The Chinese Jars (20 page)

Samuel, feeling cheated, watched the small group of men on the other side of the mirror.

“We didn't get shit from that lying asshole,” said the Customs agent.

“You're wrong. I wasn't looking for answers,” said Charles, “If my instincts are correct, he'll spread the word about what he heard today. We'll have to wait and see how long it takes for it to filter into the neighborhood, and who responds.”

Samuel let out a laugh. He'd underestimated Charles.

* * *

When Mathew didn't return to the apartment the night he was arrested, Virginia didn't waste any time. She went to the bedroom, climbed a stepladder, removed a panel from the ceiling and took out two boxes of money that Mathew had left her. Then she replaced the panel. It was impossible to see where the crack was in the ceiling because it blended in with the wallpaper. She counted the stacks of hundred-dollar bills to assure herself there was half a million dollars. She never imagined she'd have to handle that much money. It was a cash transaction and her partner had to trust that she would make the deposit when it was time. She took a roll of butcher paper and twine from the utility closet and began to put the money in packages, wrapping each with the resilient string and tying it with a perfect square knot so it wouldn't come unraveled. When she finished, she put the packages into two canvas bags and tied the tops with quarter-inch rope and another knot.

Early the next morning, she sent Fu Fung Fat to Mr. Song's with instructions to deposit in her receptacle the packages she had prepared as soon as he opened. She told him to contract for an additional jar in her name, since it wouldn't all fit in the one she had.

The one-armed man had to make two trips. He loaded the first sack on his back, gained his balance, and staggered to his destination; he then came back for the other. After he finished, he gave Virginia the two claim checks and two keys. She hid them behind the same panel in the ceiling, sticking them to the beam with adhesive tape. She then calmly waited for events to unfold as she anticipated they would.

It didn't take long for the authorities to show up at the Grant Avenue apartment. She received the agents without fuss when she was taken into custody and acted like the ride in the police car was a social event. She underwent hours of interrogation by Charles Perkins and the U.S. Customs agents. They already knew Xsing Ching had spent time with her, including how many times and on what dates, but she could tell they didn't know much else, and certainly nothing of her involvement. She easily deducted that they'd had him under surveillance. She admitted that she had been Mathew O'Hara's lover, but for some time now she only worked for him. Her interrogators thought she had all the attributes to please such a rich and refined man as O'Hara, and they felt a certain sense of envy. She wore a green silk blouse with the top button undone, and Charles and the Customs agent were having trouble concentrating on the questions.

“What discussions did you have with Mr. Xsing in connection with the delivery of the merchandise?” asked Charles.

She straightened up slightly and smiled seductively, looking Charles straight in the eye. Her nipples pressed up against the silk. “Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I wasn't aware of the delivery of any merchandise, or whatever you want to call it. I only had dinner with Mr. Xsing and Mr. O'Hara. It was a social thing. It was my job to wine and dine the people from Hong Kong or anybody else who had business with Mr. O'Hara. It was public relations, nothing else. He was always there, and I never talked business with any of them. In fact, I had no idea what they were discussing. Mr. O'Hara never confided any of that to me.”

“Were there others, besides Xsing Ching, at these meeting?” asked Charles.

“No, just him.”

“What about the times when Mr. Ching came to your apartment when Mr. O'Hara wasn't there.”

“He had a sick child and I was trying to get him medical help here in San Francisco. Check with Dr. Rolland from the University Medical Center if you don't believe me.”

They had absolutely no luck in interrogating Fu Fung Fat or the cook. They both claimed they spoke very little English. Both denied knowing anything other than that Mathew came to visit Virginia, and they only admitted that because it was common knowledge he owned the apartment. They both remembered that Xsing Ching had been there to dinner but couldn't remember any of the details. Their mistress and Mr. O'Hara received many guests, they added.

When the authorities searched the apartment, they looked in all the usual places: under the beds, in the back of the closets, behind the headboards. They rolled up the Persian carpets to see if there were any hidden trap doors, and removed all the pictures from the walls looking for secret vaults. They even tipped over the ancient Chinese vases, but they found nothing.

* * *

“Would you like to go to a movie at the Larkin theatre tonight? I saw in the paper they were showing Rififi, a French movie,” said Samuel to Blanche.

He had on his going-out suit, the most decent one he owned, and had just gotten a haircut. They agreed to meet at Camelot. Blanche also made an effort. Instead of pants and the usual tennis shoes, she had on a spring dress and a white blouse. To Samuel she looked more attractive than ever, although this new, more feminine and flirtatious Blanche intimidated him.

“I like the sound of it, but we're not going to understand a word,” she said.

“It has subtitles, for sure. Afterwards, we can drop by the Blackhawk. Dave Brubeck's in town.”

“How did you know I'm a big fan of his?” asked Blanche, surprised. “I have all his records.”

During the movie, things didn't go quite as Samuel expected. After half an hour, he figured that he could put his arm on the back of her seat, and ten minutes later he let it fall casually to her shoulders. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't move. It would have been better if he could have held her hand but she was busy munching on popcorn like it was a lifesaver. There weren't many options left to Samuel, and he bravely tried to snuggle head-to-head with her. Blanche, sitting stiffly in her seat, didn't make things easy. Samuel stretched his neck as far as he could, but she was taller than he was, and he couldn't reach her unless he raised himself in the seat. He couldn't hold that position for too long, so he delicately pushed her head toward him, but with such bad luck that his glasses got caught in her hair. He tried to pull away, but Blanche couldn't stop laughing, and her volume kept rising as he struggled to free his glasses while he cursed in panic. People started to complain, and soon a voice told them to shut up. In the process, she started laughing louder and he got more confused. At that very moment the sound in the movie stopped. Two, three, five minutes, and nothing but silence with more shushes for Blanche to shut up. With a sigh of relief Samuel recouped his glasses and soon Blanche calmed down. Ten minutes passed and the movie was not only silent but was getting darker.

“You'd better talk to the management, there's something wrong with the sound,” Blanche suggested.

Samuel left his seat and was gone for a couple of moments, and came back to tell her that Rififi had twenty minutes of silence.

“Oh, I suppose it's a French thing. Be patient,” she said, trying not to make noise with her popcorn bag because the audience seemed absorbed.

By the time the movie was over, Samuel was worried, first that he hadn't understood it, then that Blanche hadn't liked it, and finally that he'd made a total fool of himself. He walked out behind her, dragging his feet.

“Would you still like to go to the Blackhawk?” he asked, apprehensively.

“Yes, of course,” said Blanche. But her tone was less enthusiastic than before.

They walked the block and a half to the Blackhawk. He paid the cover charge, and they sat down at a table toward the rear of the nightclub. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks, and Blanche ordered a glass of orange juice.

As they listened to Dave Brubeck playing the piano and his musical companions backing him up, Samuel observed her out of the corner of his eye, happy that they didn't have to talk because he couldn't think of anything to say. He motioned for the cocktail waitress. “I'll have another Scotch on the rocks,” he said, nervously. He swallowed the drink in two gulps. In a little while, he ordered another.

“Don't' you think you've had enough,” Blanche noted.

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” he slurred. “Let's get out of here.”

He hailed a cab right outside the club, and asked the cabbie to take them to her home in the Upper Castro. During the ride, she was stone-faced and silent, hugging the door as far away from him as possible.

“Are you going to say anything, Blanche?”

“What do you want me to say? You've had too much to drink. Frankly, I'm disappointed, because until we got to the club, I was having a wonderful time.”

“You liked the movie?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course, I did.”

By then they had reached her house. Samuel spent his last dollar on the cab fare. “I'm sorry, Blanche,” he said, embarrassed.

“I'm sorry, too, Samuel. Go home and sleep it off, and don't drink so much when you're around me. Good night,” she said, as she turned and bounded up the stairs, never looking back.

Samuel's hands were deep in his pockets and his shoulders were hunched over. Humiliated, he started walking the twenty blocks to his flat near Chinatown. He thought that he was not only broke—he didn't even have enough money to buy a pack of cigarettes—but he felt he'd blown his chance to make an impression on Blanche. He concluded that his courtship skills needed polishing, as Melba had often suggested, and that he also needed a better-paying job.

* * *

After a few days, Samuel became anxious to talk with Charles. He wanted to get as much information as he could about any leads Charles had that connected Mathew O'Hara with Reginald Rockwood's death. He borrowed money from Melba with the promise that he would pay her the following week, and he invited Charles to Chop Suey Louie's for lunch. It was the only restaurant he could afford.

They arrived at noon, and the place was almost empty, but they sat at the counter, Samuel's favorite spot.

“Where's your mother? This is one of the few times I haven't seen her in her corner,” said Samuel.

“She went to the astrologer. She doesn't like my brother's fiancée.”

“What can the astrologer do?”

“Maybe she can prove that they're not compatible. That would make my mother very happy,” said Louie.

“You remember my friend Charles Perkins. He's an attorney with the federal government.”

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Perkins. And you, Samuel? I see you're hanging around with big shots now. I hope you won't forget your old friends, and you'll continue betting with me,” he said, laughing.

“Maybe that's not a good idea,” replied Samuel, “I haven't won a bet with you for the last three years.”

Charles was seated on the end seat in front of the cash register where Louie usually held court, and Samuel was to his left. They were both drawn to the tropical fish swimming around in the giant aquarium directly in front of them. The big ones chased the small ones into the treasure boxes and holes in the lava rocks where they could hide. Goldie was immobile in one corner on top of some sand. Samuel thought she looked depressed, just like he was.

“Do you want today's special?”

“Sure,” said Samuel, knowing it would be cheap, since he was paying.

“That's fine with me,” said Charles.

Louie yelled something back to the kitchen in Cantonese.

“Has anything leaked onto the street that you could attribute to the interrogation of Sandovich?” asked Samuel, turning to Charles.

“Not a word,” said Charles, “and that's surprising. I thought for sure by now it would have gotten out there and produced some results.”

“I told you that before you brought him in. Melba said he was small potatoes,” said Samuel.

“And who's that?”

“Just a friend. But she knows everything that goes on in this city. I'd really like to catch whoever killed Rockwood. He was my friend.”

“Only that? Don't you want to get a promotion in the newspaper and become a reporter?” asked Charles.

“Some of that, too,” admitted Samuel, blushing.

“I've already told you it puts me in a bind if I give you confidential information. But you've helped me on other occasions, and I want to give you a leg up, so I have kind of a half-assed solution. I'll provide you information off the record. If anyone tries to get your source, you play dumb. In other words, you didn't get it from me. Can we agree on that?” proposed Charles.

“That's great. You'll tell me everything then, and I won't say a word.”

“No, not everything, but enough so you'll have the scoop on the whole story. That is, if we can ever figure out what it is.”

At that very moment, Samuel glanced up at the aquarium and saw the reflection of two Chinese standing at the entrance. There was something about their attitude and something shiny in one of their hands. His mind delayed the connection of what his eyes had seen for a fraction of a second. It was a Tommy gun, and it was pointed directly at him. He reacted by instinct; “Down!” he yelled and pushed Charles off the seat to the floor, falling on top of him, just as the bullets came flying, shattering the counter where they'd been sitting, as well as the aquarium and the cash register where Louie was standing. They ended up blocking the small passageway leading to the kitchen.

Louie didn't know what hit him. He took six slugs in the chest and head and was dead before he hit the floor behind the counter.

There was pandemonium in the small restaurant. The few patrons there ducked under the tables or remained paralyzed and screaming with fear. And the water from the aquarium, mixed with Louie's blood and tropical fish, spread all over the floor. The assailants backed up as they fired, then got lost in Chinatown. The shooting only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed like forever.