A Brew to a Kill (19 page)

The modern skyscraper was the first federally subsidized
project to create affordable housing for the Chinatown population, most of whom had been jammed into those cramped tenements back on Mott, Bayard, and Mulberry.

“Confucius Plaza over there, see?” our driver proudly pointed. “We have medical office, public school, day-care center, seven hundred apartments. But you know what people visit most?”

“I’ll bite,” said Esther.

“Statue of Confucius.” He pointed again as we rolled by the fifteen foot bronze sculpture.

I smiled. “I take it you’re a fan of the philosopher, Mr. Hon?”

“Confucius rock star in Chinese culture. Master Kong’s teachings written down in
Lun Yu
. I read every page. Better than
Harry Potter
.” He laughed.

“I haven’t read the
Lun Yu
,” I conceded, “but I’ve heard enough to know he was a very wise man.” (During the age of Chinese feudalism, when intrigue and vice were rampant, Confucius—aka Master Kong—urged feudal leaders to live by higher ethical and moral standards.) “We could use him now, I think.”

“Lady, don’t know why you follow big, fat dragon wok. But you right about that. Yes, you right about that.”

B
EFORE
long, we were moving faster and turning onto a thoroughfare that ran parallel to the East River and below the FDR, an expressway that skirted the length of Manhattan’s east side. The heavy traffic moved quickly here, and I soon realized our destination: South Street Seaport.

The Seaport complex covered twelve blocks and featured some of the oldest architecture in Lower Manhattan. At the heart of this property was Pier 17, a rebuilt dock holding a modern glass shopping pavilion that offered gorgeous views of the fast-flowing East River and that beloved neo-Gothic span of suspended steel wires known as the Brooklyn Bridge. There was a maritime museum, a marine life conservation
lab, and the largest privately owned fleet of historic ships in the country, including a fully-rigged cargo ship circa 1885.

On this balmy, sunny day, tourists and locals packed the area, milling between Pier 17 and the preserved cobblestones of Fulton, a street featuring more shops and restaurants.

According to Esther, the area’s history embraced the likes of white-maned poet Walt Whitman, who’d described the port as a forest of masts, and author Herman Melville, who’d taken a job as a customs inspector after penning
Moby Dick
, one of the greatest novels of all time, which hadn’t earned him a penny.

“Thar she blows!” Esther pointed. “Kaylie’s truck!”

The rainbow-colored Kupcake Kart was here, all right, Eiffel Tower and all. Kaylie had beached her psychedelic whale by a curb across from Pier 17, and a line of customers were eagerly scarfing down the Kween’s decadent menu.

“Good location,” Dante said.

“In more ways than one,” I noted.

Esther understood. “May the Great Buttercream Spirit in the Sky keep her far, far away from us!”

“And Brooklyn,” I added. “Today especially.”

We were all feeling pretty relieved to find her—and triumphant about our recon. In our minds, tracking the dragon truck here was absolute verification that Kaylie’s white service van was off the street, which strongly implied her van was the very one used in last night’s brutal hit-and-run.

I could almost hear Mike Quinn in my head. “
Nice work, Cosi. You nailed motive, opportunity, and even the weapon.”

But my soaring spirits fell as I watched the Dragon Fire truck roll right by Kaylie’s Kart.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Esther cried.

“What you mean? I follow truck!” Mr. Hon replied.

“No, not you!”

“Keep going, sir,” I urged our driver.

Mr. Hon followed the dragon as it blew by Kaylie and most of the milling tourists. But I held out hope—Jeffrey Li’s
mobile dragon didn’t leave the area completely. At nearby John Street, it hung a right, made another turn, and pulled up next to a Fast Park lot near the middle of the block.

“Stop, Mr. Hon!” I cried. “Don’t get too close!”

The cabbie double-parked, and we waited.

“Lady, you getting out?”

“Not yet. Keep the meter running, please.”

“Okay. Your dime.”

“Actually, it’s looking like quite a few dimes,” Esther said, pointing to the taxi’s mounting meter.

Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. Out of the Dragon Fire truck came the same big guy we’d seen back in Chinatown. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Dante wailed.

“Oh, man! If that Dragon truck drops off those cupcakes here and not with Kaylie, how can we be sure her white service van is out of commission?”

“We can’t,” I said. “We’ll just have to wait this out…”

All four of us (Mr. Hon included), blinked and stared, watching to see what would be next to come out of the metal beast.

“Look!” Esther cried.

The big man on the sidewalk was being handed something—and not cupcakes. I recognized one of those two big black bags we’d seen him lugging on Mosco. He hoisted it over his shoulder and carried it a few car lengths. Then he quickly hung a left, disappearing into an alley.

“Now where is he going?” I murmured.

“You want to go down alley?” the cabbie asked, sounding just as intrigued. He began to shift the taxi into drive, but I stopped him.

“Stay parked, Mr. Hon. We don’t want to spook the guy.”

“I’ll see what’s up.” Dante popped the door. With all my strength, I dragged him back.

“Billy Li is on that truck!” I reminded him. “If he recognizes you walking by, there’s sure to be a fight!”

“I don’t care,” Dante snapped. “I told you I can take that kid.”

“No, Dante! I mean it!”

“Then why are we here?” he demanded. “We can’t see a thing. We don’t know what’s happening.”

Come on, Clare, think of something!

“Mr. Hon, do you have a map?” I asked.

“Map! What you need map for? You have Mr. Hon.”

“I know. But for now, I need a big, paper map.
Any
paper map—”

“No paper. GPS.”

“I have a subway map in my bag,” Esther said. “Will that help?”

“Perfect!”

As I unfolded the thing, Dante frowned. “Boss, what are you doing?”

“Sit tight.” I said and began to climb over him, but he grabbed my arm.

“I really think you should let me go.”

“I don’t want there to be any violence, Dante, and my number one
artista
should be using his hands for painting not punching.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll handle it my way.”

H
OLDING
the giant paper rectangle in front of me, I strolled along the sidewalk, mixing with the crowd as I moved passed the idling Dragon Fire. At the entrance to the alley, I turned around and peered into the gloomy light, careful to keep the map hanging like a screen between me and Billy Li.

Inside that narrow passage, I saw two men quietly talking. I recognized the big one from the Dragon Fire truck. The older, smaller Chinese man was not someone I’d seen before. Both stood in front of an open door. Neither was speaking English.

The location appeared to be the back end of a shop, although I couldn’t be sure. But there were two things I was sure of: (1) The black bag was gone. And (2) the big guy had dropped it off inside that doorway.

If only I could hear what they’re saying…

I risked a few more steps closer, into the alley itself, and picked up a farewell of some kind, along with these words, which were spoken so loudly they reverberated with clarity off the high brick walls—

“Hah go láihbaai! Hah go láihbaai!”

Immediately, the big man turned and began striding toward me.

Better move it, Clare…

I sprinted from the spot, rushing passed the Dragon Fire truck. Unfortunately, Billy Li was looking out the front window. My map was still up, but my speed made me a tad obvious.

“Hey, you!” Billy called. “You with the map!”

Billy had recognized my bottom half, but I refused to turn. Instead, I rushed across the street, directing the kid’s attention away from the cab. Then I ducked around the corner, out of his sight, and prayed the others on the truck wouldn’t allow the kid to waste time following (and possibly pummeling) little old me.

Thankfully, I heard two males shouting in Cantonese (an argument?), then the revving of a diesel engine. With a deep breath, I peeked back around the corner, saw that Billy was gone and his dragon ride lumbering down the block.

With relief, I hurried back to Mr. Hon’s cab, stuck my head in the window.

“What’s up, Boss?” Esther cried.

“What did you see?” Dante demanded.

“Nothing incriminating,” I told them, “but I have a strong hunch.”

With almost fatherly concern, Mr. Hon frowned. “Lady, you, okay? You need help?”

“Actually, I do. May I trouble you with a question?”

“Trouble? No trouble. Ask!”

“Can you translate this for me. I’m pretty sure it’s Cantonese:
Hah go láihbaai! Hah go láihbaai!
”

“Easy,” Mr. Hon said. “It mean: ‘Next week! Next week!’”

Next week,
I thought.
In other words, these deliveries were a common occurrence. Excellent!

“Are you getting in?” Dante asked, popping the door again.

“In a few minutes,” I said. “Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back!”

I jogged down the sidewalk, passing the alley this time and moving all the way to the next corner. I hung a left and made a note of the storefronts, all lined up in a row: a florist on the corner, then an optometrist’s office, a women’s shoe store, and right next to it—a small shop decked out with tourist bait: New York T-shirts and tote bags, tiny Statues of Liberty, Yankee hats, and bobblehead dolls.

This is it…
My gut was sure. The Dragon Fire truck had delivered that black bag to this little shop’s back door.

I took a deep breath, tried to appear as casual as possible, and strolled through the shop’s entrance. Space was tight, every inch packed with shirts, posters, and more souvenirs.
Where are they?
A women’s shoe store sat right next door. If what I suspected was true, then I’d have to ask.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes,” I told the store clerk. “At least, I think so. The woman next door, in the shoe store? She said you sell a private line of products…”

A
few minutes later, booty in hand, I climbed over Dante and once again settled into Mr. Hon’s backseat.

“So?” Esther asked. “What was in that big black bag?!”

“I didn’t eyewitness what came out of the thing. But I did talk my way into a back room, where I saw a similar black bag folded in a corner, and on the shelves around it, I saw a number of very interesting items—one of which you asked for when we were back in Chinatown.”

“Excuse me? What did I ask for?” Esther stared, perplexed.

In answer, I handed her a white plastic sack.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked.

“Kaylie is—if I have anything to say about it.”

Esther opened the sack. “My knockoff Coach purse!”

“A bargain’s a bargain, Esther, and dowry trays or not, one day you will make an unforgettable bride.”

“Great,” Dante said, throwing up his hands, “but what about the cupcakes? By now, we’ve lost the Dragon Fire truck.”

“You know what? I have a hunch about that, too…”

I asked Mr. Hon to loop the corner and drive us right back to the heart of the South Street Seaport. Sure enough, between Pier 17 and Fulton’s cobblestones, we saw Jeffrey Li’s mobile dragon parked right behind the Kupcake Kween.