said everything I needed to hear. “The last time you did that, things did not work out very well.”

“I’ve got to talk to her. This is really important. I’m about to go into a meeting. I know she’ll answer the phone if you call her.”

“Maybe she will, or sometimes not. Tell me the situation.”

“No. Call her. Tell her to call me.”

“I might not be able to reach her before you go into your meeting. Tell me why you need her.”

He sighed. A voice in the background spoke. Someone else also going into his meeting, no doubt. I remained silent. Finally he said, “Valerie Lim’s been kidnapped.”

I didn’t speak immediately. Many questions jumped into my mind. In detecting, it’s essential to ask the most important question first.

“How do you know what’s happened to Valerie Lim?”

“We’re dating.” As I feared. Though he could not see me, I frowned. But he hurried on. “Well, I mean, we went out. Twice. I think she thinks I’m too nerdy or something. She likes, you know, jocks. But I’m hoping…” His voice trailed off. My son is not only unable to lie, but he has always had a compulsion to tell more of the truth than necessary. I sometimes wonder how he has become such a success as a lawyer. “Her mother called me right after the kidnappers called her.”

“Why?”

“She wants me to make the drop. That means, to give them the money.”

“I know what that means!” I had not, but what else could it possibly be? “You’ll do no such thing!” Lim Cui intended to put my son in such a dangerous position? This angered me, but I was not surprised. That’s the kind of person she is. “How much money do they want?” I was curious.

“Two hundred thousand dollars. I will if I have to,” he said. “If it’s the only way to get Valerie back. But why would they give her back? If they have the money? If she’s even still… even still…”

“Even still alive, yes, yes. Why are you calling your sister?”

“I want her to find Valerie.”

“That’s ridiculous. This is a crime, a police matter. Call Carl Ting.”

Carl Ting was a friend of my son’s when they were very young, until one day in the sandbox, when Carl Ting dumped a bucket of sand over my son’s head. Ever since, they’ve been rivals. This is odd, because they are so similar. They both grew into very stolid young men, Carl Ting even more humorless than my son. Carl Ting, however, is also, like Mary Kee, a police detective.

“No police!” said Tien Hua. “The kidnappers said if the Lims call the police, they’ll kill Valerie for sure.”

“The Lims will not call. You will call.”

“They’ll still know.”

“How?”

“I don’t know! But it’s too risky.” He paused. “Ma, if Valerie’s mom found out I did that, even if nothing bad happened, she’d kill me.” Another voice spoke in the background, sounding more insistent this time.

I sighed. “All right, give me the details, then go to your meeting.”

“You’ll find Lydia?” The background voice came once more.

“I think you’d better hurry.”

My son gave me all the details he had. I wrote them down in a little notebook I bought for cases. After he hung up, I sat. I looked at the notebook. I looked at my watch. I looked at the rice cooker, poured in water, then set the timer in case I didn’t come home in time to turn it on before dinner. For half an hour after, I folded the laundry and did the ironing. When my daughter’s blouses were hung in their proper closet, I put on my sneakers. Locking only the two top locks on my door-leaving the bottom ones open so that any lock pickers would pick them closed-I went downstairs to the street.

My destination was the Mott Street branch of Sweet Tasty Sweet. This is the original location of this bakery chain that now has three Chinatown shops-two in Flushing, Queens; one in Sunset Park, Brooklyn; plus two in Jersey City, New Jersey. The menu tells you that there are More coming soon! In Manhattan! Queens! Brooklyn! Westchester! Long Island! The Sweet Tasty Sweet chain, apparently soon to take over the world, is owned by Valerie Lim’s father.

Two hundred thousand dollars is not so very much money in America, where they have television shows about wanting to be millionaires. It is a great deal of money to a Chinese immigrant poor enough to have smuggled himself into this country, however. In detecting, it is important to understand all the clues you find. In my experience, a person’s enemy is most often a former lover, a business rival, or someone who feels misused. If Lim Xiao’s enemy were an ex-lover or a rival, the amount of money demanded for the return of his only daughter would, I felt, have been much higher. But to a new immigrant, two hundred thousand dollars might seem the highest mountain Lim Xiao could possibly be asked to climb.

I don’t care for Lim Xiao, any more than I do for his wife. Or his daughter. They’re clay pots trying to sound like thunder. Lim Xiao started in the kitchen of another man’s restaurant, working alongside my late husband. Fortune smiled on each of them in different ways. My husband and I had five smart, handsome, accomplished children. The Lims had only one, their daughter Valerie. My family remained in Chinatown. Although my husband died fifteen years ago, our lives have been happy. My children properly revere their father’s memory. The Lims became wealthy. They moved away to the kind of neighborhood my daughter says is called “upscale.” Valerie Lim went to an exclusive school. She’s never worked in a restaurant. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn’t pout so often. Her profession now is “party planner.” All this is their good luck, but the Lims have chosen to act as if it was all expected, no more than they deserved. They pretend they were never peasants. In America you can do this, but that doesn’t make it true.

“Chin Yong-Yun!” Fay Di, the manager of Sweet Tasty Sweet, smiled from behind the pastry counter. “You’re looking well! Have you come for a sweet?”

“A sweet tasty sweet. Are the red bean buns fresh?”

My old friend leaned forward with a sparkle in her eye. “Yesterday’s,” she whispered. “The lemon tarts are better.”

“I’ll have a lemon tart, then. With a cup of tea. Not black tea, real tea. Also, I need the answer to a question.”

“From me?”

“Yes, of course, from you, that’s why I’m asking you.”

I took my plastic tray to a small table near the server’s counter. Fay Di spoke to the young girl who was working at the cash register, then came around the counter. “Luckily, we’re not busy right now. I’ll sit with you a moment.”

This was not a matter of luck. It was why I had delayed coming out until the lunch rush was over. But we had no time to go into that. “Excellent. Now tell me who would want to do harm to Lim Xiao.” Her eyes went wide. “No one.”

“You mean, everyone. But I’m referring to a particular person.”

“Who?”

“If I knew, why would I ask?” Really, Fay Di is kind-hearted but sometimes she is slow. “Lim Xiao is in a difficulty. I’m looking into it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know my daughter is in the investigating business. I sometimes work with her on her cases.”

“You do?”

I narrowed my eyes over the steam from my tea. “We have no time for so many questions, Fay Di. Because of the nature of Lim Xiao’s trouble, I believe the wrongdoer may be an employee of Sweet Tasty Sweet. Now, please. This is urgent. Can you think of someone who has reason to dislike Lim Xiao more than most?”

Fay Di’s gaze went to the tabletop. In detecting, it is important sometimes to let the suspect think in silence. I do not mean I suspected Fay Di of this kidnapping, but the principle is the same. I bit into the lemon tart. It was lemony but too sweet, unlike my own, which have the perfect amount of sugar.

Fay Di rose without answering. I was surprised at such rudeness but did not speak, for my mouth was full of lemon tart. I watched as she went behind the counter to speak low words to the girl at the cash register. The girl shook her head. Fay Di spoke again. She put her hands on the girl’s shoulders, propelling her-the girl’s nametag read “Sarah”-to my table, where she sat her down.

“This is my friend,” Fay Di said. “Tell her what you told me.”

The girl turned to say something, but Fay Di went back behind the counter. A young man came from the kitchen with a tray of pastries. Fay Di busied herself with putting them in the proper cases, refusing to look at the girl.

“Sarah?” I said. “Is that your name?”

The girl whipped her head back to me. She didn’t answer, as though I had asked a dangerous question. She was very pretty, with smooth skin. Unlike my daughter, she wore a touch of lipstick, a modest pink, very becoming. Her white bakery cap sat fetchingly on her shining black hair.

“My name for America,” she said, eyes downcast.

“Sarah, this is very important. Do you know something about someone who would perhaps enjoy causing trouble for Lim Xiao?”

Again, she didn’t answer. She seemed very nervous. I have lived in Chinatown many years, so I thought I might know why. Leaning forward, I whispered, “You are in America illegally, am I correct?”

She started to jump up, but I put my hand over hers. “Don’t worry. I haven’t come to cause you problems. In fact, if you help me, perhaps I can help you.”

She looked around again to find Fay Di staring calmly at her from behind the counter. She turned back to me, then looked down at the hands in her lap. “Li Qiu,” she whispered, so quietly I almost didn’t hear her.

“Li Qiu? Who is that?”

“He comes from village close mine, in Fukien.” Her Cantonese was poor, but I thought it enterprising of her to attempt to learn to speak it, just as it was for her to take an American name. All dialects of Chinese are written with the same characters, but they are spoken differently. Most of the new immigrants now are from Fukien province, not Guangdong, as my generation was. Their language is Fukienese. Many of them also speak Mandarin, but that’s not much use in Chinatown, either. These people can get only the worst jobs until they learn either English or Cantonese. Most decide on English because it’s a simpler language, Cantonese being very subtle, very complex. This Sarah, I decided, must be hardworking, hoping to better herself, plus she must be intelligent.

She spoke up again. “Li Qiu, not a nice man.” She squirmed a little in her seat. “Thinks, because I Fukiense also, I friends of him. Tells things I do not want to hear.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Tries impress me, make me think he’s big. Not big, just nasty. Takes job at Sweet Tasty Sweet only so to learn things about rich owner. Says, rich owner going make him rich also. Says, I go with him, we be rich both.”

“Do you know what he meant?”

“No. But since yesterday, Li Qiu doesn’t come to work.”

From the records in the tiny office in the back, Fay Di showed me a photograph of Li Qiu. I asked for his address. “I shouldn’t be doing this!” she hissed. “I could get fired!”

“You are the manager. Unless Lim Xiao comes here himself, who’ll fire you? Right now Lim Xiao is worried about other things.” I tried to sound reassuring. Often in the course of a case, an investigator must convince people to do things they probably should not do.

Shaking her head, Fay Di quickly scribbled some Chinese characters on a counter check.

The address for Li Qiu was a rundown building on East Broadway. Standing outside looking at it, I cannot say I approved of the condition it was in. It was probably owned by a Hong Kong Chinese. They are investors who take very poor care of their buildings. I am not someone who likes to tell other people what to do, but the Hong Kong Chinese should go back to Hong Kong, taking their money with them.

I had many ideas of how I might gain entry to the building, but I was not forced to use any of them. The lock on the front door was broken. As I might have expected.

Li Qiu lived on the third floor. I myself live on the fourth floor, so climbing these stairs presented no difficulty. An investigator must be prepared to expend physical effort at any time if an investigation requires it.

When I found apartment 3D, I stood for a moment to catch my breath. I wouldn’t have done so, but I needed the full power of my lungs. Finally, I pounded on the door, screaming, “You make too much noise! All the time, noise, noise, noise! You have to stop! Be quiet!”

I went on like that until the door opened. It was only a tiny crack, but I shoved the door, still screaming, waving my arms. I am not a large woman. The man peering through the crack seemed startled when I pushed. “I live downstairs! How can I sleep? How can I play with my grandchildren? How can I do anything? Much too noisy up here! You shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I ran out of things to scream, but I just started over.

Now I could recognize Li Qiu, standing at the half-opened door, glaring at me. He must have thought I was crazy. If I’d been able to understand him, I might have learned whether I was right, but he replied in angry Fukienese whispers. It was clear to me he didn’t want me to disturb the neighbors.

He tried to shut the door, but I jumped up as though to scratch out his eyes. Out of instinct he leapt back, as I’d planned. I was able to see into the room. No one else was visible, but I could see a closed door leading to another room. The place Li Qiu lived was quite untidy, with a bad smell. Clothes were strewn on the couch, take-out containers on the floor. The windows, which looked out onto a brick wall in any case, were covered by bed sheets hammered onto the frames.

The place was disgusting. I’d be humiliated if any of my children lived like this, even for five minutes.

Yet a Chloé handbag, open, its contents scattered, sat on a pizza box on a rickety table.

Chinatown is New York City’s center for knock-off designer goods. I’ve seen them all my life. I am not a person who likes to boast, but I can tell the real from the false on sight.

This handbag was real. It had cost its owner a good deal of money.

Li Qiu pushed my shoulder. I stopped screaming, as though he had frightened me. Shaking my head, I backed away. I walked down the stairs muttering.

Out on the street, I almost used the small telephone in my purse to call Carl Ting at his police precinct. Then I remembered my daughter telling me she had been able to find lawbreakers by their telephone numbers. I was not a lawbreaker, of course, but I didn’t want Carl Ting to find me. I called from a public telephone with a roof like a pagoda.

“A woman has been kidnapped,” I told Carl Ting. “She is in an apartment on East Broadway. You must hurry.” I gave him the address.

“Who is this?”

“A neighbor. The kidnapper is Li Qiu. He lives upstairs. He is a bad man.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Is it the kind of thing policemen think is funny?” I’m sure there’s nothing Carl Ting thinks is funny, as he has no sense of humor at all. “You must hurry to save her.” Remembering what my son had said, I added, “This information comes from Chin Tien Hua.”

“Tim Chin? What does he have to do with this?”

“Nothing. He wants someone to rescue her. He thinks you’re the best man to do it.”

“Why didn’t he call me himself?”

“He’s in a meeting. You cannot reach him. Rescue the woman. Then call my-call Chin Tien Hua.” Quickly, I hung up the phone.

Valerie Lim was rescued within the hour. I learned this because my son called me later, very upset.

“The cops told the Lims I was the one who told them! They’re furious!”

“But it was not you. Was it?”

“It must have been Lydia! I’ll kill her.”

“It could not have been your sister. She knows nothing about this case. I never reached her.”

“Then why do they think that?”

“I have no idea. It must have been someone whose name sounds similar. But why are the Lims upset? Their daughter was returned to them.”

“That’s a disaster, too! Do you know who rescued her? Carl Ting!”

“Did he? I think that’s lovely. I must congratulate his mother that her son is a hero.”

“That’s what Valerie thinks, too.” I could hear the disgust in my son’s words. “All she can talk about is how brave he is. How scared she was, but then how safe she felt, tied up in the bathroom, the minute she heard his voice. The only reason she called me, besides to thank me for telling the police-which her parents will never forgive me for, even though I didn’t do it!-is to find out if I know Carl. She wants to know everything about him.”

“How lucky for Carl Ting. Now, I have something I must ask you to do.”

“Ma-”

“There is a young woman who calls herself Sarah who works in Sweet Tasty Sweet on Mott Street. She has come to this country to start a new life. She does not have whatever papers she should. She needs a lawyer to help her.”

“I-she needs an immigration lawyer. That’s not the kind of work I do.”

“Then it’s time for you to begin. You’ll find her a charming young lady, also pretty. I’ll meet you at Sweet Tasty Sweet at six p.m. to properly introduce you.”

“What? I can’t leave the office that early.”

“I will see you there.”

I hung up the telephone. I was about to invite Tien Hua to come to the apartment for dinner after his meeting with Sarah, but they might need to further discuss her situation, perhaps over noodle soup. Also, this case had been an intriguing one. My daughter, I was sure, would want to hear the details.

S. J. ROZAN’s work has won multiple awards, including the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, Nero, Macavity, and Japanese Maltese Falcon. She has published thirteen books and four dozen short stories under her own name and two books with Carlos Dews as the writing team of Sam Cabot. S. J. was born in the Bronx and lives in lower Manhattan. She teaches fiction writing in a summer workshop in Assisi, Italy (artworkshopintl.com). Her newest book is Sam Cabot’s Skin of the Wolf.