CHEN TURNED OVER his phone and placed it down on the table, folded his hands, and gave us a look loaded with attitude.
“Let me guess. You have guns on your mind?”
No kidding?
What did Chen know? Was this rumored weapons convoy common news? Or had someone in particular told Chen? If so, had that person died?
“You have something to share?” I said.
“And if I tell you what I know?”
“I’ll put a note in your jacket saying that you assisted the SFPD. That’s like an IOU. You may need it one day.”
Chen sniggered. “Oh, goody.”
I said to Conklin, “Come on, Richie. We’re wasting our time.”
“Wait, wait,” said Chen. “I might have something. Let me buy you drinks.”
I sure didn’t want what he was having. Chen’s mai tai was a potent mixture of three rums and a secret “Chinese liqueur.”
Conklin said, “Sorry, but we’re on the job.”
I reached into my back pant pocket, tugged out a slim wallet, and wiggled two fingers behind the plastic window. I produced a tightly folded hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the lacquered table, held it down with two fingers.
I said, “Kenny? You know something worth this?”
He sniggered for the second time.
“A hundred bucks and a note in my file? This day is turning out to be like winning a game show. Where’s the confetti?”
I started to retract my offer, when Kenny Chen put his cold hand on top of mine.
“You want to know about Al Vega?” he asked me.
The look on my face said, Damned right.
Chen pulled back his hand and tapped on his phone. Then he turned it to face me. I saw a news story under the CNN banner headlined Prison Break in Guadalajara.
“His name is in the story here,” said Chen.
“What are you saying? He escaped?” I said.
“Only saying, now you know everything I know.”
Chen tapped the back of my hand. I retrieved the hundred, tore it in half, and gave him what I considered more than his share.
“I’ll give you the rest in exchange for information regarding Vega’s current whereabouts. Good information.”
He muttered in Chinese and pocketed the half hundred-dollar bill. That’s when I saw the gun in his waistband.
“Put both your palms flat on the table, Kenny.”
“What?”
I nodded at Conklin, who pulled his gun.
Reaching beneath Chen’s python-print jacket, I removed the gun from his belt and gave it a look. It was a Luger semiauto. Illegal since last week.
I slid out of the booth, told Chen to get up, put his hands on his head. And I pocketed his gun.
I spun him around and cuffed him while Conklin called for backup. I read Chen his rights, which he refused to acknowledge. Conklin slapped the back of his head, saying, “Do you understand your rights?”
Chen said, “You’re a tool, you know that?”
Conklin read Chen his rights again, one line at a time, adding “Do you understand?” after each line. We walked Kenny Chen through the eerie wall of sound, past the customers and the Buddha and a couple of bartenders, who cast their eyes down.
The three of us were on the street when a cruiser pulled up to the curb. I identified myself, and Conklin folded Chen into the back seat.
Conklin smiled at me. I understood that smile to mean, Some days I love my job. I smiled back. Then I spoke to Officer Einhorn, who was at the wheel, telling him to take Chen to booking and that we’d meet him there.
My partner and I stood together outside Li Po and watched the squad car pull away. I asked Conklin for the keys.
I wanted to drive.