The Chinese Jars (19 page)

“Don't shoot him,” yelled Charles Perkins in an authoritarian voice from the shadows.

There were flashlights bobbing up and down and the sound of feet pounding on the timbers as they chased Mathew down the dark planks. Suddenly there was a splash and everyone knew that he had jumped or fallen into the water.

Charles yelled, “Get the fire department down here with blankets. And one of you agents jump in after him. He won't last long in that cold water. We have to pull him out.”

Mathew was, in fact, struggling. It was freezing cold. He started to swim under the pilings, but his clothes became saturated with water, and his legs felt like lead pillars. He started to go under and he thought it was all over, so he yelled, “Over here! I give up! I'm drowning!”

As soon as they knew where he was, one of the agents jumped in. When he reached Mathew's side, he said, “Stop fighting or we'll both go under.” The two other agents shone their flashlights on the two men in the water, and Charles Perkins, with his authoritarian voice, came out onto the pier with his flashlight and caught them in its light. “Bring him to shore.”

“I can't do it by myself, Chief,” said the Customs agent in the water.

Before Charles could take the initative to send another man into the water, the chauffer from the Packard went running past the others and jumped into the bay to rescue his boss. By then Mathew had lost all his strength. Between his loyal chauffer and the Customs agent, they were able to get him to a place where he could be pulled ashore. Soon after that they heard the sirens from the fire department near the entrance gate. Together they dragged him to shore and began slapping him on the back just as a fire engine showed up at the gate.

Charles yelled at the gatekeeper, “Open the goddamned gate. This is police business.”

He complied, and a minute later the fire truck shed plenty of light on the scene. Three firemen jumped down with blankets. One immediately started to revive Mathew, who'd sucked in a lot of water, and the others made sure the two wet rescuers were made warm so they wouldn't suffer from hypothermia. The ambulance took about fifteen minutes to arrive and by then Mathew had made a pretty good recovery. He was handcuffed, wrapped in blankets, and still shivering.

* * *

While Mathew O'Hara spent that first night handcuffed in the jail section of the hospital, Xsing Ching was flying toward the Far East on a Pan Am Boeing 707, sitting in the first-class section of the new jet plane with his wife and children. He thought he had just completed the most lucrative deal of his life and the money would be waiting for him when he arrived in Hong Kong. Perhaps the only thing that was lacking to make him completely happy was Virginia Dimitri, but he knew he couldn't have everything.

He rang the call button. “Will you please bring a bottle of your best champagne? We want to celebrate something very special,” he said to the stewardess.

S
AMUEL
L
EARNED
of Mathew O'Hara's arrest in the newspaper and saw that Charles Perkins was involved. He called him from the phone booth at the rear of Camelot.

“Hello, Charles, this is Samuel.”

“I know that. Don't you think they tell me who's calling?” he answered haughtily.

“That was quite a coup!”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. It took some time, but it wasn't until the last minute that I got the tip that broke the case.”

“What kind of a tip?” asked Samuel, fumbling for his package of cigarettes.

“I can't discuss details of an ongoing case with you, Samuel, sorry.”

“Just a second,” said Samuel, coughing while he lit a cigarette. “Do you think O'Hara had anything to do with Reginald's death?”

“Why do you think that?”

“They knew each other. Reginald came to O'Hara's bar almost every night. I saw them talking on more than one occasion,” explained Samuel, blowing the smoke out of the open folding door.

“That's interesting,” said Charles, “but I don't see any connection yet. We searched all of O'Hara's apartments and found nothing that would even point in that direction.”

“Oh, really? Which apartments?”

“One on Grant, and the other south of Market, one of those lofts in the old industrial part of town. Why did he have so many apartments? That's the question.”

“So, no connection with Rockwood?”

“Not so far, but keep snooping. You never know where the trail will lead,” replied Charles, and he hung up.

Samuel stayed in the booth mulling over what they'd talked about and decided it didn't amount to much. He supposed that Charles would be obsessed with getting a conviction against O'Hara. It was a juicy scandal and would be a big advancement to his career if he got one. He also knew that Charles would keep most of the leads to himself. If anything, it would have to be him providing the insights to Charles.

He went back to the round table through the empty bar, ordered a cup of coffee, and picked up a discarded newspaper on one of the empty tables. He sat down and started a crossword puzzle he found on the back page. Halfway through the puzzle, Melba arrived. She was perky, alert, and dressed in an awful blue nylon pantsuit whose only virtue was that it matched the color of her eyes. Excalibur followed her closely.

“Have a cup of coffee with me, Melba.”

She went behind the bar, opened a beer, and went back to sit next to him.

“Blanche didn't come today?' he asked, trying to be casual.

“She had to go and pick up an order of liquor that wasn't delivered. Have you made any progress with her?”

“I don't know if you can call it progress, Melba, but at least she agreed to go out with me tomorrow,” he answered, blushing, in spite of himself.

“Good luck. You're going to need it, sweetie.”

“This thing with O'Hara hit me like a rock, Melba,” said Samuel, in order to change the subject. “I suppose that creates problems for you. Isn't he your partner in the bar?”

“It doesn't affect me. Everything is the same.”

“Why would a guy with that much money get involved in something like that?”

“Sometimes people get too big for their britches.”

“Was he involved in shady deals before?”

“Well, that's evident. I suspected something. A couple of weeks ago, he met here with a Chinese thug. When I saw him, I knew he was trouble,” said Melba.

“Why?”

“I have an eye for that kind of person. He looked like he killed people for a living. His face was severely marked. Like from a case of smallpox, or a burn, but a real bad case, for sure.”

“Really?” asked Samuel, thinking of the description of one of the men that pushed Reginald. “When was that?”

“A couple of weeks ago. When he came in here, Excalibur almost ate him. It surprised me because he's never attacked anyone here at Camelot.”

“Except me,” Samuel reminded her.

“Don't be silly. He only growled at you, he never tried to bite.”

Samuel stood straight up. If Melba said anything else, he didn't hear it. He rushed back to the phone booth and got through to Charles. “I think I have a lead on the guy who pushed Reginald into the path of the trolley bus,” and he proceeded to explain what he had just learned.

“That's good information. But it won't do much good to ask O'Hara about it right now. He has that smart-ass attorney, Hiram Goldberg, and so far he's taking the Fifth on everything,” Charles replied.

“Isn't there anything we can do?”

“I have an idea,” added Charles. “I'm going to talk to Homicide. Remember our old friend Sandovich? They can pull him in for questioning and people from my office will be there, too. I have to hand it to you, Samuel. You're a persistent son of a bitch.”

“I think you're wasting your time. Melba told me he's a small fry; he doesn't swim with the big fish,” answered Samuel.

“That may be, but we've got to start somewhere. You know the old saying: if you don't shake the tree, you have to wait for the fruit to fall. Let's shake that fucker.”

“Okay with me,” said Samuel. “Keep me informed,” and he hung up.

* * *

After being very persistent with his entreaties, Samuel was able to observe the interrogation of Sandovich through a two-way mirror. The room where it took place was small and without ventilation. There were several people present: a detective from Homicide, Charles Perkins, a U.S. Customs agent representing the federal government, and Sandovich. On the table was a tape recorder and several ashtrays with smoldering cigarette butts in them, which made the air sticky, and almost brown. The space behind the mirror where Samuel was observing was even smaller and more stifling. It had two old chairs, a side table, an ashtray, and a pitcher of water with a dirty glass. The walls were covered with soundproofing so noise couldn't get out; and thanks to a speaker above the opaque mirror, a person sitting in the room could not only observe the goings-on but could hear them as well. Samuel struggled against the urge to smoke, because in that enclosure he wouldn't be able to control his cough, which in the last few weeks had gone from bad to worse.

“Maurice, my name is Charles Perkins, from the U.S. attorney's office. We've met before.”

Sandovich nodded. He was dressed in his blue uniform with his prominent sergeant stripes displayed on both sleeves. He put his military-style hat on the table. Samuel noted that there were beads of perspiration on his brow.

“This gentleman on my right is from U.S. Customs. We have some questions to ask you.”

Sandovich looked around suspiciously, especially at the mirror, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“It has to do with the death of Reginald Rockwood. You remember our last visit, don't you?”

“Yes, sir. I don't know how much help I can be, other than what I already told you,” he said in a defiant tone. He lit a cigarette and smoothed his butch haircut with his sweaty left hand.

“We have new information, Maurice, and we want to go over it with you,” said Charles.

“Yeah, sure. I got nothing better to do,” said Sandovich, with a dry laugh.

Samuel noticed the friendly tone Charles was using, and he chuckled to himself. He knew the old trick. If you can't frighten 'em, seduce 'em.

“You see this, Maurice?” showing him a mug shot of a Chinese man with a severely pox-marked face. “Mr. Butler, the Muni driver, thinks he looks like the man who pushed Mr. Rockwood in front of the trolley bus. I grant you, he's not a hundred percent sure.”

“You're asking the wrong guy, Counselor. I wasn't there. My job was to approve the report and pass it on, and I did that,” he said. But he started to relax, as he saw that Charles's suspicions weren't directed at him.

“You know who this guy is, don't you, Maurice?”

“Never seen him before in my life,” said Sandovich, “Can you get me a cup of coffee? It looks like we're going to be here a while.”

Charles ignored the request and sat down on the edge of the table next to Sandovich. One of his legs dangled over the other; his pant leg bunched up, exposing one of his socks with no elastic on top. “Let me tell you something about him,” Charles began. “He's a notorious gunman for hire. He does all kinds of dirty work for the criminal elements in Chinatown. His name is Dong Wong. Have you ever heard that name before?”

“Not in public. Most people in Chinatown would never give the name of a person who did 'em harm. They'd be too afraid of reprisals. I've heard rumors that he was involved in this or that strong-arm kind of stuff, but never officially through the Vice Squad where I work. I understand other departments have been trying to get him for a few things, but they've never been able to pin anything on him.”

“Do you know Mathew O'Hara?” asked Charles.

“Only from what I read in the newspaper. I don't deal with many white guys on my beat.”

“So, Maurice, you've never met the gentleman? Is that correct?”

“That's correct, Counselor. I wouldn't know 'im from the next rich guy if I was sitting next to 'im on a cable car if I hadn't seen his picture in the paper,” he said. A thin smile appeared on his blotchy face.

“How about Xsing Ching?” asked Charles, showing him another photograph.

Sandovich looked casually at the photograph. “Likewise, never laid eyes on him. I only know what I read in the paper.”

“Ever hear his name mentioned around your beat?”

“Look, guys like O'Hara and Xsing Ching are out of the league of the ordinary stuff that goes on down there. If they were dealing, it was never in person and certainly neither of their names ever came up through any of my contacts,” said Sandovich.

“Let's talk about your contacts. Will you let us interview them?” asked Charles.

Sandovich laughed. “You're kidding, aren't you? That'd be like giving 'em a death sentence. They'd be finished; they'd have to leave the country. I'm afraid not, Counselor.”

“Okay, I have one more person I'd like to ask you about, Maurice.” He pulled out another photograph, this one of a woman. “Do you recognize her?”

Sandovich looked at the photo for a minute or so. “Good looking broad. Who's she?”

“Virginia Dimitri,” answered Charles.

“Never seen her or even heard her name. What you got on her?” he inquired.

“Nothing, frankly,” said Charles. “But she's a girlfriend of O'Hara's, so we thought we'd ask.”

“Is that all the questions you got? I've a busy afternoon,” said Sandovich. He got up from his chair and put on his police hat.

“Yeah, that's all for now, Maurice. But you'll keep your eyes and ears open for us, won't you?” said Charles.

“Sure thing, Counselor.” He shook hands with the Customs agent and Charles and left the room.