Page 50 of Flower Net (Red Princess 1)

“I guess I am,” he said, and giggled.

They met in the lobby at nine sharp, then split into three groups. David and Hulan would go to Chinatown in the morning, USC after lunch, and call on the Guangs’ relatives in the late afternoon. Gardner and Peter would also go to Chinatown to visit the banks, hoping to glean as much information as possible from an industry that was at least partially in the business of secrecy. Campbell would head east to Monterey Park with the list of alleged members of the Rising Phoenix. Maybe he’d get lucky.

Before setting out, the Chinese agents asked if they could be provided with weapons. “Absolutely not” was Jack Campbell’s prompt response.

; “We don’t know what or who we’re dealing with,” said Hulan. “You can’t leave us exposed without any recourse.”

“You won’t be alone for a minute. That I can promise you,” said Campbell. “If you need protection, the FBI will provide it. But you’re not getting any weapons!” So that was that. The teams left the hotel not on the best of terms and went their separate ways.

David had been to Chinatown many times, but he’d never had the kind of access that being with Hulan brought. They walked along Broadway, then looped over to Hill Street. The old buildings with their upturned eaves, neon lights, and gaudily painted gates hadn’t changed since the 1930s. The old-timers still had their curio and antique shops. But in the last decade, Hong Kong money had made an impact on the enclave in the form of shopping centers and strip malls that were occupied by bustling restaurants, electronics stores, and import/export enterprises. The biggest change, from Hulan’s point of view, was demographic. There were far fewer Cantonese in Chinatown than she remembered. Today she saw Cambodians, Vietnamese, Burmese, and Thais. She also recognized a variety of Chinese dialects—Fujianese and Shanghainese mostly—sprinkled in with the Cantonese and Mandarin.

David and Hulan focused on Chinese-run shops, many of which were festooned in red and gold New Year’s decorations. They wandered in and out of grocery stores redolent of ginger and fermented bean curd, butcher shops with roast ducks hanging in the windows, herbal emporiums filled with strange remedies. At some of these, Hulan would buy a tin of Danish sugar cookies, a pack of cigarettes, a box of candy. Occasionally, they would detour up a set of stairs, where Hulan would talk to the residents of a crowded apartment or boldly enter a sweatshop to converse with the workers. They stopped in small cafés and talked with busboys and waiters. Hulan even led the way back into cramped kitchens to chat with dishwashers and chefs. Sometimes, to get people to talk more freely, Hulan would give away one of her purchases.

She insisted on walking down the alleys that divided the main thoroughfares. Here the hutong life was conducted on a small scale. Laundry hung from lines strung overhead from building to building. Preschool-age children played tag and hide-and-seek. Large baskets filled with tubers and leafy vegetables sat outside restaurants. On the sidewalk before a fish market, they came upon a tub of live eels. Here and there, a few scrawny cats picked at leftovers in overturned trash cans.

Off one of these alleyways they ran into Zhao, the immigrant who had helped David on board the China Peony. Hulan, as she had throughout the day, had simply walked through a doorway that opened onto the alley. Inside, perhaps thirty women sat at sewing machines doing piecework. A dozen men were spread around the room doing a variety of jobs—carrying bolts of fabric, steaming finished pieces, and shrink-wrapping them for shipping. The radio blasting Chinese pop music, the unending clickity-clack of the machines, and the gossiping voices combined in a clamorous din. Although it was still early February, the workers were sweating from their exertions. David hated to think of what it would be like in here on a suffocating hundred-degree August day, with no air stirring and smog choking the lungs and burning the eyes.

In her usual ingratiating way, Hulan bent over one of the women and began talking. Although David couldn’t hear the conversation, he saw the woman’s shy smile as she answered Hulan’s questions. Then suddenly David saw Hulan’s action in a whole new light. Her way of bending down, of making eye contact, of speaking in a low, confidential voice, was less a show of empathy than it was a means of intimidation.

Before he could begin to puzzle this out, he felt a tug on his arm. He turned and there was Zhao.

After an exchange of greetings, David said, “I see you got out of Terminal Island all right.”

Zhao quickly looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Yes, I did, thank you.”

“You found work, too, I see.”

“My friends found me.”

“I didn’t know you had friends here,” David said, then realized his mistake. Zhao’s “friends” were the Rising Phoenix.

David needed to think like Hulan—interrogate through “kindness” and indirection. “You look healthy, much better than on the Peony. You must be getting good meals.”

“They feed me.”

David tried to keep his words simple. “This is hard work, and yet you don’t look too tired.”

“I have a bed to sleep.”

“Are there others with you?” David asked softly.

Zhao nodded. “Many.”

“You are living close by?”

Zhao shook his head.

David smiled and clapped Zhao on the back. “So you have done well enough you already own a car. Good for you.”

No answer.

“Have you seen much of the city?”

Zhao held up his fingers and began counting. “Terminal Island. The street outside Terminal Island. The room where I sleep. This room. Three times a day, I carry boxes two blocks to a warehouse. That’s it.” He stared at David.

Through these terse answers David determined that Zhao had been rounded up by the gang right outside Terminal Island’s gates. This meant that either Zhao had called the Rising Phoenix, which David doubted, or the gang had inside information that Zhao would be released. Either way, Zhao had been put right to work earning back his passage to the United States. The fact that he was living with several other people led David to believe that he was being housed with other immigrants—probably those right in this room. All meals were supplied by the gang. All entertainment—probably just this radio—was also provided by the gang.