The Stone Monkey

Sachs and he could tell she was thinking the same thing. What can it hurt? Rhyme asked Eddie Deng, “What about it? You know these minorities?”
    “I don’t have a clue,” he replied. “Most of the people we deal with in the Fifth Precinct are Han—Fujianese, Cantonese, Mandarin, Taiwanese . . . . ”
    Coe agreed, adding, “The minorities would keep to themselves.”
    Impatient now that there was a lead to be pursued, Rhyme snapped, “Well, who would know? I want to follow up on it. How?”
    “Tongs,” Li said. “Tongs know everything. Han, non-Han, everything.”
    “And what exactly is a tong?” Rhyme asked, having only a vague memory from some bad movie he’d watched when recovering from his accident.
    Eddie Deng explained that tongs were societies of Chinese who had common interests: people who came from a particular area in China or who practiced the same trade or profession. They were shrouded in secrecy and, in the old days, met only in private—“tong” means “chamber.” In the United States they arose for protection from whites and for self-governance; traditionally Chinese resolved disputesamong themselves, and the head of one’s tong had more power over his members than did the president of the United States.
    Though they had a long tradition in crime and violence, he continued, in recent years tongs had cleaned themselves up. The word “tong” was out and they began calling themselves “public associations,” “benevolent societies,” or “merchant guilds.” Many were still just as involved in gambling, massage parlors, extortion and money laundering as ever but they distanced themselves from violence. They hired young men with no connection to the tongs to act as enforcers.
    “Outsourcing,” Deng joked.
    “Were you in one, Eddie?” Rhyme asked.
    The detective polished his stylish glasses as he responded defensively, “For a while. It was a kid thing.”
    “Is there anybody at one we can talk to?” Sachs asked.
    Deng thought for a moment. “I’d give Tony Cai a call. He helps us some—up to a point—and he’s one of the best connected loaban s in the area. Lot of guanxi . He runs the Eastern Chinese Public Association. They’re on the Bowery.”
    “Call him,” Rhyme ordered.
    Coe shook his head. “Won’t talk on the phone.”
    “Bugged?”
    Deng said, “No, no, it’s a cultural thing. For some matters you have to meet face-to-face. But there’s a catch—Cai won’t want to be seen around police, not with the Ghost involved.”
    A thought occurred to Rhyme. “Get a limo and bring him here.”
    “What?” Sellitto asked.
    “The heads of tongs . . . they have egos, right?”
    “You bet,” Coe said.
    “Tell him we need his help and that the mayor’s sending a limo to pick him up.”
    While Sellitto called about the car Eddie Deng rang up Cai’s community association. The conversation was in the clipped and singsongy cadence of rapidly spoken Chinese. Eddie put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Let me get this straight—I’m telling him this is at the mayor’s request.”
    “No,” Rhyme said. “Tell him it’s the governor’s office.”
    “We oughta be a little careful here, Linc,” Sellitto said delicately.
    “We’ll be careful after we collar the Ghost.”
    Deng nodded, returned to the phone and they spoke some more. He hung up. “Okay. He’ll do it.”
    Sonny Li was patting the pockets of his trousers absently, looking for cigarettes undoubtedly. He seemed uneasy.
    “Hey, Loaban, I ask you something. Maybe you do me favor?”
    “What?”
    “I make phone call? Back to China. Cost some money I not have. But I pay you back.”
    “That’s all right,” Rhyme said.
    “Who’re you calling?” Coe asked bluntly.
    “Private. My business.”
    “No. You don’t have a private life around here, Li. Tell us, or no call.”
    The cop offered a cold glance at the INS agent and said, “Call is to my father.”
    Coe muttered, “I know Chinese—Putonghua and Minnanhua. I understand hao . I’ll be listening.”
    Rhyme nodded at Thom, who got an international operator on the line and placed the call to the town of LiuGuoyuan in Fujian. He handed the receiver to Li, who took it uncertainly. He glanced at the plastic hand piece for a moment then turned away from Rhyme and the others and slowly brought it to his ear.
    Rhyme suddenly saw a different Sonny Li. One of the first words he heard was “Kangmei”—Sonny’s formal name. The man