The Chinese Jars (12 page)

“I don't think it has anything to do with love.”

“What then?”

“Gratitude.”

“Gratitude for what?”

“I found a specialist for his son who's suffering from leukemia. They're doing tests on all the family to see who's a compatible donor for a bone marrow transplant.”

“What do you know about that? How did you get him a doctor?” asked Mathew.

“Let's just say I have an old friend. It was just a matter of giving him a call to remind him of moments we shared in the past.”

“Was he your lover? Did you blackmail him?”

“It's none of your business. I've given you what you needed. How I did it is my business.”

Mathew shrugged his shoulders. Virginia's methods were irrelevant to him as long as she got results, and that's what he paid her for. But he was curious and a little jealous. Virginia was attractive to him because she was a mystery. They had ceased to be lovers a long time ago and, since they were working together on many business deals, it was better not to mix in love or sex. Nevertheless, Virginia saw the slight bulge in her partner's tan gabardine slacks, and she smiled to herself, sure she still had power over this man. Sooner or later she would have the need to use it.

“Have you had any news from Xsing Ching?” asked Mathew.

“Yes. He called this morning to thank me for getting him help so fast. The doctor was encouraging and felt the boy would survive the crisis. He told me as soon as his son was better he would come and see me so we could celebrate.”

“Good. We'll close the deal for the complete shipment and you charge your commission. Congratulations, you've shined as usual,” said Mathew. He got up from the sofa, leaned over and kissed Virginia on the cheek, then began to walk toward the door. Fu Fung Fat accompanied him. Mathew had the impression that the strange servant always treated him with disdain, but he had nothing to complain about because he did his job and Virginia trusted him completely.

* * *

After Mathew left, Virginia went quickly to her bedroom, opened her clothes closet, dug deeply into the rear and brought out a box with two black bands around it. She opened a jewelry box in the first drawer of her dresser and pulled out a claim check with the number 120 on it and a padlock key. She then called Fu Fung Fat to her bedroom. “You know what to do,” she ordered.

Fu Fung Fat, nodded and put the key and the claim check in his jacket pocket and put the box in a travel bag that he slung on over his shoulder, then he headed for the back stairs. He reached the narrow streets of Chinatown.

The tingle of the bell announced him. Mr. Song's assistant greeted him as if he were an old friend and called for his master. Fu Fung Fat showed him the claim check. Mr. Song found the relevant key on his huge key ring and instructed his assistant to access jar number 120. The man climbed the ladder, unlocked the outer band, and brought the jar down, then carried it to a small curtained area behind the blue beaded curtain. Fu Fung Fat went in, unlocked the jar, and opened the box he'd brought from the apartment. He stuffed its cash contents into the jar, closed and locked the band, and announced that he was finished. He picked up the empty box and took back the claim check from Mr. Song. He watched as Mr. Song's assistant climbed the ladder and locked the jar in place; he then put the key and claim check in his pocket, put the empty box in his travel bag, paid his respects, and walked out the noisy door.

O
N A
S
UNDAY
afternoon in early January 1961, Samuel sat at the round table at Camelot talking with Melba. Excalibur, under the table, had not only stopped growling at him but now followed him around. Currently, he was gnawing on one of his shoelaces. Samuel pulled it away.

“I can't believe this fucking dog. First he wants to attack me, and now he wants to slobber all over me. Can't you keep him under control?”

“I assume that you didn't come here to discuss my dog's etiquette,” said Melba.

There was an accordion file on the table next to Samuel. Its contents spilled out onto the oak tabletop, covering the stains of the liquor spills that had been absorbed over the decades.

Samuel had a one-page police report in his hand. “You see, Melba, this is perplexing.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“I mean, it doesn't end, it just stops, almost like it was cut off.”

“Maybe it was. Maybe someone deep-sixed the rest of it,” she said.

“They couldn't do that. It's an official document.”

Melba smirked. “You're a cherry, Samuel. There's all sorts of shit that goes on in this town. It just depends on what kind of influence people have. It's always been that way.”

“You know as well as I do that Rockwood didn't have that kind of influence. I've shown you that he lived in a closet, for chrissake,” said Samuel, as he finished pulling his shoestring out of Excalibur's reach. He took a cocktail napkin from the table and wiped the slobber off the slimy lace, then tied his shoe.

“I'm not talking about Rockwood. He's dead! Besides, he wouldn't be the one trying to cover it up, would he? It'd be the person who did him in. I bet if you do a bit more snooping, you'll find out there's more to this,” she suggested.

“Listen to this description of the accident,” said Samuel.

“What accident?” asked Melba.

“You remember, he was killed by a trolley bus. It hit him in the street out by General Hospital.”

“I remember that. Go ahead, read it to me.” She put her cigarette in the ashtray, which had several butts already in it, and blew the last puff of smoke out her nose. She then took a sip of beer from her glass.

“'The victim and two others appeared directly in front of me. It was dark, and they came out of nowhere. I applied my brakes but couldn't stop. I hit the victim. The other two got out of the way.' That's it,” said Samuel.

“Who said that?” asked Melba.

“It must have been the bus driver, but it's not signed by anyone.”

“Is his name on the report?” asked Melba.

“Yeah, it's right here at the top,” said Samuel.

“Well, genius, take the report to him and go over it.”

“I'd already thought of that, but I like to talk things over with you first, is all,” said Samuel. He started stuffing the pile of papers back into the accordion folder and, in turn, put it into his bulging briefcase. He said his goodbyes to Melba and a few of the patrons while looking in vain toward the back of the bar, hoping to catch a glimpse of Blanche, whom he hadn't seen around there for several days. To him it seemed like decades.

He hopped on a cable car and rode it down to Market, set his watch by the clock in the Ferry Building, and jumped on a number 5 McAllister trolley bus, rode it past city hall and the plaza in front of it with its grove of bare trees, all the way up to the imposing Saint Ignatius Church on top of the hill. From there he walked down by the University of San Francisco Law School to Grove Street, where he found the address he was looking for on the south side of the street. It was a typical duplex of flats with bay windows on both the lower and upper floors. He rang the doorbell several times until an attractive Negro woman in her mid-thirties answered the door of the upper flat. She was holding a baby in her arms.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am,” said Samuel. “I'm looking for Mr. Butler. Is he home?”

“Who are you?”

“Samuel Hamilton from the local newspaper.”

She turned and yelled up the stairs, “Jim, there's a man down here lookin' to talk to you.”

“Who wanna talk to me?” came a voice from deep inside the flat.

“A man from the newspaper,” she said, and the baby started crying from all the commotion.

“What he want?” asked the voice, loudly.

“You gotta come deal with this, Jim. The baby's crying. Hurry up!” and she went back upstairs, leaving Samuel at the door.

“All right, all right.” A huge Negro man, wearing a red Pendleton shirt and suspenders holding up his loose denim trousers, appeared at the top of the stairs. “What you want?' he said loudly from his perch, as he looked suspiciously down at Samuel framed in the doorway with his wrinkled khaki sports coat and his battered bulging brown briefcase.

“I'd like to talk with you about the statement you gave the police concerning an accident near General Hospital,” said Samuel.

“You represent the guy who got killed?” asked Jim Butler, gruffly, “'Cause ifin you do, you gotta talk to the Muni Railway investigator or the city attorney. I ain't 'posed to talk to no one 'bout that accident without their okay.”

“No, no, I don't represent anyone. I was just looking at the police report and wanted to show it to you,” said Samuel, hoping he wouldn't have to go through all the red tape that seemed to be developing.

“How I know you ain't from some attorney's office whose trying to trick me into saying the wrong thing?” Jim bellowed from above.

“Here, I'll give you my card. Can I come up just for a minute?” Samuel asked.

Jim Butler studied him for a long minute and decided Samuel didn't look dangerous enough to bullshit anyone out of anything. “You stay there. I'm coming down,” and he started heavily down the stairs, his 250 pounds vibrating on each step. When he reached the bottom, his six-foot-four frame towered over Samuel. He took the page and looked at it carefully. “That me on the top. I guess that's how you found me.”

“That's right,” said Samuel. “But this statement's kinda short and I was hoping there was more.”

“You right about that,” said Jim Butler. “What's your name?”

“Samuel Hamilton.”

“Well, Samuel, this is only half a what I had to say. Don't need no Muni guy to tell me not to say that. There's a page missing!”

“Do you have it?” asked Samuel, surprised.

“Nope, but I kin tell you what it says,” announced Jim Butler. “There was three guys comin' 'cross the street. Jumped right out a front of me. I barely had time to brake. Only hit the white guy, the one in the tuxedo. The other two were Chinese. They wouldn't let go of him, but they got out of the way just in time. It looked ta me like they held the guy in the tux right until the last second.”

“Do you think they were trying to hold him there?”

“That I don't know. They also could a pushed him. I didn't see that part. That's what I told the cop.”

“Did you tell this to anyone else?” asked Samuel, thinking of the finger marks on Rockwood's arms he'd seen at the morgue.

“Sure did. I ain't done nothing else but talk about this. Ya kin imagine the fright it gave me. I recorded a statement for the Muni investigator that night. They typed it up and I signed it the next day,” said Jim Butler.

“So there's a written declaration as well as a police report.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the cop named at the bottom of the report the one that took your initial statement?” asked Samuel, showing him the one-page document again.

Jim Butler looked at the document closely. Samuel noted that he didn't use glasses and assumed he had good eyesight. “Yeah, sir, Brian Foley, badge number 2038, that's him.”

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Butler. I'll be in touch,” said Samuel.

“No, no. If you want more, you can get me through the Muni,” said Jim Butler.

* * *

Samuel was quiet on the ride back downtown, wondering if he should contact Charles Perkins or go directly to Officer Foley and find out what he knew about the missing page. Instead, he went to Chop Suey Louie's for dinner. Louie greeted him at the door with his usual smile, while Louie's mother stared at him with disgust.

“Hi Samuel, we have a great special tonight, Chinese fried rice with shrimp. Go and say hello to Goldie, she been asking for you. She wants to know why you don't pay attention to her, like before.”

“That fish doesn't bring me good luck.”

“In love or in work?”

“In either. Blanche doesn't even know I exist, and I haven't sold an ad in days. At his rate you'll have to vouch for me so I don't die of hunger. Plus, I've been working hard on an investigation, and I don't have much to show for it. The case is more complicated than an old hag's hair bun. No offense to your mother,” he said, nodding toward the seat where the old woman sat watching him.

“If you want Goldie to bring you good luck, you have to spoil her a little, Samuel. I went to the pet shop and bought this food for her. Climb up on the step ladder next to the aquarium and give her some; not much mind you.”

“Like this?” asked Samuel, pouring some of the food into his hand

“Less. Do you want Miss Goldie to get fat?”

“How do you know it's a she?”

“By the affectionate way she looks at you,” and he started to laugh.

Samuel climbed up on the stepladder and put a pinch of food in the tank. “Okay, Goldie, make a little effort to change things. I'm fed up with this streak of bad luck, it's lasted too long.”

* * *

The next morning, realizing he'd been neglecting his job, he went to the newspaper office. He put his briefcase on the chair and rifled through his latest messages and requests. He hadn't made a sale for a week. He was worried that at any minute his boss would call to fire him, but he had the crazy hope that when that moment came he'd be able to announce that he'd solved a big criminal case. His boss would then promote him to reporter, he would dedicate himself to the police beat, and nothing would escape his bloodhound instincts. He would become a celebrity. Even Blanche would come to him on her knees begging for his love. He slapped himself on the forehead and tried to concentrate on his work, but he was obsessed with the death of Reginald Rockwood III.