The Chinese Jars (18 page)

“We'll drink coffee in the living room,” she decided.

Xsing Ching was ready to have a nervous breakdown. She made a discreet signal to Mathew and he returned to the job at hand.

“What do your people say about my offer?”

“That it's not enough.”

“How much will they accept?” he asked coolly. He felt in charge again.

”They said $550,000. As I explained to you, we lost $50,000 on the blackmail, which could have been prevented if people hadn't talked so much about the deal. ”

“What are you insinuating? Is that an accusation?”

“Simply stating the facts, Mr. O'Hara. It doesn't help you either if this matter is talked about outside these walls. The final price is $550,000.”

“That's too much,” said Mathew.

“Mathew is willing to make the purchase, Xsing, but he has his limits,” interceded Virginia. “With what's happened, I mean with Rockwood, Matt will have expenses that he wouldn't have otherwise had. He'll have to quiet rumors and impede any potential investigation. Fortunately, in San Francisco it's always possible to arrange these things. You understand, don't you?”

“That's right,” added Mathew. “We'll have to cover this up and grease many palms, and that will cost us a lot.”

By the end of the evening, they agreed on a price, $500,000. Mathew calculated that his impatience and discomfort had cost him several thousand dollars, not to mention the money he'd had to pay the scarred thug. Fortunately, Virginia had played it like a true gambler. His partner was worth her weight in gold. He was satisfied. He already had buyers lined up for the merchandise at almost double what he would pay for it.

* * *

The meeting was set for the following Wednesday at nine p.m. at Pier 12 in the industrial district, south of Market. Xsing Ching agreed to have the merchandise there in crates, separated according to Mathew's specifications, making it easy to transship wherever and to whomever he wished. Xsing advised he could not be present because of other commitments, but he gave the account number of the Hong Kong bank where he wanted the money deposited via Western Union, once Mathew verified the authenticity of the pieces. After the transfer was made, the vases would belong to him, and he could make separate arrangements to pick them up.

Mathew was nervous all day. In the evening he went to Camelot for a couple of stiff drinks to calm his nerves before heading for Pier 12. Although unusual for him, he took a seat at the round table at the front of the bar and shortly Melba joined him. They sat there talking and watching the fog slowly invade the bay. Mathew guessed the temperature would drop, and he had on only a linen suit jacket. The fog was already blocking out the view of the bridge, and little by little the city lights were becoming blurred.

“This must be the only city in the world where one shivers from the cold all year,” said Mathew, as he cracked his knuckles.

“Don't you like the fog? It looks like cotton,” said Melba.

“I prefer the sun.”

“You should live in the Mission,” she said. “Why are you so nervous? I've been watching you the past several days and you've been acting weird.”

“A lot of stuff going on, Melba. It'll be over soon, and I'll take the family to Hawaii for a vacation.”

“I saw you talking to a tough-looking Chinese guy the other night. I hope he wasn't part of whatever you're up to.”

“No, quite the contrary. I was just buying information. I got what I wanted.”

“You had me worried. He wasn't your typical upstanding citizen. Did you see his face? Those looked like acid burns.”

“We can't always choose who we do business with, Melba.”

“Would you like another drink? It's on the house.”

Mathew hesitated, calculating how much another drink would affect his judgment. “What the hell, I've got time to kill,” he decided, relaxing back into the chair.

“You've made a real success out of this place, Melba. I should reduce my take,” he added.

“No need for that. It's a fair deal. I've enough to live on, and business's a hell of a lot better than it was in the Mission.”

She waved two fingers in the air. The bartender caught her drift and soon brought bourbon on the rocks and a beer to the table.

“Where's the Mexican guy who used to stock the bar? What's his name? I haven't seen him around lately,” said Mathew.

“You mean Rafael. Poor bastard, he's in San Quentin.”

“No kidding? What for?”

“It's a long story. Mostly because he wouldn't squeal on his buddies,” she explained.

“It's not for anything violent, is it?”

“Rafael? No way. He's the gentlest guy in the world.”

“When's he get out?” asked Mathew.

“Not for a while. He actually just went there.”

Mathew was not really paying attention anymore. He looked at his watch and realized it was eight thirty, time to go. He stood up, finished his drink in two gulps, and turned up the collar of his suit jacket, preparing to encounter the chilly evening.

“See ya tomorrow, Melba.”

“Okay, Mathew, drive carefully in the fog,” she said.

* * *

Pier 12 was on the San Francisco waterfront south of the Bay Bridge At the time it was a dilapidated warehouse quay, used for unloading and depositing several inbound ships' cargos. Although still used for storage, its days of hustle and bustle were gone. Most of the unloading had shifted to Oakland.

It was a dark night, and there was heavy fog and limited visibility. Mathew's Packard approached the entrance and the headlights illuminated a chain-link fence and gate with three padlocks on it. Through the links, Mathew could make out the outline of a building with a single light on the top of its north corner that shone down through the mist to the dock level below.

There was a guard shack a few feet from the gate on the driver's side. An Italian man, square like an armoire, with several days' stubble, came out of the door with a flashlight in his hand. He had on a wool cap that covered his ears and a pea coat. As he approached the car, Mathew's chauffer, who'd loyally served him for fifteen years, rolled down the window. “We're here to meet some people and take a look at some merchandise,” explained the driver.

“Yeah. Who sent you?” asked the guard.

The driver turned to Mathew, since he didn't have an answer.

“Xsing Ching,” barked Mathew impatiently from the back seat.

“Don't get mad at me, Mister. I'm jus' doin' ma job. You gots to watch it in this neighborhood.” He unlocked the three padlocks and swung the gate inward, hooking both sides so the car could pass. “Dey said dey'd meet you down by door number 3. Yous'll have to drive down dare a ways. Be careful. Dare ain't no lights out dare. Dat one up dare's da only one. Not many peoples come down dis way at night.”

“Okay, man. Thanks for your help,” said Mathew, reaching over the left shoulder of the driver and handing the guard a tip. “This is for your troubles.”

“T'anks, Mister. Every little bit helps. When yous wants to come out, drive up to the gate and honk. I gots to keep it locked. Boss's orders!”

Once the car was through the gates, the guard closed and locked them. The driver put on his brights but only caught the fog, so he lowered the beams and used the light on the corner of the building as his guide after he put on the windshield wipers.

The car crept along the pier. Mathew sat hunched forward on the back seat with his hands clenched on the seat in front of him. He squinted to see the outline of the warehouse doors as the car inched along. He could hear several foghorns moaning their litany from various parts of the bay.

“Nasty night to be down here,” he commented.

“Yes, sir,” replied the driver.

“Here it is. Stop.”

The driver stopped in front of door number 3, which was partly open. Mathew stepped carefully out of the car onto the uneven and worn wooden planks of the old dock. He peered inside the door and could see what looked like a flashlight moving around the other side of the warehouse some three hundred feet away. “Hello! Anybody home?” he yelled.

“Over here,” a voice responded, and the only light in the building shone in his direction.

“Is it safe to walk from here to there?” asked Mathew.

“Hold on, I'll come and get you,” the voice answered and began to get louder as it approached the place where Mathew was standing. He watched the flashlight reflecting off the cobwebs in the rafters as it bobbed up and down with the person's movement.

When the voice arrived, Mathew saw a man in a raincoat and hat that looked Chinese. All around him, it was completely dark. There was an eerie silence, except for the occasional foghorn sounding in the distance.

The man introduced himself in perfect English. “How do you do. I am Wing Su, Mr. Ching's representative. It's nice to finally meet you. All our conversations have been on the phone. Hard to see in here, so you'd better follow me. I have been removing some of the packing so you can examine the merchandise. You will be pleased.”

Mathew strained to get a look at the man's face but there just wasn't enough light.

With the man leading and holding the flashlight, they slowly walked through rows of cargo stacked randomly in the huge space, none more than three or four feet high. When they arrived at the other side, where Mathew had first seen the light, there were three workmen dressed in overalls, two with crowbars and another with a claw hammer, removing pieces of wood from the twenty or so crates spread over a thirty-square-foot area. The man in the raincoat was told to direct his flashlight at one of the partially open crates by one of the workmen. Under the light Mathew saw a delicately carved vase.

“It's more than a thousand years old,” said Wing Su. He picked it up and put it on top of a nearby crate while another man shined his light on it. Even in that poor light Mathew could appreciate its translucence and richness of color and it exquisite form. The figures depicted on its side almost jumped out at him as they performed the perfunctory chores of daily life in ancient China with such perfection that they seemed ready to move.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he asked Wing Su.

Wing Su then pulled out another vase, even older than the first, and had them shine a light on it. Mathew wasn't an expert or a collector, but the beauty of those objects produced such emotion in him that he could hardly talk.

“Mr. Ching wants you to get your money's worth. Here's a list of the inventory,” said Wing Su, handing him a folder. “He asks that you make sure all the pieces are here and in good shape. Of course, you understand that before they can be delivered, you will have to transfer the money.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Mathew, still fumbling for words.

“You will be depositing the $500,000 this week, will you not?” asked Wing Su.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss the details with you,” answered Mathew. “Let's just say I'll live up to my end of the bargain.”

“That's all we can ask for, Mr. O'Hara, and all we need to hear at this point. My next job is to inform you that you are under arrest for trafficking in illegal art from Communist China.”

“How's that? What the shit do you mean?” exclaimed Mathew.

“I repeat. You're under arrest. Put your hands behind your back. I have to handcuff you.”

“This is unheard of.”

“Do what you're told. We don't want to get rough with you.”

Mathew shook off the paralysis that had initially weakened his legs, turned quickly, and pushed the man in the raincoat, knocking him backwards onto one of the boxes. With four quick strides he was lost in the darkness. Three federal U.S. Customs agents came out of the shadows with flashlights and went after him. As they approached him, he started running. He reached the entry door and flew past the Packard, which only had its parking lights on, and started running down the vacant dock with the feds in hot pursuit. He was gaining strength that he didn't even know he had until they finally tackled him. It took all three to pin him up against the wall of the vacant warehouse, where he continued to struggle and scream obscenities at them.

“You fuckers don't know who you're messing with,” he yelled, as he continued to battle. “I want to talk to the mayor, right now. This is a violation of my constitutional rights...” Suddenly he seemed to calm down. He tried to explain that there must have been some mistake. He was an honorable man, well known in the city. He recited a list of important people—senators, bankers, the governor—all would vouch for him. This could all be fixed among friends; there was no need for the scandal. He had resources and could be generous.

“I have my rights,” he said. “I demand to talk to my lawyer!”

Then another figure came out of the shadows into the small circle of light created by the flashlights of the agents. It was Charles Perkins.

“Good evening, Mr. O'Hara. I'd like to introduce you to Agent Tong,” pointing to the man in the raincoat. “Good job, Mr. Tong. You were very convincing in your role as Mr. Wing Su. And what's more important is that you fixed it so that Mr. Ching never suspected that you infiltrated his organization.”

“Yes, but we didn't catch him. We should have had him here tonight, but he got away.”

“It doesn't matter. When he tries to do another deal in the U.S., and surely he will, we'll get him. But it'll take time because his organization is shattered, and it will cost him a lot to put it back on its feet. We have the works of art and Mr. O'Hara here. I'm sure that this will guarantee you a promotion, Agent Tong.”

“Thank you Mr. Perkins. Now it's your turn to prosecute Mr. O'Hara. He has a lot of influence and money. I hope he doesn't slip through your fingers.”

Mathew took advantage of the brief moment of distraction, broke free, and again started running blindly down the pier, now stumbling, now falling, now getting up, with three U.S. Customs agents in hot pursuit.