Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Read online

  FICTION

  Saturday, December 1, 2012

  GOLDEN CHANCE

  by S. J. Rozan

  S.J. Rozan has won nearly all of crime fiction's notable awards, including the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity. She's best known for her Lydia Chin/Bill Smith private eye novels, the most recent...

  MARIEL

  by David Dean

  David Dean's July 2011 EQMM story "Tomorrow's Dead" received nominations for the Edgar Allan Poe and Derringer awards. He joins us this month with a less hardboiled story, but one whose characters may make you think twice next time you see an apparently innocent little girl riding her bike around...

  MISPRISION OF FELONY

  by O'Neil De Noux

  A Shamus and Derringer Award winner for his short fiction, O'Neil De Noux has contributed work from several of his long-running series to EQMM. This month he debuts a new character, Detective Joseph...

  COG IN THE WHEEL

  by Sarah Weinman

  In the five years since Sarah Weinman's EQMM debut with "Boy Inside the Man" (5/07) she's been busy writing for the Wall Street Journal, the National Post, and other publications, and for National Public Radio. She serves as News Editor at Publishers Marketplace and is in the process of editing an...

  DEAD MEN'S SOCKS

  by David Hewson

  David Hewson's debut story for EQMM focuses on a character from his series of contemporary crime novels about Rome's Questura. The British author's books have been translated into 23 languages and his first novel, Semana Santa, was made into a movie with Mira Sorvino. The ten books in the series to...

  KAREN OVENHOUSE AND THE RUIN SNOOPER

  by Peter Turnbull

  Since Peter Turnbull's last appearance in EQMM, he has won an Edgar Allan Poe Award and received Barry and Macavity nominations for his EQMM story "The Man Who Took His Hat Off to the Driver of the...

  OLD MAN GLOOM

  by David Edgerley Gates

  David Edgerley Gates belongs to a rare breed: He's a short-fiction specialist, and has received two nominations for the prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award and one for the Shamus Award for his stories....

  SPECIAL FEATURES

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  FICTION

  GOLDEN CHANCE

  by S. J. Rozan

  Art by Allen Davis

  S.J. Rozan has won nearly all of crime fiction's notable awards, including the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity. She's best known for her Lydia Chin/Bill Smith private eye novels, the most recent of which, Ghost Hero (2011), won the Dilys Award, made the best-of-the-year lists for NPR and the Sun-Sentinal, and was called "another coup" by Marilyn Stasio of the New York Times. The New York author returns to EQMM with a story full of twists, set in Western China.

  "Ah, my friend." Mustafa Sadiq smiled beneath his thick moustache as the shop door opened and then closed on the midday brightness. He reached to switch on the electric kettle, watching the disheveled lump of a man the door had admitted peer into the dimness, carefully choose his route, and lumber through the cool shadows between the spice boxes.

  "Quiet, your neighbors will hear you," Lo Pen-wei grunted, reaching the rear of the shop where Sadiq sat. A small wooden chair creaked in complaint as Lo dropped his bulk on it. He drew out his handkerchief to mop the sweat from his brow, his face, his neck, and the backs of his hands. Holding the cloth at arm's length, he creased his round face in disgust. "Where can I wring this out?"

  "You're in the desert, my friend, you'd best save it, you might need the water."

  "When I'm dying of thirst because you didn't give me tea?" Lo scowled and shoved the soggy handkerchief back in his pocket.

  Lo spoke, as had Sadiq, in the Uighur language. Detective Lo Pen-wei had been one of the few officers of the Public Security Bureau to study that language upon learning, four years ago, that he would be detailed to Turpan. His fellows' position was that as all Chinese citizens, which included the Uighurs no matter what the Uighurs thought of that, were required to know Mandarin, there was no need to bother. Lo conceded that was true enough, and for official interviews and in-structions Mandarin would suffice; but other conversations—for example, those he would be most interested in overhearing in the streets—would not be held in Mandarin.

  "If such a small hospitality on my part can save the life of my friend, I am most blessed." Sadiq spooned tea into a brass pot and poured in steaming water from the kettle.

  "I've warned you about calling me 'friend.'" Lo leaned heavily back in his chair. "Your neighbors will start to distrust you as much as they distrust me."

  "My neighbors know my politics. If they hear me call you 'friend' they'll think I'm merely kissing your hand."

  "My hand?"

  "All right, I meant your ass, but I was trying to be discreet. The tea will be ready in a moment. I was not expecting you quite so soon. My friend."

  "I'm trying to learn a new habit. To be more—" Lo stopped, then switched to Mandarin. "Your language doesn't even have a word for 'punctual,' does it?"

  Sadiq shook his head, answering also in Mandarin. "We have other virtues."

  "Yes, you do," Lo agreed. "Many Uighur shopkeepers are hard-working and industrious. You, for one, keep long hours. In fact, lately you appear quite haggard, Sadiq."

  "I have three daughters, Detective Lo. The eldest, Qolpan, is already being courted, by a young student of minerology at the University in Urumqi."

  "A university student, that is excellent, Sadiq."

  Sadiq sighed. "It would be, if I could afford to make a wedding for them. I hope to find worthy husbands for all my daughters, but they have no dowries but what my labor affords them. I cannot be like a policeman, taking my ease in teahouses."

  "That is unfortunate. In a teahouse, in the shade of a grape arbor, one can play many fine games of Xiangqi. Though for a Han policeman," Lo added wistfully, "it's not as easy as one might wish to find a willing opponent."

  As Lo spoke, Sadiq was unlatching an inlaid wooden box. From it he removed the white linen Xiangqi board with its black lines and marked intersections, which he unfolded on the low table between them. Lo continued thoughtfully, "Of course, you Uighurs do have vices as well."

  "Have we?" Sadiq poured golden liquid from the pot into delicate porcelain cups. The tea's astringent aroma threaded through the scents of cinnamon and cardamon already in the air.

  Lo cradled his teacup and, eyes shut, concentrated on sniffing and then sipping the tea. With a satisfied smile he opened his eyes again and went on, returning to Sadiq's language to say, "On the virtue side, one could count your tea. On the side of vices, I would list hotheadedness. I would submit as evidence the fact that a mob of young Uighurs vandalized an office of the Housing Commission overnight."

  "Did they?" Wooden Xiangqi discs clacked as Sadiq arranged them on the board. "The miscreants were caught, then? Identified?"

  "No, of course they weren't."

  "Then perhaps they were not Uighurs."

  "No, perhaps not. Or perhaps they were not young. Or not a mob. Ah! It was a lone Han auntie who broke the windows, scattered papers about, and spray-painted the walls. With slogans in your language extolling the eternal glory of Aliqqi the Hero." Lo, who was playing red today and therefore opening, moved his right-side cannon to the second column. "I was called to the scene of the crime," he continued. "Possibly because I'm able to read the slogans."

  "They didn't say, 'Long life to our glorious Chinese Communist Party'?"

  "They did not."

  "Well, then, your logic cannot be faulted," Sadiq admitted. He stroked his moustache in thought, then replied to Lo's move in the classic way, by
advancing the horse on the same flank. "Perhaps, being a man of such clear reasoning, you could make an argument to Commissioner Wu that would convince the Housing Commission to abandon its plans for the destruction of Aliqqi the Hero's ancestral home."

  "I'm only a simple policeman." Lo slid a chariot forward. "The housing commissioner doesn't listen to me."

  "The housing commissioner appears to listen to no one. This is at the center of our complaint. The destruction of Uighur homes and streets—"

  "—where everyone's water comes from a single rusty pump—"

  "—forcing us into high-rises—"

  "—of three stories at most—"

  "—disrupting our traditional family units—"

  "—whose young women, as children, are betrothed to their cousins—"

  "—all this we will accept because we must."

  "And because it comes with electricity, a housing allowance, and flush toilets." Lo took another sip of tea.

  "We are an ancient culture," Sadiq shrugged, "experienced at taking the good with the bad." He moved his advisor along the diagonal. "But in condemning the home of Aliqqi the Hero, Commissioner Wu has gone too far. This is a knife in the heart of my nation. The house of Aliqqi is the birthright of every Uighur. It is—"

  "—a pilgrimage spot for young Uighur men and an important cultural symbol of Uighur pride. I know, I read that daily in your Uighur newspapers."

  "Do you also read that it stands barely within the city's borders, on land of no possible use for new housing? Your water, your electricity, they don't come near it. The Turpan Historical Preservation and Restoration Commission—on which, as you know, sit both Uighurs and Han—stated publicly just yesterday that it considers the condemnation of this property nothing more than wanton cultural destruction. Random viciousness on the part of the Housing Commission."

  "Commissioner Wu," Lo replied, "is not a random man."

  "But he is a vicious one. What other explanation can there be for this cruelty?"

  "Well, of course I'm just a policeman. The ways of power are mysterious to me, as to you, Sadiq. But you understand, in the course of my daily work I come into contact with many who know more than I. I've heard it said—just a rumor, mind you—that though the land where the home of Aliqqi the Hero stands may be worthless for housing, it could be valuable for the building of a road."

  "A road." Sadiq looked up from the board. "The new road into the mountains? For the convenience of the mining companies?"

  Lo nodded. "The same. But you don't sound pleased, Sadiq. Are the Uighurs not rejoicing at the efforts of the mining companies? Do your people not stand to profit handsomely? At least, those who own land in the mountains?"

  "Every Uighur family in Turpan owns land in the mountains. We've lived here since before the time of Genghis. If some fools from Beijing believe there is more in the mountains than the Uighurs know, why should we not profit from their arrogance?"

  "You, also, Sadiq? Are you a landowner?"

  "My land is along the south slopes."

  "Is that so?"

  "Of course. But I haven't visited it in years. It's useless: too dry for grazing, too cold for melons."

  "The mining companies might disagree. I assume that, like other families, you've granted one or another of them permission to prospect there?"

  "They paid a few yuan for the privilege. There's nothing to be found. They will eventually get bored and go elsewhere, and I'll have a few yuan I didn't have formerly."

  "To add to your daughters' dowries." The detective brightened. "Then perhaps you'll be able to take more leisure."

  "If only it were enough for that. No, from the mining companies, there's little to be had. A man of my station can only work and grow haggard, I'm afraid." He shook his head. "But speaking about that road, Detective Lo. That road is planned for the other side of the ravine."

  "That's true. But consider: If the road is built on the other side of the ravine, the Roads Commission will be obliged to purchase the land from Uighur families. Beyond the city's borders, none of the commissioners' powers of condemnation apply. But," he reached to the board and advanced a soldier, "if the Housing Commission condemns the home of Aliqqi the Hero, and the Roads Commission changes the route of the road . . ." Lo trailed off, eyes fixed on the board as if in thought.

  "Ah!" Sadiq drew the syllable out, and continued slowly, "Then the Roads Commission will be in a position to purchase the land it needs not from Uighurs but from the Housing Commission. Am I correct?"

  Without looking up, Lo nodded.

  "And no doubt Housing Commissioner Wu will then express, in a tangible way, his appreciation for Roads Commissioner Ying's flexibility."

  "Mustafa Sadiq!" Now Lo glanced up from the chessboard. "You cannot be accusing Commissioner Wu and Commissioner Ying of corruption? You cannot think the commissioners would line their own pockets at the cost of a cultural landmark of your people? Of the Uighurs, the largest of China's treasured cultural minorities?"

  Lo looked over his teacup at Sadiq. Sadiq returned his gaze, and they drank. Replacing his cup, Sadiq said, "It does not matter what I think. But perhaps you can understand why our young men's hearts are aflame."

  "Young men's hearts are always aflame."

  "That may be so. But more than hearts may be aflame in Turpan, if the home of Aliqqi the Hero is lost." Sadiq's hand moved to the chessboard, where it hovered over an elephant but didn't touch it.

  "I have heard this said, Sadiq. You are a man of wisdom and experience. Do you really believe it?"

  "I do. I believe serious trouble cannot but result, if Commissioner Wu is not stopped." Both men were silent for a time, considering Sadiq's words. Sadiq sighed. "If only the housing commissioner were not beloved of the mayor, perhaps he could be stopped."

  "He is not beloved," Lo corrected Sadiq.

  "Excuse me, Detective, but how can that be? The home of Aliqqi the Hero is owned by the city. Mayor Din could simply refuse the condemnation proceedings, and yet he has not."

  Lo took a contemplative sip of tea. "Mayor Din is a political man, with great ambition. He does not dare refuse Commissioner Wu. The commissioner's connections among the provincial bureaus are too strong. But I have heard it said—in the course of my daily work, you understand—that Mayor Din would not mind if the commissioner were, in fact, stopped."

  "Would he not?" Sadiq blinked.

  "The Mayor would prefer—so it is said—that the civil servants in Turpan, persons such as myself, understand they have one master only."

  "As long as that master is himself."

  "Of course." Lo watched Sadiq finally move the elephant. "To the list of Uighur virtues I would add respect for elders. A virtue among my people, also. The fiery young men of Turpan respect you, Sadiq."

  "If they do, I am honored."

  "If the fire in these young men's hearts flares in the streets of Turpan, the Public Security Bureau will be forced to respond. It would be a shame if these young men's futures, and possibly their lives, went up in that same smoke."

  "It would indeed."

  "Also, speaking personally, you understand, I should be sorry to see the streets of Turpan suffer any such damage. Despite the heat, I've grown to quite like it here. Perhaps it's the tea." He held out his cup, and nodded his thanks as Sadiq refilled it. "The, as you call them, miscreants who caused last night's damage," Lo said. "I think perhaps I should speak with them."

  Sadiq replaced the teapot on its stand. "Is that why you're here, Detective Lo?"

  "I'm here, Mustafa Sadiq, to play Xiangqi."

  "Of course. Yet I know you to be a man who plans carefully. There is little you do without looking ahead."

  "True enough," Lo admitted.

  "In that case, let me ask you something. Why, when we play Xiangqi, do I always win?"

  "Ah." Lo shook his head. "For that, I can see only two possible explanations. One: Perhaps my plans, though carefully made, do not always succeed."

  "
And the other?"

  Lo looked up, smiling. "Perhaps," he said as he advanced a second soldier to the river, "it is part of my plan that you should win."

  Out of the respect they bore Mustafa Sadiq, seven young Uighur men drifted into the spice shop later that evening. They were given tea and dried apricots by Sadiq, and, by Detective Lo of the Public Security Bureau, a calm but compelling explanation of why the path they were on would have no effect on the Housing Commission's plans for the destruction of the home of Aliqqi the Hero, but might well have implications for the destruction of themselves. Detective Lo suggested other possible paths for such promising youths. The fire in the young men's hearts glittered in their dark eyes and glowed on the tips of their cigarettes as they sprawled in sullen and insolent postures. Their leader, addressed directly by Lo on one or two occasions, nodded and grunted to indicate he had understood the policeman's point. Aside from that, they did not speak.

  At the conclusion of Detective Lo's lecture, the young men filed out, mumbling thanks to Mustafa Sadiq for his hospitality and avoiding the eyes of Detective Lo. When they were gone, Sadiq, looking at the door, spoke to the policeman. "I wonder what the result of your words will be."

  "I do also."

  "I hope it is enough." Sadiq sighed. "Such a wicked world. Really, I'm just a poor shopkeeper. What is one small man to do?"

  "Yes," Lo responded. "Or a detective. Just two small men, in a wicked world. What are they to do?"

  Two days later the door to Sadiq's shop once again opened to admit the damp Detective Lo, who paused occasionally to sniff the contents of a brass box or burlap bag as he made his way to the counter, where Mustafa Sadiq was serving a customer. The old Uighur woman, spying the Han policeman, snatched up her purchase, glowered at him, and scurried away. Lo wiped his handkerchief along the back of his neck and watched her go.