The Chinese Jars (4 page)

At the bar, Maestro savored his drink until he realized that he couldn't mooch another free one there. So he moved to the round table near the entrance, ready to keep company with Samuel Hamilton, the sloppy ad salesman from the morning paper, who was also a regular.

“Still grieving over Reginald?” Maestro inquired, eyeing the rumpled pack of Philip Morris Samuel had on the table.

“Yeah, it's taking me some time to get over it. Did you see that coming, Maestro?”

“I only saw the darkness; I couldn't see the end. But I suppose with all those negative forces at work, he was predestined to die in a bad way. Are you taking care of yourself, young man?” he asked.

“That's not my style,” answered Samuel.

“Cheer up. I'll see you tomorrow, when I hope you'll be feeling better.” Maestro was through for the night. Samuel offered him a cigarette; Maestro took three, then left.

* * *

Melba Sundling, the official owner of Camelot, was a piece of work. Mathew had chosen her carefully because she had experience, good references, and he'd been told she could keep her mouth shut. She came from a tough Irish neighborhood in the Mission and grew up in a poor immigrant family with bad luck. They were hard-working, hard-drinking, blue-collar people. She now lived on upper Castro Street, where the gay population would thrive in the coming years.

She was married briefly to a journeyman marine engineer, who died of alcoholism within three years, but not before giving her a daughter whom they named Blanche. She remembered him with gratitude because he left her with her child, whom she adored. She'd held every kind of job imaginable in her youth, from factory worker to waitress, and she'd even had a short stint as a prostitute. No job was unbearable if it helped her support her daughter. Eventually, she left that profession because she decided she wanted to choose the people she slept with. She didn't want to charge for something she would give away under the right circumstances. Then she opened a bar in the Mission.

Mathew got her name from one of his attorneys. At their first meeting he was blunt, thereby establishing the tone of their future relationship. He invited her to his luxurious office in downtown San Francisco. Melba, who was getting on in years, was still an attractive woman, but it was obvious that her dress was secondhand and too small for her. She made an effort to put on an ugly hat and matching gloves, but her shoes didn't fit right and she had runs in her stockings. Her first physical impression wasn't good, but O'Hara knew immediately he was with a person of great character.

“I'm looking for someone to be a partner in a bar on Nob Hill. I just received as payment for a debt. I took the place because I realized I'd never get my money back if I didn't. But I don't know anything about the bar business. It's also not a good idea for people to know that I own such a place. So I prefer that someone else manage it. This someone else has to be a person in whom I have absolute confidence.

“What's in it for me?” asked Melba.

“I'll make you a fifty percent partner.”

“Fifty percent? That's unheard of. There's something fishy here, buster. You gotta be hiding something illegal. I ain't no saint, but up 'til now I ain't had no problems with the cops,” she said, as her face reddened and she got up to leave.

“Hold it! I'm serious. There's nothing illegal, but there is one condition,” he said.

“Yeah, nothing's cheap or free,” she chuckled, sitting down.

“Here's what I propose. I want the bar to be in your name only, and the same for the liquor license. Our arrangement is on a handshake. My lawyer says I can count on you that way.”

“What do I have to do for this little gift?”

“I want $500 a month from you, in cash. That's all.”

“That's it? That's not such a little bit considering the bar business is tough. How do you know I know how to run a bar?”

“You've done all right with your place in the Mission, haven't you?”

She laughed. “It's a hell of a lot different running a dive for a bunch of neighborhood drunks in the Mission, and running a joint on Nob Hill for the rich.”

“Don't worry. I'll give you access to a bookkeeper and whatever legal and management expertise you need.”

“I have my own bookkeeper,” said Melba, “and I trust her. She's my daughter.”

“Fine with me. How the bar is run is of no interest to me. The only thing that concerns me is that I get the $500.”

So the deal was made on a handshake. She closed her place in the Mission and moved uptown.

Melba was a natural. Once she was installed as the proprietor of Camelot, which had been as somber as a funeral parlor, it didn't take long before the place was doing well. She had a warm and engaging personality, in spite of her rough exterior and gravelly voice. Her cordiality allowed people to forget her defects, which were many.

She came with her pathetic dog, an Airedale mutt with a missing ear and tail. For reasons unknown, most of the patrons adopted him as a mascot and some of them even ventured in just to say hello or give the scrawny animal a bone. Once inside, they would, of course, buy a drink. In keeping with her new venture at Camelot, she renamed him Excalibur—his original name was Alfred—and threw a party for his baptism on a Friday night. Drinks were on the house for fifteen minutes, but the crowd stayed for hours and the cash registers filled to overflowing. One of the reasons was that Melba showed Excalibur off. It seems that he had a super snout. Melba would make a patron hide a dollar somewhere in the bar, then let the dog smell the person's hand. She would release the dog, and he would pick up the scent and find the money, without fail.

Besides her daughter as her bookkeeper, she brought Rafael Garcia with her as her janitor and sometimes bouncer. Her biggest fear was that her bartenders would steal money and liquor. Rafael, whom she totally trusted, would help her prevent that by counting the take and the bottles at the end of the night and comparing one with the other. He was Mexican with Indian features, almost six feet tall, well-built, just muscles and sinew, without an ounce of fat on his wiry frame. He inspired fear in others, but at his core he was very sentimental. He had a private vice: he loved romance novels. They were sent to him from Mexico and he read them in secret. Melba loved him like a son and scolded him like one, too.

* * *

“Why would Reginald commit suicide? It wasn't like him,” Samuel asked Melba.

“Maybe it wasn't suicide.” She was scratching the dog where he lacked an ear. “Why do you always growl at Samuel?”

“Are you sure you have a good hold of that dog, Melba? If that fucking lame pooch of yours bites me, I'll sue you.”

“Just ignore him. He'll get used to you and you'll like him. You notice he also growls at Mathew O'Hara. You should be grateful I have such a good watchdog.”

Samuel shook his head. “Why do you think that Reginald didn't commit suicide?”

“I didn't say that. I said maybe it wasn't suicide. I think Reginald was in over his head, playing out of his league, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't have the slightest idea what you‘re talking about,” said Samuel.

“You lack imagination. You're stuck in the ad department of that rag you work for, but I know that you want to be a reporter. Why on earth, I don‘t know. But here's your chance. Just start digging, and you may be surprised by what you find.”

Samuel's adrenaline started pumping. What if he could prove that Reginald had, in fact, met with foul play? That would be a scoop. Nothing better than solving a crime to get into what he considered big-time reporting.

“Are you holding back something from me, Melba?”

“Whatever gave you that idea, buster?”

“Out of the blue, you just drop this on me.”

“These last few days I've seen you moping around as if your head was in the clouds. You told me that the guy lived in a broom closet but he sponged off the rich in their homes. He had expensive tastes; he didn't act like a bum. He got money from somewhere other than just his work as a janitor.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Samuel.

“Because it showed. That's why I loaned him money, because I thought he could pay me back. Besides, you told me yourself that he had four tuxedos in the closet where he lived, plus the one he was wearing when he died. Do you know what they cost? A tuxedo isn't cheap. Doesn't that make you suspicious?”

“I hadn't thought about it.”

“Did you search for his bank accounts? I bet you he had a lot of money hidden away. Of course, if you find it, you'll have to figure out where he got it,” said Melba.

Samuel walked to the door with his head spinning and the dog growling at his heels. He tried to kick at him, but the dog easily got out of the way.

G
RANT
A
VENUE
was the main thoroughfare for Chinatown's tourist business. It was crammed with shops and restaurants. Large brightly colored signs in Chinese script announced Asian delights. They fascinated tourists and warned the locals prices were elevated. All sorts of lit lanterns were draped from one side of the street to the other. It was totally different than Stockton Street one block above it to the west, where the Chinese did their own serious shopping in no-frills storefronts piled high with merchandise or meats, fish or produce, including the famous roasted Peking ducks hanging in the windows of local restaurants.

When Mathew O'Hara left the bar, he didn't go home to his residence in Pacific Heights. Instead, he went to one of his many apartments spread all around San Francisco. This one was in Chinatown on the fifth floor of a very ordinary-looking building on Grant Avenue. From the outside one could be fooled, but once inside it was clear that it was one of the best buildings in Chinatown. O'Hara owned the penthouse, tastefully decorated with priceless antiques from ancient China, including a couple of porcelain vases from the Ming Dynasty the size of an adult, and a collection of jade carvings from the fifteenth century. From the apartment windows there was a panoramic view of the bay, the Bay Bridge, and Treasure Island.

Once he was inside, a sultry voice greeted him.

“Hello, Matt. I wasn't expecting you this evening,” it said.

Virginia Dimitri stood five feet ten inches in her stylish high heels. She was expensively dressed in the style of Jacqueline Kennedy. This evening she had on a black silk dress from San Francisco's most sought-after fashion designer. Around her neck hung two strands of perfectly formed Japanese pearls. Her black hair fell to her shoulders. She had modest but well-formed breasts, and long memorable legs that she knew how to display.

They had known each other since college. She had come to Berkeley from the East Coast to get away from her abusive father. She and Matt had been lovers in their university days, off and on since then, and had stayed in touch. Now, she worked for him on important projects in which her beauty and cunning could be put to use. He liked the way she feigned vulnerability, which fooled others, but not him, because he knew her well and was sure she was made of steel. She was always in charge.

“I forgot to give you some details about tonight,” said Mathew. “So I'm glad I caught you before your appointment, Virginia.”

“I'm all ears. I already have a pretty good idea of what you want from Mr. Ching. It's not going to be easy to get, because he's no dummy.”

“You look elegant this evening. I've every confidence in your powers of persuasion, but you should change a small detail of your attire. Remember, this guy isn't very tall. Take off your high heels so there's not so much of a difference in height. That way he'll be more comfortable.”

“Okay, but I don't think that just putting on flats is going to solve the problem.”

“It may take some time, but you'll get what we want from Mr. Ching. Just make sure he likes what you have to offer. One never knows with these rich Chinese men,” said Mathew.

“He's just as aware as you are that it's illegal to bring art objects from Communist China into the U. S. He won't take more risks than are absolutely necessary.”

“Yeah, but he also knows we can both make a fortune off the items, if they are handled properly. As it stands right now, he has the shipment divided into five parts, and I'm scheduled to get only one part of it. I want the whole thing! That's where you come into the game.”

“I understand. Ching isn't the kind of man who loses his head over a woman. He certainly didn't let down his guard that night at the cocktail party you threw for him in June,” she said.

“Find his weak point,” said Mathew.

“That goes without saying,” said Virginia.

Then Mathew delved into the details of the dinner that would be served, and went into the kitchen to talk to the cook.

“Hello, how are tricks?” Mathew asked.

“Vely fine, Misser O'Hara, vely fine,” the cook responded in his Cantonese accent, not interrupting the chopping of vegetables.

“Did you get me the shark fin soup, as I asked?”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir. This will make you guest vely happy and full of power,” he laughed.

“I hope so. I'm counting on you to give this guy lots of power so he thinks he's a lion,” said Mathew, also laughing.

He wandered into the dining room and made sure the silverware was positioned exactly where he wanted it and that the ivory chopsticks were placed in front of the exquisite porcelain place settings on top of the embroidered tablecloth. He then turned the overhead light off and lit several candles, placing them in different parts of the room. He called Virginia over and sat her down where he wanted her, then continued to position the candles until he had just the right light to soften her features.

“The light should be suggestive. Ching is a very refined man, and he'll appreciate the details. Good luck,” he said, as he kissed her on the cheek before leaving.