The Stone Monkey (Lincoln Rhyme 4)

Laughing in ridicule at the director's comment, Tan said, "And how much did you want?"

"Half."

"You are making a poor joke."

The battle lines being drawn, they got down to business. The buy-sell continued for nearly a half hour. Finally, they agreed on thirty percent, provided it was U.S. dollars.

The director pulled out a cell phone and placed a call. The Ghost came on the line and the director identified himself.

"Yes?" the snakehead asked.

"I have someone here who rented an apartment to some of the survivors of the Dragon, the Changs. He wants to sell you that information."

The Ghost was silent for a moment. He asked, "Tell him to prove it."

The director relayed this request to Tan, who replied, "The father's western name is Sam. There is an old man too, Chang's father. And two boys. Oh, a wife. Mei-Mei. And they have a baby. She isn't theirs. She was on the ship. Her mother drowned."

"How does he know them?"

The director explained, "He's the brother of a friend of Chang's in China."

The Ghost considered. "Tell him I'll pay one hundred thousand one-color for the information."

The director asked Tan if this was acceptable. He said immediately that it was. Some people you do not buy-sell with.

Keeping a straight face, despite his pleasure at this sum, the director added delicately to the Ghost, "He's agreed to pay us a fee. Perhaps, sir, if it wouldn't be too much trouble . . . "

"Yes, I'll pay you your portion directly. If the information's accurate. What is your cut?"

"Thirty percent."

"You're a fool," the Ghost scoffed. "You were robbed. I would've taken sixty-five percent if I'd been you."

The director flushed and began to defend himself but the Ghost cut him off. "Send him to see me tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. You know where." He hung up.

The director told Tan the arrangement and they shook hands.

In the Confucian order of duty to others, friendships were on the lowest rung--after ruler-subject, father-son, husband-wife and older brother-younger brother. Still, there was something abhorrent, the director thought, about this kind of betrayal.

But no matter. Whenever he arrived in hell, Tan would be judged for his acts. And as for the director and his associates--well, $30,000 was not bad for an hour's work.

*

His hands shaking, his breath fast, Sam Chang left the storefront of the East Broadway Workers' Association and had to walk three blocks before he found a bar, which are rare in Chinatown. He sat on an uneven stool and ordered a Tsingtao beer. He drank it fast and ordered another.

He was still surprised--no, astonished--that the three men at the tong had believed that he was Joseph Tan and had actually told him where he could meet the Ghost in the morning.

He laughed to himself. What an appalling idea--he was actually bargaining with these men over the price of his family's life.

Sitting in their dark apartment in Brooklyn several hours before, Chang had been thinking: So this is to be our life. Darkness and fear . . .

And his father's keen eyes had narrowed. "What are you thinking of doing?" he'd asked his son.

"The Ghost is looking for us."

"Yes."

"He won't expect me to be looking for him."