Читать книгу The Snakeheads - Mary Moylum - Страница 10

Nick was on a first-name basis with agents of the FBI, CIA, Interpol, MI5, MI6, Mossad and half a dozen other police forces around the world, but one of his most frequent working partners was his old friend, Detective Steve Kappolis of the OPP. Kappolis commanded the fugitive squad, which investigated and tracked down criminals from other countries who had chosen Canada as a hiding place. The last case they’d worked together had involved a phony document ring that was doing brisk business in the reproduction of passports, propiskas, health insurance cards and other documents for illegals who were living under false identities. Nick knew he could count on Kappolis. The detective was not one to play the information-sharing, power-playing jurisdictional games that provincial and federal enforcement agencies often indulged in.

Nick figured if the killer of Walter Martin had not been a criminal before he entered the country, he was a criminal now. And within twenty-four hours Kappolis had gotten a police search warrant for the Mandarin Club.

The world of clubs held no allure for Nick. The only one he had ever belonged to was Hart House, the alumni association at his university, and he guessed the Mandarin Club wouldn’t be much like Hart House. According to the current month’s issue of Entertainment and the scribes of the city’s gossip columns, the Mandarin was an expensive and glamorous new place where Asian hip-hop and celebrity types hung out. The membership fees alone spoke of a closed world of privilege, where those with money and leisure could afford to pass the time exchanging gossip over mai tais and margaritas.

Detective Steve Kappolis parked his unmarked cruiser at the end of the block right under a tow-away sign.

Apart from its prime location, there was no mistaking the aura of exclusivity which extended right down to the sidewalk: the building was sixty thousand square feet of marble opulence, with a raised roof and nine-metre cathedral windows. A flashing sign underneath one of the windows promised karaoke five nights a week.

“Tacky,” said Kappolis. “Big red canopy. Flashing neon. Looks like a bordello, if you ask me.”

“This is how the yuppies fool themselves that they’re not going into the red light district.” Nick patted his hip pocket to make sure he had his wallet.

“Let’s not mention the warrant right away. I want to get a feel for the place before everyone makes a run for it or destroys evidence.”

“I’m with you,” Nick answered.

“We’re the run-of-the-mill customers who want to check out the girls and the booze before buying memberships. The only problem is, it’s four hundred bucks just to get in,” said Kappolis.

“Four hundred bucks! No club is worth that.”

“Nick, this ain’t the time to be cheap, my friend. And don’t count on me, because this is an immigration matter. The requisition originated from your office. Remember?”

“I’m sure glad I made that trip to the bank machine,” grumbled Nick.

They extended their wrists and receipts to the doorman who wordlessly unhooked the rope. Nick tried to make out the Chinese characters stamped on the back of his hand as they climbed the wide circular staircase to the first floor.

“Let’s keep tax evasion in mind if nothing else pans out,” remarked Kappolis as he eyed a couple of Hollywood actors with their dates, tall, slender birds of paradise in five-inch stilettos, impossibly uncomfortable clothing, and blue eyeshadow.

“White collar crime isn’t at the top of my agenda here,” replied Nick dryly. “I’m here for a certain matter of justice.”

Kappolis cast a brief look at Nick’s set face and wondered if “revenge” might not be more a more accurate term.

Clouds of opium smoke and other illegal substances assaulted their nostrils. Not even in the old days, before he became respectable, had Nick ever frequented places like this, but in fact, the club was giving him a feeling of déjá vu. It took him back to his posting in Thailand in the eighties, when he was a young intellectual-property lawyer working for a Boston firm. One of his clients had been a big-name New York fashion house that wanted to put a stop to the Asian knock-offs that were costing them millions in lost revenues. His investigation had led him to the bars and whorehouses in the red light district of Bangkok where he saw the knock-offs being worn as a uniform by every bar girl. Those years of working and travelling through Asia came wafting back to him, bringing a sharp nostalgia for that Eastern culture, with its mix of tranquillity and cruelty, devoutness and grasping ambition, beauty and squalor.

Kappolis gave him a reality check by poking him sharply in the ribs. “You wondering where the money came from for all this? I just found out from that guy over there that this place has three separate nightclubs. I could get used to a place like this.”

“Well, don’t even think about it. It’s not: in your budget.”

“Speaking of budget, bet they uncork a lot of pricey champagne here. And none of this cheap Baby Duck stuff.”

“Come on.”

A frosted-glass door led into a cavernous disco lit by flashing coloured lights and a gigantic overhead glitter ball. The walls were tastefully plastered in nineteenth-century Chinese art. A slim, tuxedoed young woman croupier presiding over the blackjack and roulette tables tried to entice them over to play. They ignored her to admire the singer in the daring sequined number who was belting out a Chinese torch song.

“My Cantonese isn’t as good as yours. It’s hard to get worked up about a song if you don’t understand the words,” said Kappolis.

“Never mind my Cantonese. Don’t look now, but over there … notice anything funny?”

“Yeah. I thought the courts had banned lap dancing. Obviously those with moolah think they’re above the law.” Kappolis pointed at the stage. “Look at the mirrored floors. Now look at the videocameras. Holy shit! Girls with no knickers! Real kinky.”

“Asian nightclubs tend to be like this. I remember when I lived in Japan. In the Shinjuku district of Tokyo, Roran Shabu Shabu was an exclusive all men’s dining club. None of the waitresses wore underwear. You paid $36,000 a year for the privilege of titillating yourself.”

“Nick, you telling me that this is real tame by comparison? I want to go upstairs. Maybe it gets kinkier up there.”

They ignored the singer in the skin-tight micro mini who was pouring her heart into a microphone for the second floor club, done in Italian wrought iron.

“Crowd’s different. A lot of Armani suits,” Nick observed.

“For some, there’s never a recession,” replied Kappolis.

“Probably not their money. They’re on expense accounts.”

The waitresses were dressed as schoolgirls in white shirts and micro kilts with baggy white socks.

“This is paedophile heaven. I should send Vice over now,” commented Kappolis.

“Before we do that, let’s check out the top floor.”

The third floor, billed as “Ecstasy Club,” was a cokehead’s paradise. They walked through a set of red doors to find people in an array of positions and states of undress shooting stuff into their veins and inhaling substances up their noses. In another opium-filled room were several couples making out on floor mats.

Kappolis pointed to a man lying prostrate on the floor with his shirt opened. “I know that guy,” he whispered to Nick. “He’s a city councillor. He was on television just days ago talking about family values. Can you believe it?”

They stood by the door, taking it all in. A voluptuous bottle blonde in a latex body suit and a leather whip was dragging a middle-aged man around the room by his dog collar.

Nick whispered, “I read somewhere that dominatrixes make good coin whipping and brutalizing their clients.”

Off in one corner was a bearded man stretched out on the floor smoking an opium pipe. In an alcove, a young woman in little more than stilettos and a pair of surgically assisted breasts was entertaining a halfdressed drunk.

“That’s it for me. I’ve seen enough,” said Kappolis.

“I agree. Casino gambling on the first floor. Half-naked politicians. Women with no underwear. If we don’t shut this place down right now, our asses could be hauled before a public inquiry questioning our behaviour in coming here.”

“Right. Our pensions are at stake here.” Taking out his cellphone, Kappolis made the call for uniformed officers, and plenty of them.

Nick led the way back down to the first floor. It took less than three minutes for two squad cars to pull up at the curb. At the sight of uniformed cops, Nick pulled out his ID and asked the nearest bartender, “Who’s in charge of this place?”

“That would be the general manager, Andy Loong.”

Nick remembered what the snakehead Gee Tung had said about the general manager being the conduit.

“We want to see him. Now!”

Andy Loong turned out to be a hip young Asian dressed in pink and lime green, sporting coloured hair and a pair of earrings.

He stared at the search warrant and protested at being shut down. “We have a bona fide licence to operate the club. Our clientele is very respectable.”

“Yeah? Is that so?” Kappolis’s tone was cocky.

“Our guests are all very legitimate people. District attorneys, supreme court judges, business owners and movie moguls. This a very legitimate establishment. See those photos on the wall?” he pointed to a row of black-and-white photographs of prominent people.

“We don’t care about your who’s-who list,” said Nick. “What I want to know is, what kind of joint you’re running?”

“This is a private club for people of high class.”

“Class thing, is it?”

Kappolis’s sarcasm was lost on Andy Loong. He continued in an earnest tone. “Entry is for members only. Our initiation fees are five thousand with annual membership at three thousand. Right now we have a waiting list for membership.”

“I’m sure you do,” answered Nick. “Who owns the place?”

“Mr. Sun Sui.”

“Where is he? Where did he get his money?”

“Mr. Sui is at home this evening.”

“Pick up the phone and call him. Tell him to get his butt over here right now,” demanded Nick.

“He doesn’t like to be disturbed at home.”

“Tough shit,” said Kappolis in a menacing tone.

Loong quietly complied, punching in a set of numbers on Kappolis’s cellphone. Nick took the phone out of Loong’s hand, and listened for a few seconds. “His bloody voicemail. The guy’s not home. I don’t feel like leaving a message when the element of surprise works a hell of a lot better,” he said to Kappolis.

“Getting back to this membership business,” said Kappolis to Loong, “how about letting us have a look at that membership list of yours?”

“I can’t do that. That’s private information. I would have to ask the members first.”

“We got a search warrant, Mr. Loong. I hope your immigration status is regularized. Or you better start praying.”

The general manager sighed. “I’ll give you a computer printout. You want it right now?”

“Yeah, after we’re done with the questions. I see you’re peddling sex and drugs on the third floor.”

“Those are massage rooms. We have permits for that. And I can’t say exactly what goes on behind closed doors.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard that excuse before.”

“The girls are dancers and entertainers. If they want to sell sexual services, it’s up to them. It’s got nothing to do with the club management or policy.”

“Is that so? Well, this is an immigration investigation. And I want to see their working papers. Or else I’m gonna shut the place down for the evening. And maybe permanently.”

“That’s a big loss of profits. I assure you they’re all here legally. All have working papers. Why close down the club if I can prove this? What you’re doing isn’t good for business. Everyone has paid good money …”

“Mr. Loong, we’ve heard enough,” snapped Kappolis, impatiently.

“Mr. Sui is with the immigrant investor program. You can’t do this to him. He’s a very important man. Immigration Canada promised him lots of help if he invested in this country. That is what he is doing. The club needs to stay open.” Loong was still protesting as the uniformed cop escorted him out of the room.

Nick and Kappolis carved up the interviews with the eight police officers from backup, but kept Loong for themselves. Saved him for last. It was a tactic they learned early in their careers.

The first entertainer was a pretty and petite woman going by the name Niin Tran.

“What documents do you have to confirm your immigration status in this country?” Nick asked, scanning her documents which gave her age as twenty-four. However, the girl in front of him looked no more than seventeen. Nick made a notation in the side margins to look into the matter. Sexual exploitation of female minors was a very serious offence in his book.

The second entertainer looked nothing like her photo. In the photograph she was wearing spectacles and a white blouse. Whereas the woman before them had dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, no glasses, and spiked hair the colour of a flaming sunset. Her lipstick was a dark shade, almost black, a colour they had not seen on lips before, and her skimpy sequined outfit barely covered her body. Kappolis and Slovak could not stop staring until they noticed that her stage companion was dressed in an even skimpier costume that left nothing to the imagination. It was not every day that they came across big-breasted Orientals.

“Implants,” whispered Kappolis to Nick.

Nick stared harder. He had never seen a woman with breast implants. Could this be the real reason why men paid such stiff initiation and membership fees? After the two girls, they interviewed two young males who could easily have passed for the opposite sex.

“Nick, it took me a while to figure out they were guys.”

“Yeah. Let’s not linger longer than necessary with these people. There’re too many of them and I don’t wanna pull an all-nighter.”

Nick retrieved his laptop from Kappolis’s car, and started banging out notes with mathematical precision. Full names, nationality, dates they entered the country, the dates their foreign authorizations were due to expire, visa numbers, the whole shebang. When he lifted his eyes from the keyboard, he noticed that the woman sitting in front of him had legs that were far too thick for a dancer. He didn’t believe that she had ever danced a day in her life before coming to Canada. He was trying to keep an open mind, but the only thing believable about these girls was that they all came from backward economies.

“How did you learn about getting a job here if you’re from Thailand?”

“Advertisement in newspaper in Thailand.”

“Who’s your employer? Who pays you?”

“The general manager, Mr. Loong, looks after us. He pay us once a month. Put money in our bank accounts.”

By the time they finished interviewing all the girls, Kappolis and Slovak were immune to halfnaked bodies.

“Even the bouncer’s an import. It doesn’t take a lot of brains to be a bouncer. We got unemployment at ten percent and we’re bringing in Third World thugs to be doormen?” asked Kappolis.

“I’m going to have one of my officers look into these work authorizations.”

When Andy Loong sat down, he asked for permission to smoke, and lit up a cigarette with trembling hands. Nick registered the man’s nervousness without looking up from the pile of witness statements. “Are you a landed immigrant, sir,” he asked, “or here on a work permit? Please produce your documents for verification.”

“I am a landed immigrant.”

“May we see your landing card?”

Andy Loong pulled a dog-eared piece of paper from his billfold.

“Tell us about the club’s relationship with the Flying Dragons triad,” asked Kappolis.

Loong’s face became noticeably paler. “Some who come aren’t respectable people, but there’s no way to deny them entry when they’re paid up in full. As long as they abide by the rules, we have no problems. I know nothing about triads.”

“Don’t fuck with us,” said Nick. “We weren’t born yesterday.”

Nick studied Loong as he closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together.

“Okay. This is Dragon roof, but we don’t pay protection money.”

“We hear the club’s giving free services to the Dragons.”

“Where did you hear that?” he asked defensively. Nick shrugged.

Loong’s hands were trembling. “Please, you don’t understand. I’m not involved in these things. This is a job for me. I don’t want my employer to think I’m not doing a good job. I could be in trouble because good jobs are scarce.”

“Knowledge and involvement are two different things.” Nick tried his best to sound sympathetic and intimidating at the same time. “Tell us what you know. Your cooperation will be rewarded. So far, you’ve committed no offences.” Nick allowed the emphasis to sink in.

“We’re under a Dragon roof. The Flying Dragons started getting in for free when Lo Chien triad tried to roof in on the club. Mr. Sui wasn’t interested in paying protection money to Lo Chien. Lo Chien attempted to kidnap Mr. Sui one night, and some Dragon gang members who were drinking at the club helped foil the kidnapping attempt.”

“Did you report the kidnapping to the police?”

“I didn’t. I don’t know if my boss did or didn’t.”

“Why did the Dragon gang members help Mr. Sui? Tell us about his relationship with them?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my place to ask questions. I only know that he allows the Dragons the use of the club. They come for drinking and karaoke.”

“Does anyone else get free membership to the club?”

“Not that I can remember.”

Nick produced mug shots of Gee Tung and Shaupan Chau. He also showed Loong a sketch of Li Mann. “Recognize any of these guys?”

Loong looked at the pictures blankly. Nick repeated the question.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“The drugs on the third floor, who supplies them?”

“What drugs?”

Kappolis glared at the general manager. “Don’t fuck with us. We ain’t stupid. You’re already down on charges of prostitution, association with criminal elements. You don’t need drug trafficking and soliciting. The way I see it, you’ve already racked up about seven years’ worth of charges.”

“We don’t supply drugs. The clientele bring their own and we look the other way.”

“This is a copy of your membership list? Everybody’s name is on here?”

“Yes.”

“It better be.” Nick stuck the list in his notebook computer case. He stood, and nodded briefly to Kappolis, who pulled out a pair of handcuffs from behind his back.

“Okay, Loong,” said the detective. “Let’s go down to the station. I gotta book ya.”

A few minutes later Nick and the detective were outside the building, leaning against the railing as they compared notes.

“In my opinion, tits and ass is nothing more than a cover to run a human smuggling operation. When you get beyond the girls without underwear, you’re dealing with the same bullshit of moving bodies here from the Third World,” said Nick.

Flipping the pages of his notebook, Nick wasn’t thinking about the street scene, but he registered a brief flash of white in his peripheral vision as the Chrysler sedan with the tinted windows came towards them. Out of sheer reflex they hit the ground at the sound of gunfire. Thank God for Kevlar vests, Nick thought, as he struggled to get his gun.

Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. Nick picked himself up, put his hand to his head, and felt the stickiness. Blood. His left temple above his eye was bleeding — he’d been hit by flying debris. It took another moment to realize it was nothing serious. Kappolis, too, was in one piece. But Loong was dead. He was lying flat on his back, eyes open, blood pouring from holes in his head and stomach. Another bystander was also dead, and half a dozen were shot and bleeding. The officer beside him had been shot, but was alive. Nick, being the closest, did what he could to staunch the flow of blood from the man’s wounded leg.

They spent the next hour loading bodies into ambulances and seeking out eyewitnesses.