Free The Headmaster's Wager by Vincent Lam Page B

Police Chief Mei, who was usually eager for a good meal and a red packet but for some reason was now slow to make himself available. On the day of their meeting, Percival and Mak joined the chief in a private room within a quiet restaurant that specialized in Northern Chinese dumplings, Mei’s favourite. Percival ordered dumplings filled with beef and young garlic, chicken and bird’s nest, scallops and prawns. Mak and the chief made awkward small talk about the new Spanish racehorses at the track—no good in this climate; about mah-jong—a friend had lost a villa in Dalat in a big game; and about where to get the best black market exchange rates for the U.S. dollar. Percival bad-mouthed Cecilia’s rates, but otherwise said little, restrained himself. All he wanted to talk about was whether Mei could help. Mak had advised Percival to keep quiet and let him do the talking. They drank beer, dipped dumplings in vinegar, and Mak laughed heartily at Mei’s jokes.
    When they loosened their belts and put down their chopsticks, the serving plates were still half full. Mei pushed himself back from the table, belched, and said, “It has been good to see you.” He glanced at his watch. “So late already.”
    Percival started to rise, irate that Mei was going to play it this way, as if he did not know the purpose of this lunch. Mak shot Percival a glance, and he sat down, fuming. Mak asked if Mei could spare a further moment and calmly, slowly explained what had happened to Dai Jai. He explained it exactly as if Mei did not know, as if it were not a subject of heated gossip in Cholon.
    Mei shook his head. “You have a serious problem.”
    â€œHmm …” Mak said. “If we can at least find out if he is safe, where he is …”
    â€œThere are two main possibilities,” Mei said. “There is Paulo Condor, an island prison on the southern coast where the French used to send the Vietnamese who displeased them.” He spoke the same way that Mak had, as if what he was explaining was not known to everyone at the table, as if he were talking to some American newly arrived in Vietnam. Mei smirked. “Now, it has both Vietnamese jailers and prisoners. There is also the National Police Headquarters, which is well known because—”
    â€œYes, I am familiar with its reputation,” interrupted Percival, not wishing to hear whatever euphemisms Mei might use for that house of cruelties.
    â€œOf course.”
    Percival knew there was a third possible fate that his son might have already met, but pushed that fear back.
    Mak said, “Brother Mei, what can be done?”
    â€œYou should have come to me earlier.” Mei shook his head, looked at Percival, and then turned his eyes back to the table. “It would have been easier to prevent his arrest. Now, to free him?”
    â€œBig brother,” said Mak, undeterred, “can’t your fellow policemen in Saigon help? You are a district chief. They will do you a favour.” It was not necessary to say that Percival would, in turn, owe Chief Mei any favour he thought to ask.
    â€œThey let us Chinese police control Cholon as long as we don’t cross them … on sensitive matters.”
    â€œAnd this is sensitive?” Percival asked.
    Mei shrugged. “What do you think? ”
    â€œBut you will try,” said Percival, sliding forward a plump red envelope. He had to pay, even for this useless encounter. He could not afford to dismiss the possibility of Mei’s help.
    Mei slipped the envelope into the ammunition pouch on his belt. It contained no bullets, but was full of cash. “Of course, friend. I will see what I can do.”
    Each morning, Percival pressed Mak on the situation and the progress of his inquiries. A week after the lunch with Chief Mei, Mak informed Percival that the usual Saigon channels were exhausted. He would have to begin making other contacts. It