The Chinese Jars (27 page)

Fu Fung Fat left the shop, crossed the street with a bulging package that he could barely carry and, to Samuel's surprise, came back into the Won Ton Café. But instead of sitting at a table, he went behind the blue oilcloth curtain in the back. Samuel assumed he had gone to the restroom, but when the man hadn't returned after a half an hour, he realized the man wasn't coming back. He called the owner.

“Want to pay?” the owner asked.

“Yes, but I need to use your bathroom first,” said Samuel, getting up with exaggerated clumsiness.

“Back there,” but he immediately remembered that his guest was almost blind so he took him by the arm and led him through the oilcloth curtain. Excalibur had learned to walk in front of the supposed blind man.

They found themselves in a long, poorly lit hallway with several closed doors, all painted a sickening parrot-green color. There was an accumulation of dirt around the knobs. The smell of grease and untidy restrooms was nauseating. Samuel swore that a couple of cockroaches ran in front of him but he couldn't be sure. The man stopped in front of a door with a decal of a Chinese warrior on it. On the door next to it was one of a damsel from the imperial court, which was really out of place in that disgusting passageway.

“This is it,” he said, as he nudged Samuel toward the door.

Samuel pulled Excalibur into the small room and had to hold his nose because the smell almost knocked him over. Fortunately, he was alone. Excalibur showed no signs of being uncomfortable because of the stench. On the contrary, he sniffed in the corners with pleasure. After a short while, Samuel decided not to waste any more time. He walked out of the bathroom, pulling Excalibur by the leash, walked down the dark hallway, opened the oilcloth curtain, and summoned the owner with his dark glasses in hand.

The owner looked at him with more anger than surprise because he'd never totally believed the story of his being blind.

“You see?” he spit out.

“Yes, I can see,” said Samuel, “and I have a problem. A man with one arm went through that curtain and has disappeared. I need to know where he went.”

“I see no one,” said the owner.

“This is very important. If you won't show me where he went, I'll have to bring the police here. Do you understand?”

“Police no bother me. They my friend.”

Samuel's face turned red with anger, “I don't mean the local police. I mean the federal police. Get it?”

The owner's casual sneer changed immediately into a worried expression.

“I know very well that you pay protection money to Maurice Sandovich, but he won't be able to help you if I call the federal cops,” threatened Samuel.

The owner squinted and wiped his palms on his white apron. “What you want?'

“I want to know where the man went,” said Samuel. “I promise you, if you cooperate you won't have problems with the authorities.”

“How I know you keep you word?”

“You just have to trust me. You don't have a choice. If the federal police come, you're through. We can fix this between the two of us without any problems. So what's it going to be?” He put his hands on his hips and started tapping his foot, as he looked the owner in the eyes.

“Okay,” said the owner, frightened.

“It's a deal,” replied Samuel.

The owner guided him down the hallway to the last door and knocked several times. The door opened a crack and when someone saw it was the owner of the Won Ton Café, the door opened. They entered a room whose size couldn't be determined because there was so much cigarette smoke. Coughing, Samuel saw, through watery eyes and the smoky atmosphere, several round tables with felt covers, each with a single shaded light above. There wasn't an empty seat around any of them. Chinese men were playing wagering games.

At one table there were five men playing poker. At another they were throwing craps and had placed an artificial backstop at one end of the table for the dice to bounce off. The noise was tremendous. As the money and chips flew, the voices and yells increased. They bet on card games, dice, and mahjong, and other games with chips and little sticks that Samuel couldn't identify. Judging from the excitement of the clients, he figured large sums of money must be changing hands in that clandestine casino. Excalibur began pulling on the lease, desperate to escape the smoke.

“Where is he?” asked Samuel.

The owner summoned with his index finger, indicating that Samuel should follow him to the back of the room to yet another door. He unlocked and opened it, revealing a flight of stairs going down to some sort of a dark basement. Halfway down, he turned on the light—a single bare bulb. Samuel couldn't see what was at the bottom, and he faced the owner with a questioning look.

“Way out,” said the man. “Clients gamble. When have to leave, go through door, down stairs.”

“Where does it lead?” asked Samuel.

“Chinatown.”

“Did you build this?”

The man shook his head. “No, no. Many Chinese. More than hundred years old. You go down, look for man. Remember, no tell police,” he said, as he muscled Samuel back to the landing at the top of the stairs. Excalibur, anxious to get away from the smoke, pulled on the leash, and both went down the stairs. The owner shut and locked the door behind them.

At the bottom they found themselves in a basement only dimly lit from the bulb in the stairwell. The floor was of stamped dirt and the walls were also made of uneven earth shored up by beams and bars like a mine tunnel. It smelled of humidity and excrement. Samuel trembled. What if the one-armed man hadn't left, and the owner had just locked them in this hole? No one would hear his cries; they were in the bowels of Chinatown. He imagined people and traffic above him.

He remembered that he'd read in a novel that Chinatown was built in the eighteen hundreds at the time of the gold rush and that all the illegal activities, from prostitution to gambling and murders, all took place underground. Just as the owner of the Won Ton Café said, these passageways were at least a hundred years old, and they continued to serve the same purposes.

He quickly adjusted to the dim lighting and saw a metal switch on a post in the tunnel. He supposed it was a switch. He pulled it and immediately some lights went on, all very dim, but they allowed him to figure out where he was. He couldn't believe his eyes. There were passageways leading in all directions. It was a real labyrinth. There were pieces of cardboard tacked on the walls, probably giving directions, but all the lettering was in Chinese. He couldn't decide which way to go, although it wouldn't have made any difference, because he didn't have a clue where the one-armed man had gone.

But Excalibur didn't have a language or a directional problem. He started pulling on the leash and ran in circles with his nose to the ground until he finally decided on one of the passages. He seemed to know whom they were following. Samuel followed him almost by feel in the semidarkness, careful not to fall into a hole or hit one of the pipes that crossed overhead.

Air seemed to be in short supply in that rancid atmosphere, and Samuel figured that the ventilation system, if that's what it was, was pretty primitive.

There were doors, some metal and some wood, marked in Chinese or with numbers that were barely distinguishable. He was sorry he didn't have matches or a lighter, which he always used to carry when he smoked. He saw a piece of cardboard with an arrow and supposed it was an exit, but Excalibur just kept following his nose, and Samuel thought it best to trust the dog's instinct.

They finally came to a bend in the passageway, and the animal stopped in front of an iron ladder about six feet high, at the top of which was a door, also made of metal. He started sniffing frantically, whining and scratching the ground. Samuel tried to read what was written with splashes of white paint.

“I'll be dammed!” he exclaimed. The number was 838.

He lifted the dog in one arm and scurried up the ladder with one hand. He tried the door and was relieved that it was open. He let Excalibur into the cement basement of a building. He saw the pipes in the ceiling and could hear the sound of machines, possibly boilers. There were rows of doors with numbers on them, locked with padlocks. They looked like storage rooms for the inhabitants. He didn't have to search for an exit because the dog dragged him to some stairs. They climbed them and found themselves on a landing. He opened the only door and entered the lobby of 838 Grant Avenue.

The floor was black marble streaked with white, highly polished and reflecting the antique armoire that was up against one wall. A large mirror with a bamboo frame hung above it. There were expensive Chinese screens in two different locations, a sumptuous white sofa, and various plants to complete the decor. Next to an elevator was a glass case that held a list of tenants spelled out in brass letters. Samuel sighed, relieved there was no one at the guard desk, but he knew he didn't have much time because in a building like that, someone was usually guarding the entrance.

He examined the directory and saw that Mathew O'Hara was still listed as occupying the fifth floor. He had no doubt that's where Fu Fung Fat had ended up. Melba would be very proud when he told her of Excalibur's prowess. He headed for the exit, pulling the dog, who skated across the black marble.

* * *

On his way back to Camelot, he went over what he'd learned and tried to figure out what to do next.

When he arrived, he handed Melba the leash and said, “I'll tell you what's going on in a minute. Right now I've got to make a phone call,” and rushed toward the booth at the back of the bar.

He closed the door and the smell of rancid tobacco caught his nose. This time he didn't feel revulsion. As a matter of fact, he was dying for a cigarette. He dialed Charles's office and got him on the line.

“I've just followed Virginia's servant all the way from Mr. Song's to 838 Grant Avenue. That's O'Hara's penthouse.”

“So what?” said Charles. “That's where the little shit lives.”

“He got something at Mr. Song's, and he took it back there by way of a secret passage,” said Samuel.

“A secret passage? What kind of secret passage?”

“One that goes under the streets of Chinatown,” said Samuel.

“You're crazy,” said Charles.

“No man, I swear.”

“How did you discover it?” asked Charles, incredulous.

“I'll tell you later. Do you think you can get another search warrant? Maybe we can find some important evidence if we get to the apartment quickly. So far, no one knows that I've made the discovery.”

“We searched every inch of that apartment already,” said Charles. “I assure you there's nothing there that interests us.”

You're a conceited asshole. I serve it up to you on a plate, and you don't even pay attention, thought Samuel. “Look, if the guy took something from a jar, a big package, it could be part of O'Hara's half million. It couldn't be all of it; there must be another jar with the rest. For that there has to be a key or a claim check. You never looked for those when you searched the apartment, did you?”

“Well, not exactly. We didn't know what we were looking for.”

“Don't you think it's worth a try?”

“I'll get another warrant,” Charles decided.

* * *

The team of U.S. marshals and Customs agents was back at the Grant Avenue apartment with Charles at seven thirty the next morning. Samuel agreed to wait at a café down the street, though he was dying of curiosity.

The feds brought an interpreter with them because they wanted to get answers from Fu Fung Fat. They questioned him for three hours, but they got absolutely no new information.

They also confronted Virginia Dimitri in a separate room. She was still in bed when they got there. They gave her time to get dressed, and she took almost an hour. She finally appeared, recently bathed and very stylishly dressed: a loop skirt, red blouse, sandals, and her hair in a bun. She announced that she needed a cup of coffee to start the morning, wasting another twenty minutes.

“We know you've a claim check from Mr. Song's, and this subpoena allows us to confiscate it. So hand it over.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about. I have no connection with this person you call Mr. Song,” she answered.

“How have you been supporting yourself since Mr. O'Hara was arrested?” asked Charles.

“I don't think my finances are any of your business.”

Charles realized he wasn't going to intimidate that woman, and he'd lost enough time, so he gave the order to search the place from top to bottom and to destroy it if necessary in order to find what they were looking for: money, and probably a claim check and a key.

Virginia sat in the kitchen painting her fingernails and drinking coffee, perfectly calm, while the men went through her apartment like a hurricane, emptying drawers, turning the furniture upside down, and emptying every container in the kitchen. The only thing they didn't do was take a look behind the ceiling panels.

The Customs agent who was interrogating Fu Fung Fat was pulling his hair out with frustration by the end.

“We're going to have to arrest this guy and threaten to deport him and his whole family back to Communist China, if he, in fact, has a family here. I've had a lot of them in my time, but he's the toughest nut I've ever interrogated,” the agent told Charles.

Fu Fung Fat asked courteously if he could continue with his chores while they were destroying the apartment. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the garbage bag under the sink. It had already been examined, but one of the officer's, thinking that the servant was trying to whisk something out of the apartment, dumped its contents on the floor and went through it again, piece by piece, while the one-armed man smiled slyly. They found nothing. Four hours later they gave up.