Red Jade (12 page)

Overthrow the Ching

Alex nursed a martini as the master of ceremonies took the stage and quieted the audience for the ORCA Silent Auction. The CADS were among the hundreds of people in attendance, ready to bid on items for charitable Asian causes.

The first item up for bidding was an antique Chinese fan, reminiscent of the Ming Dynasty era. The white paper fan was made of bamboo and parchment, and had two thick outer ribs, bracing the thirteen accordion paper folds inside.

Alex took a sip of her cocktail and checked her watch.

“The fat ribs of the fan once represented the capitals of Peking and Nanking under the first Ming emperor. There are poems on both sides of the fan, believed to have been written by Dr. Sun Yat-sen himself. A white peony appears on the front of the fan, a red peony on the back. Turning the fan meant overthrowing the Ching Dynasty, and was a gesture of many secret societies.” The master of ceremony paused to catch his breath.

Alex was curious about where Jack was, and wondered if he’d call after the auction. She knew that cop stuff ruled his world, and figured he’d gotten himself involved in more police trauma. She drained her drink as bidding for the fan commenced.

Cop Stuff

Back at the Sea-Tac Courtyard, Jack took a hot shower that steamed up the little room. It was almost 8
PM
and he considered calling Alex. She’d said she’d be free after nine.

He changed into the fresh suit from the backpack, thinking he’d meet Alex at the Westin bar lounge after her Service Recognition Award Dinner ended. They could start with a couple of drinks while he tried to reel his mind away from the Eddie
monkey
chase.

His cell phone buzzed. Alex hooking up, he thought.

But the voice was pale male, law enforcement. “Detective Yu?”

“Yeah,” Jack answered. “Who’s this?”

“SPD Patrol, sir.” Professional.

“What have you got?” asked Jack, swallowing.

“We have in custody a person of interest to you,” the cop said. “Come to Manila Street and Walker. Just off the freeway.”

The cab service dropped Jack off a block away from where the SPD cruiser sat, its lights out on the desolate street. The area was north of the motel, with highway noise humming in the distance. Jack approached and badged the driver, noticing that someone was in the backseat. One of the uniformed officers got out of the squad car and walked Jack a short distance away before he said, confidentially, “He said his name was Carl Lim, but he didn’t have any ID. We saw him playing solo nine-ball when we rolled into Julio’s Place on Manila Street. The patrol update was for a very short male, may shoot pool.”

“Yeah, go on,” said Jack, figuring the update was from Detective Nicoll.

“So we figured we’d bring him to the car, check him out. Okay. Once we leave Julio’s and hit the street, he gets free and we gotta chase him, like six fuckin’ blocks. Jimmy caught him first, took him down hard.”

Jack nodded, an offer of respect and appreciation.

“He was uncooperative after that,” the cop continued. “Started bitching police brutality.” He gave Jack a business card that read
JOON KOREAN GINSENG DISTRIBUTOR
, with a Jackson Street address. “We found that on him. Nothing much else. Anyway, we can hold him for disorderly, resisting, or assault on a police officer. Anything like that, he’s got at least a few days chillin’ with the bad boys.”

Jack understood that meant Eddie would be in custody a while, and since it was a weekend, it’d be harder to find a public defender even if he demanded one.

They turned back toward the cruiser.

“Bring him out,” Jack said.

The man could have passed for a kid, short enough, his head well beneath Jack’s chin.

“I was just shooting pool,” the Chinese man protested, “I didn’t do
anything.
”

“Heard you did the marathon, trying to cut out.” Jack yanked down the shoulder of the man’s jacket. Even in the dim street light, the Red Star tattoo was clearly visible.

“What the fuck,” the man complained. “Yeah, I ran. Those
gwailo
cops were looking to fuck me over!”

“Okay, cut the bullshit,” Jack said, pulling back the handcuffs to reveal a monkey tattoo on the man’s wrist. Curious George. “This is
jing deng
,” marveled Jack. Destiny.

“What’s that?” puzzled Eddie.

Ngai jai dor gai
, remembered Jack. Short people are shrewd.

“So what’s your name again?” Jack pressed.

“Carl Lim.”

Jack chuckled “You mean like in ‘Carlos Lima’?”

The man’s face froze.

“How about ‘Jorge Villa’?” Jack challenged. “Who would you be then, George Hui? Curious George, huh?” Jack could see the man’s resemblance to the face in the juvenile offender photo, and decided to bluff. “Guess what, Eddie?” Jack deadpanned. “Your own
dailo
placed you at OTB.”

“Dailo?”
sneered Eddie. “Bullshit.”

“He said you guys had a beef over watches, and money,” Jack prodded.

“Right. Last I heard,” Eddie said defiantly, “he was brain dead in Emergency.”

“Yeah, you keep believing that,” Jack snapped. “He put your shorty ass at the scene. In the alley.” Jack noticed Eddie flinch at being called “shorty.” “That’s right, you’re
bad
,” Jack added sarcastically, “so bad you’re good for Murder One, monkey boy.”

He pushed Eddie back into the cruiser, and took a better look at the Korean ginseng business card. The address was just off the fringe of Chinatown.

“Let’s roll,” Jack said as he slipped in beside Eddie.

Number 818 Jackson was on a street that slanted off the intersection of Jackson and Rainier, a quiet street this time of day. It was an old-style house with an addition built onto the back of it. There was a street-level back door that led inside.

An old Asian couple came out as the patrol car killed its flashing strobes.

Eddie stared at them from the backseat, his mouth quiet but his eyes scheming.

Jack came out of the cruiser and walked toward them. Korean, he guessed. The cops kept the cruiser’s interior lights on so the old couple could see Eddie behind the back cage partition.

Eddie finally bowed and twisted his face away.

Jack showed the man the business card.

“
Ai goo
,” the old man said. “He rent room from us.”

“Can I see the room?” Jack asked respectfully, offering a slight bow.

“
Ari seyo
,” the man agreed.

The inside hallway smelled like
bulgogi
and
kimchi
, with the menthol hint of
salon pas
drifting off the old couple. They led Jack to a side room. The small room had only enough space for a single bed with an all-purpose night table and a freestanding metal cabinet that doubled as a closet and a dresser. Some clothes were draped around a chair. No windows. No bathroom. Not many places to hide anything.

Jack considered the obvious: toss the bed, the cabinet, check the knapsack, and under the chair and night table. He gauged the concern on the faces of the Korean couple. Remembering the East Broadway railroad flat that Eddie and his victim Koo Jai had shared in New York’s Chinatown, he pictured the loose floorboards covering their stash spots.

The floor here was covered with old linoleum, and Jack didn’t see any loose edges or pried-up corners. He guessed Eddie was smarter than that. He heard a click, like a timer, then the hum of a fan unit nearby. Air. Since there were no windows, he looked for the vent, and saw the aluminum grate high on the wall, covering the extension of the ductwork into the room addition.

Too high up for Eddie to reach. Unless he stood on a chair.

Jack pulled the chair over, flashed his Mini Maglite into the grate. A shallow recess, empty. But there was a bend in the air duct. Although barely visible, he noticed a tiny plastic loop wrapped around the bottom slat of the vent grate. It looked like fishing line.

Jack opened his army penknife to the Phillips screwdriver and unscrewed the grate. It came free after a slight pry, but was caught on the nylon line. Jack tugged gently and saw a dirty plastic bundle emerge from the bend in the duct. He dragged it out and saw metallic watchbands inside. In one corner of the clear plastic bundle he could make out the denomination on a wad of fifty-dollar bills.

He unwrapped the plastic, then admired the expensive watches within: three Rolex Oysters, four Cartier Tanks, six Rados. And five black-dial Movado Amorosas. Probably fifty grand’s worth of deluxe timepieces, guessed Jack. He thumbed through the wad of cash, maybe five thousand, that had probably been ripped out of the victim’s pants pocket as he lay dying in the snow of the Doyers Street alley.

Damn clever, thought Jack, turning to the old couple as he scanned the room again. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Going back through the hallway, they came to a closet-size bathroom that consisted of a sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower stall with a sliding door and a vent fan in the ceiling.

Eddie was clever, Jack concluded, but in a predictable way.

Removing a roll of toilet tissue and a can of air freshener, Jack lifted the cover off the toilet’s water tank. The water was murky and he shined the flashlight into it. At the bottom of the tank there was a roll of black plastic. The cold tank water had pressed the plastic into the contours of a gun.

Jack felt the chill of the water as he pulled it out.

Inside the black plastic was a revolver, a .22-caliber Taurus with a nine-shot cylinder. The murder weapon from the OTB shooting. Jack took a breath. It had barely taken him a half hour inside the Korean house. He knew some of his effort here bordered on illegal search and seizure but he didn’t care. He had the killer, the murder weapon, and the swag all bundled up, just in need of a lab match for ballistics and forensics. What mattered was that the perpetrator was in custody, he thought. A lawyer, like Alex, might disagree, but Jack wasn’t feeling the need to be legally correct at this exhilarating moment.

Eddie was somber as Jack leaned into the back window of the cruiser and said, “We’ve got the gun, kid. You’re good, though, shooting .22s. A hitman’s caliber. You’re good for two kill-shots, and one critical hit.”

“Don’t know nothing about no gun,” Eddie insisted.

“How long do you think before we match up the ballistics? Before your prints come back off the watches? And off the vic’s VIP card from the titty bar, that you used for ID?” Jack shook his head dismissively.

Eddie grunted, smirked.

“What happened?” Jack needled. “You had a beef? Something over stolen watches? Come on, stop gassing me. It’s not like you’re going anywhere except to lockup. Right now, you’re good for the possession of the firearm, for the possession of stolen goods. Probably good for Murder One as well.”

“What the fuck is it to you anyway?” Eddie snapped. “The jerk-off scumbag had it coming.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” agreed Jack. “But it’s not
only
that you shot this Koo guy in the back.
And
robbed him. Or even the big Ghost gorilla you took out.”

“What then?” was Eddie’s pained question.

“You also put two .22s into the head of a guy I used to know,” Jack said coldly. “It’s
Yin-Yang
, punk, and yours has come full circle.”

Jack turned to the patrol cop, asking, “How’d you make him?”

“We got the heads-up at roll call, for a Chinese,” the cop smiled sheepishly. “
Exceptionally short
, right? The update said he liked to shoot pool.”

“Good work,” Jack commended him, privately noting Detective Nicoll’s assistance.

“But if he hadn’t run,” the cop added, “we probably wouldn’t have had reason to hold him.”

“Thanks,” Jack offered. “I owe you guys big time. Pick the bar, the tab’s on me.” He clutched the two bags of evidence he knew he’d have to voucher with SPD, and realized he’d also have to advise his New York precincts of his actions.

By the time Jack was done at Seattle Police Headquarters, it was eleven thirty, with much of the International District already shut down. His adrenaline carried him until he remembered Alex and her events at the Westin. He felt like celebrating, wanting to tell her about the day’s investigations, the strenuous, dogged police work, then the collar. But he was too professional for that.

However, hooking up with her for drinks would be a treat, capping off a “mission accomplished” with a twist of
jing deng
, destiny.

He called Alex’s room at the hotel, and was surprised to hear a man’s voice. One of the CADS? Strangely, ADA Sing came to his mind. Music in the background. Caught offguard, he quickly hung up, going back into his jacket to confirm her room number.

When he called again, the phone rang until he got the hotel voice-mail message. Hadn’t Alex been rooming with Joann somebody? He decided not to leave a message, feeling conflicted, wanting to consider it just an innocent miscommunication.

After all, it wasn’t like they’d agreed to meet. He tried to downplay it. She was probably out with the ladies, the staffers. The uncertainty irked him and he didn’t know why, but he felt the fatigue of the long day setting in, and decided to return to the motel. He knew Alex still had one more day of the convention, and he hoped to see her at the gala finale.

Back at the motel room he sucked down four of the little bottles of vodka from the minibar, sitting at the window watching the night rain splatter against the glass. He thought about the fancy watches and the nine-shot revolver and the cold-blooded little man who’d shown no signs of remorse.

He thought about Alex, and all the rain checks, until the alcohol reached his brain and closed his mind.

Change

The Phoenix Garden Beauty Salon occupied the second floor of an office building on a Chinatown side street. The local spa spot offered the usual haircuts and facials, manicures and pedicures. Three massage tables were neatly hidden in the rear rooms.

The big front room was all chrome and mirrors, filled by the roar of blow-dryers and buzzing clippers, and a chemical smell of baking electrifying the air. Hong Kong pop music played in the background intermittently, a jittery cacophony. Six hair stations lined the walls and each was occupied, their operators busy brushing shorn locks into piles beneath the sleek new-wave barber chairs. The male cutters were young Chinese with short and spiky gel haircuts, wearing hipster T-shirts and rip-torn jeans. The female stylists were also young and Chinese, with red or yellow highlights in their chopped hair, their slim bodies wrapped in little denim miniskirts and stretch tank tops that exposed their bellies. Each wore a variation of a wing-style tattoo over her lower back. The colored wings pointed into the crack of their buttocks.

Mona closed her eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, gauging the musty metallic odors, her thumbs nervously working the jade charm in her palm beneath the plastic sheet.

She flipped the coin over, feeling for the symbols on the reverse side.

The women hair stylists had reminded Mona of the
siu
jeer
, “young ladies,” with whom she’d worked the nightclubs of Hong Kong, and Tsim Sha Tsui.
China City. Volvo Party.
Charlie’s Club.

The memories always found their way back to her at the most unexpected moments, the disorienting jolt of seeing herself on her back in the seedy Hong Kong whorehouse, naked, holding back her tears as evil men took turns at her, taking payment in flesh and innocence for the gambling debts her father had owed.

A month like that.

She had been fourteen.

The triad’s black-hearted snakes later killed her father anyway. Her mother, a Buddhist, stayed away from the funeral, cursing her
lo gung
, husband, before suffering a fatal heart attack herself.

At fourteen, Mona had found herself alone in the world, and soon discovered how to wield her beauty and her body like Fa Mulan’s sword in her hatred of men.

Men were dogs, and she would use that knowledge to her own advantage.

On the reverse of the charm the symbols read
Heaven over
Earth
. Evil men block the path of progress. Events turn out badly. Be strong, patient. Gain control.

The stylist lowered the heat dome, announcing, “
Sup fun
jung
, ten minutes,” as Mona opened her eyes, watching the stylist’s tattoo as she sashayed away.