The Chinese Jars (24 page)

Maestro started murmuring words in an ancient dead language as he caressed the white ball with his long fingers.

“The spirits are being resistant today,” he said, after several attempts.

“What do you mean, resistant?”

“They won't give us much.”

“Do they ever give anything at all?” asked Samuel, angrily.

“Of course. Now they only give me the name of Mathew O'Hara.

“Mathew O'Hara?” repeated Samuel.

“Just the name, nothing more. Oh, they also say that your love life is improving,” said Maestro.

“Is that right? Or was it that you just saw me leave here with Blanche?”

Samuel fished through his baggy khaki's and handed Maestro two crumpled bills. The magician put one in his pocket and returned the other.

“I wasn't able to help you much,” he said, by way of explanation.

“You can answer this question for me without consulting your crystal ball because you spend a lot of time in this bar and you're pretty observant. Tell me how well O'Hara and Reginald knew each other.”

“Just acquaintances. Sometimes they would have a drink together, as Mathew did with most of the locals.”

“Do you think that Mathew could have ordered Rockwell's murder?”

“No,” said Maestro emphatically.

* * *

To kill time, Samuel started taking the bandages off his fingers little by little even though he was far from controlling his urge to bite his fingernails. He was waiting at the East Gate of San Quentin prison. It was a Sunday, and he was being processed so he could visit his friend Rafael Garcia. He was at the small building by the iron gate for almost an hour and a half, standing in line with the other people who were there to visit other prisoners. He showed his driver's license, filled out the two-sided form, was searched and finally sent on the walk to the red brick building some two hundred yards away, which was at least as old as the prison itself.

Once inside, he was relegated to a cubicle with a large pane of thick glass that separated the visitors from the inmates. It was so scratched that in some places one couldn't see through to the other side. He sat on a metal seat next to a telephone for talking to someone on the other side of the glass. The pungent smell of pine-scented disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air, creating an invisible fog that made Samuel slightly nauseated, a direct result of Song's treatment. When Rafael arrived, Samuel almost didn't recognize him. His dark hair was cut and he wore a mustache. He also remembered him as wiry. Now he had rippling muscles.

“Have you been lifting weights?” Samuel asked through the phone.

“Yeah, just something to pass the time. There's not much to do in here, so I try and keep busy.”

“We heard you had two jobs and never stop.”

“That's me,” said Rafael. “But remember I'm here twenty-four hours a day. No wife, no kids, just a bunch of punks to hang around with.”

“I brought you some Mexican pastries, and enchiladas,” said Samuel. “But they don't allow visitors to bring any of that stuff in, so I'll have a feast tonight. They did accept the romance novels that Melba sent you. The guard will give them to you later.”

Rafael turned as red as a cooked lobster.

“Don't worry,” said Samuel, “I took the covers off. No one will know.”

“Thank you for coming, Samuel.”

“Do you get visitors?”

“Yeah, Sofia and my mother come often.”

“Melba told me to tell you she really misses you and is waiting for you to come back. You have a job as soon as you get out,” said Samuel.

“Tell Melba I really appreciate the financial help she's giving my family and Sofia. They're all grateful for her weekly visits. Tell her I'm studying to be a nurse, so when I get out of here, I'll have a good job and I can pay her back.”

“I doubt if she expects that, Rafael,” Samuel responded.

“Well, that's the way I operate, Samuel.”

“How can you study in here?” asked Samuel.

“The doctor lets me sit in on all his consultations, and I do a lot of reading about how to recognize and treat this or that. You'd be surprised how much I've learned. But that's enough talk about me. What've you been up to, Samuel?”

“I've been trying to find out who killed Reginald Rockwood. You remember him?”

“You mean the guy who used to come into the bar dressed in a tuxedo? The one who got hit by the trolley bus?”

“That's the one. Some Chinese thugs pushed him, but we can't find them. Maestro Bob looked in his crystal ball the other day and told me to check out Mathew O'Hara.”

“A crystal ball?” laughed Rafael.

“Do you know O'Hara well?” asked Samuel, not wanting to get into Maestro Bob's methods.

“Not well. I only saw him at the bar, but he's coming here next week to spend part of the summer.”

“To San Quentin? How did you know that?”

“Here, you know everything that goes on.”

“Seriously? I knew he got six years, but I didn't think they'd send him to a state prison for a federal rap.”

“Oh, no, he ain't staying. The rumor is he'll be moving on to Arizona next month. Maestro might be right,” said Rafael.

“Right about what?”

“They knew each other, the guy in the tux and O'Hara.”

“Sure, Reginald hung out at the bar and O'Hara would come in there all the time,” said Samuel.

“No, I mean they were better friends than that, even. One time last year Melba had me deliver some cases of booze to O'Hara's penthouse on Grant Avenue for a fancy party he was throwing. I went there late, like the party had already started, and the guy in the tux was there, chumming it up with O'Hara and some really classy dame.”

“Really? That could be important. Do you remember the address?”

“838 Grant Avenue, fifth floor. I'm sure. I have a good memory for things like that.”

“How many times did you see him there?” he asked.

“Just that one time.

“Why did you think they were close friends?” Samuel wanted to know.

“They acted like they'd known each other for a long time, real comfortable together.”

“That number you mentioned sounds familiar to me,” said Samuel, trying to remember where he had seen or heard 838 before.

The whistle sounded, indicating the visit was over. Samuel said goodbye to Rafael, with the promise that he would return.

* * *

During the bus ride back to San Francisco, Samuel didn't stop thinking of the address on Grant Avenue that Rafael had given him. It triggered something in his memory, but he couldn't locate it. As soon as he got home, he started scouring his notes until he found it. O'Hara's address was the number on the scrap of paper that was wrapped around some of the money in Rockwood's jar at Mr. Song's. The next day he tried to reach Charles by telephone but had no luck, so he went to see him. He told the secretary that it was urgent, and she let him in. Charles had two bodyguards at the door, and it was obvious that he was still frightened. Samuel recounted the visit and what he'd learned from Rafael.

“Are you sure the numbers coincide?” asked Charles.

“I've checked my notes. Since Rafael said he saw Reginald at O'Hara's, maybe we should check Engel's invitations to see if anything shows up,” Samuel suggested.

“That's not a bad idea. The problem is, I'm in trial. I've been going for the last two weeks, and I don't have a minute to spare.” Charles held his brow with his middle finger and thumb and squeezed it in an attempt to stop the pounding of his headache.

“This is important, man. Did you know that O'Hara was headed to San Quentin?”

“He won't be there long.”

“If we get new information about their connection, we can question him before he leaves for another state. Once he goes into the federal system, as you know he won't be available without a big hassle,” said Samuel.

Charles took off his glasses, closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was very tired. “Here's the plan: you go down the hall and check the Engel's stuff to see if there's anything of interest that we missed. If you find a connection with O'Hara, we can go over and question him before he leaves.”

“When can I look at it?” asked Samuel.

“I'll arrange for it right now,” said Charles, picking up the phone.

Soon a marshal appeared at the door. The attorney ordered him to take Samuel to the evidence room, where he could look at some files without taking anything.

“Just make a note of what you find and report back to me,” he said to Samuel, dismissing him.

The marshal took Samuel to the caged evidence locker, a large room with metal shelves from floor to ceiling labeled with numbers and names in conspicuous places so files could be easily found. The marshal went to a card file and looked up Rockwood, then went to the corresponding shelf, took three boxes out, and placed them on the metal table in the middle of the room.

Samuel rummaged through the evidence in the folder marked Mr. Song's Many Chinese Herbs until he found the scrap of paper that had been wrapped around Reginald's money. There he saw the number 838. He compared it to the printing on the other invitations in the shoebox from Engel's. He verified what he'd anticipated; the number 838 was engraved in exactly the same size and style as the hundreds of invitations he had seen several months before.

He continued through the box methodically, but saw no invitation with Mathew O'Hara's name or address on it, and that puzzled him. He decided that the number 838 in the same style meant that one probably existed somewhere, but where?

There wasn't anything else to accomplish there. He thanked the marshal and made his way to Camelot.

* * *

The following day he was at Engel's before it opened and had to wait a quarter of an hour. The tidy Mr. Engel was the one who arrived to open the front door. Samuel approached him.

“Do you remember me, sir? I'm Samuel Hamilton.”

The man squinted into the sun and cupped his right hand over his eyes, trying to identify him. “Name doesn't come to mind. How can I help you?”

“I was here a few months ago investigating your employee, Reginald Rockwood. Can I ask you a few questions?”

They were now in the reception area.

“Have you gentlemen figured out what actually happened to that unfortunate young man?”

“We're in the process, sir,” said Samuel.

“I'm not sure I can be of any further help to you. The marshals took everything relating to Mr. Rockwood.

“I know that, but there's a piece of the puzzle missing, and that's why I'm here.”

“Well, make it snappy,” said Mr. Engel. “I've got a busy day ahead.”

“I'm looking for an invitation to a party at Mathew O'Hara's penthouse at 838 Grant Avenue. Can you look in your archives and see if there is one?”

“Ordinarily, I wouldn't give out that kind of information, but I know who you are and what you're trying to do, so come with me.”

They left the Piranesi's behind and went down a long hallway to a light oak door with an etched glass panel in the upper half. Engel opened it and allowed Samuel to enter first. One wall of the room was filled with wood filing cabinets the same color as the door. On the other side of the room, there was a table and three chairs.

Mr. Engel went to a filing cabinet and fingered through the documents. “Here it is.” He pulled one out that was encased in a plastic sleeve and put it on the table for Samuel to examine. It read:

838 Grant Avenue, 5
^th
Floor, San Francisco

Mathew O'Hara cordially invites
You and a guest to a private cocktail party,
honoring Xsing Ching, world-renowned
Oriental Art Expert, who is visiting
the United States on a lecture tour.

Thursday June 10, 1960, 6:00–9:00 p.m.

R.S.V.P. SU-4-1878

“I'll be dammed,” said Samuel. “So they knew each other even before this started.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Engel.

“Can I take this with me?” asked Samuel.

“I'm afraid not. That's the only record I have of the transaction,” said Mr. Engel firmly.

“Okay, but don't let anything happen to it,” said Samuel.

“Here in my establishment, nothing will happen to it.”

“I'd feel better if you took it out of the filing cabinet and locked it up,” said Samuel. “It may be important.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Engel. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked with an impatient but polite smile.

“No, you've given me more than I expected,” said Samuel.

M
ATHEW
O'H
ARA
was used to the luxuries of life, to being surrounded by a coterie of “yes” men and getting what he wanted—not exactly the amenities San Quentin offered. Now he was just prison blues and a number, in a cell by himself. It was on the same floor and cellblock as Rafael, but he was cut off from the others and semi-isolated. The guard on the catwalk above pressed the buzzer, and the one accompanying Mathew lifted the bar and opened the enclosure.

“You have a private room, like in a hotel,” the guard joked.

“Why?”

“'Cause you're important merchandise. If some of these guys found out who you were, we couldn't guarantee your safety. This here way we have some control over who can get to you,” said the muscular guard.

Mathew flinched. “Do you think there are people here who want to hurt me?”

“Wouldn't be surprised. Different world than the one you're used to.”

“But you don't know of any specific threat, do you?” Mathew insisted.

“Can't say I do.” He went through the do's and don'ts list, then slammed the cell door, clanged down the iron bar, and Mathew was left alone with his thoughts.