San Francisco’s Chinatown is one of the largest and most densely populated in the world outside of China. There are streets not even on city maps, tunnels running beneath the city, paths you can only take through people’s alleys and roofs, and if you take a single step off of the main streets without knowing something about where you’re going you will get lost and possibly find yourself in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the world.

Or the safest.

I had my escorts drop me off at the edge of Grant and Sacramento streets and lost them within seconds. I took a circuitous route to my destination, one of those streets without a name with a guarded door between two massage parlors (both quality establishments) that led into the underground. I needed to get to that underground and find a poker game.

Not long after I became rich I discovered an entry through one of my massage girls into the elite Chinese poker games in Chinatown. I was welcomed because I had good money and I’m a lousy poker player, but it should be noted that the massage girl lost her job. I always felt bad about that but I really needed that paranoid obsession with protecting the privacy of the clients this evening.

I paid my usual bribe to the guard and made it downstairs, searching for a specific patron – or at least one of them. I needed to speak with the leader of one of the families. I spotted the head of the Feng family and made for his table.

Understand, his name isn’t Feng. There are thousands and thousands of names in Chinese, just like any other language. But in Chinatown there were only eight “families” and no matter your own real family name the odds were that you belonged to one of these eight – especially if you were an immigrant. You really would be part of a family; one that respects its elders and has a specific plan to help immigrants attain sustainability and respectability. The goals were lofty and grand but the early days could be rough.

I approached the table and bowed to Mr. Feng.. He smiled and gestured for me to sit down at his table. We had played together before, and he knew I would honor any debt I incurred. I’d visited a few of his massage parlors too. I gestured to the dealer and bought in for $5,000, then called out to a waitress for a Gin and Tonic. When the drink came I wrote a note on the bill saying that I wanted to speak with Mr. Feng privately, and that he would know I was serious about that in a few minutes. It took a moment, but the note made its way to the head of the table, delivered by the same waitress.

Mr. Feng looked at me for a brief moment, but said nothing.

It took eight hands of nothing before I saw my opening. I played each hand tight with small bets and dropping out when I had nothing. When at last a hand came where it was obvious that Mr. Feng was going to win I went all-in, placing all of my chips in the pot. Mr. Feng won the hand, I was cleaned out, and the appropriate “tribute/bribe” had been paid. I knew that Mr. Feng would understand; he taught this system to me.

A few hands later with me sitting out and nursing my drink a break was declared, and I was invited into a small room where I greeted Mr. Feng with as much formality as I could muster.

“You wanted my attention Mr. Carter and you have it for the next five minutes.” I couldn’t tell if he had been amused or annoyed by my little ploy.

I pulled out my phone and queued up the picture, handing it to him. “You see the picture there,” I stated.

He clucked his tongue in his mouth. “Not really my taste,” he said. “I presume the man in the picture is you?”

“An accurate assumption. That includes all of the scars. Those are accurately drawn.”

“You have led a charmed life Mr. Carter.”

I chuckled at that. “The painting is fresh and was found at the residence of a serious murder this evening.”

“The one in Pacific Heights?”

“The same. The police believe that the killer there is the same one that hit that massage parlor on Kearny last night.”

He yelled a few words in Chinese, and one of the largest men I have ever seen came into the room. More words were exchanged. The big man looked at me with hostile eyes.

“Sir,” I said, “there is more. There was a witness at the murders on Kearny. He didn’t see much and has already told the police everything he knows.”

“You,” Mr. Feng said.

I nodded. “Yes, me. The police have a theory that they plan to pursue. It’s not obvious that the killer knows who I am, but it is obvious that whoever painted that painting does know who I am. My scars are no secret but the painting is very accurate. Their theory is that a massage girl took a picture of my back at some point and gave it to the artist.”

“When do they plan to start the raids?” Mr. Feng asked.

“Probably tomorrow, unless we can figure out before they start which girl gave this information to the artist – and I don’t know who the artist is.”

More words in Chinese. The big man pulled out a phone and started typing away.

“Why did you bring this to me?”

“I’m playing the odds,” I said. “I’ve been to a lot of houses owned by the families. If there are raids on the houses we all get hurt. I figure there is a better chance that the girl we’re looking for works in a family house. It’s not a perfect chance but I had to try and see if I could head off the raids.”

“So you’re asking me to find and turn in a girl that I may have offered to protect.”

“One who broke the rules if this is how the artist discovered what I look like. You’ve told me yourself that the privacy of the client is why the current system works at all.” I changed tactics. “Look, this killer has killed 19 people in two days. The raids, when they come, will be nasty and brutal. You don’t want that and I don’t want that.”

Mr. Feng actually smiled a bit. “You don’t want that because you will be blamed.”

I nodded. “I like how things work,” I said. “I don’t want that to change.”

“Nor do I. Very well, I will attempt to discover who this girl might be, and I’ll let the other families know about the problem. If I were to give you an e-mail address, would you forward a copy of the painting to it? I will take it from there.”

“Of course,” I said. He gave me an address that turned out to be the phone of the big guard who came in.

Mr. Feng shook my hand. “Thank you for bringing this to me. If I find this girl how do I contact you?”

“Don’t contact me at all. Tell Detective Clapton at the 12th precinct. He can stop the raids, not me.”

“Good – a man who understands his limitations. Chow,” he continued, turning to the big man, “refund to Mr. Carter his loss, minus a fee for the house, and then show him out. Then send an e-mail to each house and find out if any of the girls didn’t report to work tonight.”

That caught my attention. “A missing girl?”

“Your killer has killed 19 people that we know of. If the painter has some connection to the killer wouldn’t he tie up the loose end? I need to find out if any of my girls are dead.”

I stood there slack-jawed. I hadn’t followed that thought to its conclusion.

“I hope that isn’t the case,” I said.

“Thank you Mr. Carter. Chow, please see him out.”