BRIAN CHIN NODDED ACKNOWLEDGMENT to the maître d’, then turned to Fabrese. “We can have the booth.” He gestured to a nearby alcove. The archway over the alcove was a miracle of Chinese ceremonial carving, a fantasy of intertwined dragons, all of it gold-leafed, accented in Mandarin red. A heavy red velvet curtain was drawn back to reveal a polished ebony table set for two: ivory chopsticks, museum-quality bowls and plates, white linen napkins, fancifully folded.
“Or we can have a table.”
“How about a table?”
Chin nodded approvingly. “My family owns this place,” he said, “so there’s nothing for us to fear. Still …” He turned to the maître d’, nodded to the open dining room. One table, specially set, had been moved apart from the others. “Please …” Chin bowed slightly, gestured for Fabrese to follow the maître d’. On a Saturday night, even though it was ten o’clock, the restaurant was almost full. Two waiters followed Fabrese and Chin, ceremoniously seating them, then withdrawing. A moment later a waitress appeared, bearing an Imari teapot. The waitress was small, a perfectly proportioned porcelain doll. She wore a traditional floor-length red gown trimmed in gold brocade. When the tea had been poured, Chin nodded dismissal. The waitress withdrew to stand against the far wall. At a nod from Chin, she would approach again. Fabrese swept the restaurant with an appreciative stare. “How long’s your family had this place?”
“Three—no—four years.”
“My God, it looks like it’s been here forever.”
Chin smiled: a gentle up-curving of his mouth, nothing more. In his thirties, Chin was a slim, fastidious man who seldom raised his voice and never laughed out loud. His face was an impassive oval; his eyes revealed nothing.
“The restaurant has been here forever. Eighty years, I think. Maybe more. But my family came to America only five years ago.
“You came from Hong Kong.”
Chin nodded, but said no more. Because most immigrants from Hong Kong were poor and therefore undesirable, they bore a certain stigma that Chin found distasteful.
“When you say ‘your family’—” Fabrese frowned, broke off. How should he say it? The Chinese, he knew, turned aside direct questions. Just as, in the Mafia, certain questions were asked with great care.
Once more, Chin’s mouth described a small, knowing smile. “When I say ‘my family,’ I mean my actual family. Your meaning, I know—professionally—is different.”
Fabrese nodded as both men eyed each other over their teacups before Chin returned his to its saucer as he said, “We hear of changes in New York these days. Many changes, in the New York families.”
It was, Fabrese knew, an opening, a suggestion that now they might discuss business. Meaning that the time had come: either take the chance, take the gamble, or else call it a free Chinese dinner. One way he could win, the other way he could lose—everything. No, not everything, not if he kept ahead of the game. If he found the package, got that far, he could still cover himself, still come out on the right side. Prove Bacardo was skimming, give the package to Cella, and everybody won.
Everybody but Bacardo.
Or else he could take the package and run, fuck them all. Go down deep into Mexico, live happily ever after. If they ever found him, he’d die rich.
Now, though, sitting across the table from Brian Chin, he must begin. But slowly, carefully. Because everything could depend on this young Chinaman who dressed like an undertaker and whose eyes were as blank as two black stones—the gangster from Hong Kong who sat across the table sipping tea from a porcelain cup.
“The reason I wanted to see you,” Fabrese began, “is that our people in New York sent me out here on what you might call a secret mission. You know—” He contrived a smile. “CIA stuff. Cloak and dagger, you might say.”
Chin’s smile, too, was contrived.
“It’s the kind of a deal,” Fabrese went on, “where the less I tell you—the less you know—the better for both of us. See?”
Chin allowed his eyes to briefly close as he nodded—once.
“You know that Benito Cella is taking Venezzio’s place. Cella’ll be the new capo di tutti, that’s all set. There’ll probably be a meeting of the council—the five New York families—in about a month, that’s what they’re thinking now. And then it’ll be official. So what I’m telling you is off the record. You understand.”
“I understand.”
“So between now and a month from now, there’re some loose ends to clean up.”
“Yes, I would think so.”
“Venezzio was in prison for almost ten years. He ran things from prison, no problem. Tony Bacardo—do you know him?”
“I know the name.”
“Yeah, well, Bacardo was Don Carlo’s number one. And I was number two.” Once more Fabrese smiled. “Don Carlo gave the orders to Tony, and Tony gave the orders to me.”
“Ah, yes.” Now Chin’s smile was subtly more appreciative. “Some things never change.”
“Now, though, I’ll be with Cella. That’s all set.”
“And Salvatore Perrone? Will he still be with Cella?”
“Ah.” Caught by surprise, Fabrese blinked, felt the first sharp flick of anxiety. Then, as if the question interested him, nothing more, he spoke casually: “You know a lot about our organization.”
For a moment Chin made no reply as, attentive to his task, he made a small ceremony of replenishing their tea. When he had sipped once more from his cup, he said, “Did you and Perrone come to San Francisco together?”
As it always did, the second flick from fear’s whip cut deeper than the first. Perrone in San Francisco. Was it possible? Yes, certainly possible. Wherever Bacardo went, Cella would have people watching. He should have guessed.
But how did Brian Chin know? A Chinese numbers hustler, a hood from Hong Kong who’d got lucky in the heroin trade, how much did Chin know?
What else did Chin know?
As if to explain, Chin said, “There was a lunch today, at Fisherman’s Wharf.” Chin spoke very softly. Then, having expertly inserted the slim blade, he smiled again.
A lunch—yes, there would be a lunch for Perrone. Ricca, the San Francisco don, Benvenuti, from Los Angeles. And someone from Nevada, someone from San Diego, all of them, each with a couple of capos, the perfect chance to show clout, charter a jet, fly up to San Francisco, buy Perrone a drink, tell him that, yes, they were with Don Benito, have another drink. Then the tape would reverse: back into the limos, back to the waiting jet, back to L.A., or Las Vegas, or San Diego.
For Fabrese, now, there was just one chance, one single sliver of blue. He must lean closer, act out a grave warning. Saying urgently: “None of those guys at the lunch—especially Perrone—none of them are supposed to know I’m here. I hope you didn’t …” He let it go meaningfully unfinished.
This time, Chin’s smile seemed to reflect genuine amusement, however muted. “I know of the meeting only because San Francisco is really a very small town, and news travels fast.” Indulgently, he shook his head. “I’m not in the loop.”
“You didn’t tell anybody about this, then—us meeting.”
“No one.”
Pretending to a relief he didn’t feel, Fabrese smiled. “I didn’t mean to—you know—give you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve got to be careful. I already told you that.”
“Cloak and dagger, as you say.” Chin nodded appreciatively. Then, gently: “Spying is a dangerous game, there is no question.” Gracefully, he gestured to the table. “Would you like to begin? I’ve already selected the menu. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. Fine. Thanks.”
Chin nodded to the waitress. Then, to Fabrese: “What is it, exactly, that you need from me?”
As if he appreciated the invitation to plain talk, Fabrese leaned forward again, lowered his voice, spoke as one confidant to another: “What I need are maybe four, five of your people to do some surveillance work.”
“Just surveillance?” As he spoke, Chin nodded his thanks to the waitress, who was serving their soup.
“Just surveillance.”
“For how long?”
“Probably just a day or two. I know you’re up on electronics. That’s why I thought of you.”
Chin nodded, sampled the soup. “Ah. Excellent.” He looked at Fabrese. “It’s bird’s nest soup, you know. Wonderful.”
“Jesus.” Fabrese stared down at his soup. “I thought it was a gag, bird’s nest soup.”
Chin’s smile was subtly amused. “Many people think that.”
“Well …” Tentatively, Fabrese sipped a spoonful, then looked surprised. “Well, it’s great. Just great.”
“This surveillance—would it be on some of your people?”
Fabrese had prepared himself for this question. “Tony Bacardo came to San Francisco yesterday. He could’ve come here because of some money that can’t be accounted for. I’m not saying Tony’s skimming, that’s not it. But Don Benito, well, he sent me out here to keep track of Tony, make sure there’re no loose ends when it comes time for Don Benito to take over the five families.”
“So Tony Bacardo doesn’t know you’re in San Francisco.”
“God, no. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Perrone—he doesn’t know you’re here, either.”
“Perrone is what you might call a diplomat, coming to town to shake hands, do a lot of smiling, mend a few fences. I’m undercover. Like I said.”
Chin waited for the waitress to serve the next course, then said, “You say you’ll need four or five of my people.”
“There’s two women, a mother and a daughter. They live on Thirty-ninth Avenue. I need to have them watched.”
“Ah—good. They live out in the avenues, as we call them. A lot of Chinese live out there. Do they live in a house?”
“Right. A row house.”
“You’ve been there, then. To their house.”
“I was there today.”
“You talked to these two women. They know you.”
Fabrese nodded. “They know me. Which is why I need you.”
“And the other people?”
“There’s just one more, besides Bacardo—a man. Tall, kind of stooped, early forties, I’d say. He wears gold aviator glasses. You know, stylish. But he’s not much of a dresser. Corduroy pants and sweaters, like that. Tweedy, maybe. He’s a friend of the women.”
“You have no name for him.”
“No.”
“License plate?”
“I forgot that part.”
“Does he live with the women?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Chin allowed a reflective silence to pass before he said, “That’s all, those four.”
“That’s all.”
“And when should these stakeouts start?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Tonight?”
“That’d be great.”
Once more, Chin sampled food from the several small plates placed on their table. Then: “My people—should they be armed? Is it that kind of a job?”
Promptly, Fabrese shook his head. This question, too, he’d expected. “It’s not that kind of a job. I just want answers, that’s all. No guns.”
“If there are guns, then I would double the number of my people.”
“No guns. Period.”
“Then I can’t see any problem, once we decide on how payment should be made.” Now Chin’s face was impassive, as if his entire attention was focused on the prawn he was conveying to his mouth.
“Well, there’re two ways to go,” Fabrese said. As he spoke, he touched the breast pocket of his jacket, where he carried an envelope fat with cash. “I could give you something up front, right now. Say ten thousand, to show good faith. Then you could tell me whatever you figure, after everything’s finished. That’s one way.”
Chin turned his attention to the small task of blending seasoned snow peas with rice as he asked, “And the other way?”
“The other way, after everything’s finished, and I’m back in New York with Cella, I tell him that I never could’ve done it without you. When he mentions money, how much you charged us, I tell him that you wanted to do him this favor, a little something from you to him, one top guy to another top guy. You know.”
“Ah, yes,” Chin said. “Yes—I know.”