by S. J. Rozan
28 April 1938
Dearest Mama,
I write to tell you how proud you must be of Paul. Not that his jokes and fidgets have been abandoned for sober respectability. Staying in his chair for an hour at dinner is still more than he can manage. It’s as difficult as ever to convince him to read any book not a dry scientific text; fortunately he is able to practice his English on such wonders from the ship’s library as Capacitative Resistors: Design and Use. And sharing a stateroom is turning out to be a matter of calling him back time and again to fold his clothes or mop up the lavatory.
But those are small irritations, and I’m ashamed to think how they once exasperated me. Among our fellow refugees we hear such tragic tales! A girl my age, Ursula Krause, from Berlin, goes to her uncle in Shanghai alone. Her father and brother were taken by the Gestapo, and she’s heard nothing since—except a smuggled note from her brother begging her to leave while she could. Mama, my blood runs cold! I, the family skeptic, have found myself saying a prayer for Ursula.
Oh, Mama, I don’t mean to upset you. Seeing what I’ve written, I nearly tore this letter to shreds. Please believe me: We’re well, and being brave, and having adventures! But to tell you about those adventures only, to write about the sparkling waves and the salt breeze—those things are true, of course they are, but so is the terrible reason we’re on this ship to see them.
Mama, I’ve just roused myself; I’ve been sitting for some time, wondering again whether to ball up this letter and throw it in the sea. But no. We are fine, but the world is not. If I can’t sit beside you and talk about this, I must lighten my heart by sharing my thoughts over time and distance.
Let me go on, then; I started out to tell you that Paul has lately discovered new talents, and I know this will bring you a smile. He’s become a model of patience and leadership—among the small children! It’s as if the Pied Piper were aboard. Everywhere, he’s trailed by a string of babies. He invents games for them, doctors their cuts and bruises, tells them fantastic stories to make them gape and laugh. To see the children happy eases their parents’ minds; and so Paul, by carrying on in his silly way, renders a great service. This is a magical thing, and I hope, Mama, it makes you as proud as it does me.
I’ll close now, as I see Mr. Chen Kai-rong approaching; we are to have tea and begin my lessons. I feel myself smiling. He wouldn’t be wrong to think it’s for the pleasure of seeing him; but it’s also for the idea of your smile when you read about Paul; and practice for the smile I’ll be wearing when I greet you and Uncle Horst in Shanghai!
Take care, Mama.
Your Rosalie
“Lydia? Are you okay? Wake up.”
“What? Oh, Mary, I’m sorry!” I jumped from my stool and hugged my best and oldest friend.
“What are you reading?” Mary unslung her shoulder bag and pulled out a stool, her long braid swinging as she sat. When she was in uniform she’d complained about having to wear her hair stuffed under her cap. Since that was pretty much the only thing she didn’t like about being a cop, now that she’d made detective and was in plainclothes, life was good.
“It’s from my case. It’s kind of sad.” I gave her a brief rundown: Alice Fairchild, the Jewish refugees in Shanghai—which she’d never heard of either, just proving we went to school together—the excavation site, and the jewelry; and Rosalie Gilder, writing to her mother. “She was just a kid. Trying to be a grown-up and look out for her little brother, excited and scared and missing her mom. She keeps saying, ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’ But she never did.”
“God. That’s awful.”
“It was a long time ago. But it makes me feel like, how dare this Wong Pan guy steal her mother’s jewelry? Like he stole it from her.”
“What happened to her and her brother?”
“Alice Fairchild says it’s not clear. I guess a lot of people can’t be traced from after the war. But I’m starting to feel . . . protective. As though I knew her.”
A young Chinatown-cool waiter—blond-streaked hair, tight black pants—appeared. We ordered tea eggs, chicken skewers, and lemongrass soup.
“Enough of the sad past.” I folded Rosalie’s letter and stuffed it into my bag. “Tell me about your case.”
“Nothing much to tell. Guy was found shot in a hotel room. Wallet was gone. Registered as Wu Ming.”
“ ‘Anonymous’? Oh, great, a joker. Okay, show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
We traded pictures.
Our quarries looked alike, if by that you mean they were both middle-aged Chinese men. Hers was thinner and wore short hair; mine was pudgy and had short hair, too, but grayer.
“Yours is better-looking,” Mary said.
“Well, he’s alive.”
“I guess that’s an advantage in a man. Is he wanted for something? Here, I mean?”
“Not that I know of. In China, for running off with the cultural patrimony.”
“If he’s not wanted here, I can’t show his picture around for you, though. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not really looking for him anyway, just the jewelry.” Our soup arrived, and we put our work away. Mary gave me the past month in her life, filled me in on gossip my mother hadn’t gotten to, and asked about my family.
“My brothers are all thriving, in their own unique and bizarre ways,” I told her. “And I’ve been back less than twenty-four hours and my mother’s already driving me up the wall.”
Mary nodded her sympathy. “She told my mom yesterday that you’d taken a case with a guy who irritates you so you wouldn’t be thinking about Bill.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Why does she do that? You’d think she’d be happy.”
“She’s your mother. You’re not happy, she’s not happy, even if what makes you happy makes her unhappy. Why don’t you call him?”
“He doesn’t want me to.”
“So?”
“Listen, I’d love to sit and chat about my twisted professional and personal life, but I have jewelry to track down. And aren’t you on duty?”
“Oh, nice sidestep. Well, whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
We gathered up our things and went out to show Chinatown photographs of men we didn’t know.
The day got old and so did my search. Yang Nuan-yi, as it turned out, had learned her husband’s Shanghainese dialect, but the only person she’d spoken it to lately was her husband. Old Wong at Harmony Jewelers recalled having a long conversation with a Fujianese yesterday, and just this morning threw two wealthy punks with that terrible Macao accent out of the shop for making a pass at his daughter, but all his other recent customers were Cantonese, or lo faan with no Chinese at all. White-haired Mr. Chen at Bright Hopes had a sharper nose than mine, and rounder eyes of a lighter shade of brown; he might be Eurasian, I thought, or from the western provinces. But he’d had no Shanghainese-or Mandarin-speaking customers in weeks, and I was beginning to think my smart idea wasn’t so smart after all, when I slipped the jewelry photos out of the envelope to show him anyway.
His face paled. Staring at the photos, he felt behind him for his stool and sat heavily. “This is what he stole, that man?”
“Yes. Uncle, are you ill?”
“Where . . .” He trailed off. His assistant hurried over, but he waved her away. “I’m fine, Irene,” he said gruffly. “See to the customers.” The shop was empty, but she took the hint and went back to her post by the door.
I tapped Wong Pan’s picture. “You’ve seen this jewelry, this man?”
“No.” Mr. Chen mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I would like . . . May I borrow these photographs?”
“They’re copies, you can have them, but you need to tell me why. Has someone offered to sell you these pieces?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“I have to make sure. I might be wrong. You will hear from me.” He stood, collecting all but one photo from his counter. He handled them as delicately as if they we
re jewels themselves.
“Uncle, you really need to tell me what you know about this.”
But Mr. Chen was through speaking to me. He carried the photos into his office and shut the door. I was left alone with the assistant and, smiling up from the counter, the black-and-white face of Wong Pan.
4
There’s no such thing as a quiet corner in Chinatown, but I found a sheltered doorway and called Joel.
“Hey, Chinsky! Hope you’re having better luck than I am.”
“I’m not sure. But a strange thing happened.” I told Joel about Mr. Chen. “He knows something, obviously.”
“Excellent deduction, Watson.”
“Give me a break. Are you going to call Alice?”
He paused, and I wondered if he was chewing his lip. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because I don’t have anything to tell her, because you didn’t push him.”
“Push him? He’d have totally clammed up if I’d pushed him.”
“And if he’d clammed up, you’d have what less than you have now?”
“Nothing, but I might have less than I’m going to get when he calls.”
“Or you gave him a chance to think about it and he isn’t going to call and you’re going to get nothing. Which is what you have now.”
“Oh, Joel, come on! He’s an old Chinese man. There was no way—”
“And you’re a young Chinese woman and you were being polite. Dangerous in our business, Chinsky. Anyway, forget it. I’ll call the client, she’ll at least see we’re wearing out shoe leather.”
“I was—” Drop it, Lydia, I ordered myself. While you’re at it, stop reminding yourself that Bill would never have suggested you’d mishandled an interview with an old Chinese man. I gritted my teeth and asked, “Okay, so how did you do?”
“Zippo. Blank stares on Forty-seventh Street. Hey, good name for a science fiction movie. So, what else you been up to?”
Joel’s tone was conciliatory. Well, good. “I’ve read a couple more of Rosalie Gilder’s letters. From the Jewish Museum Web site.”
“You have? Why?”
“I’m not sure. I wanted to get to know her better, I guess.”
“Ah, Chinsky. You never change. Okay, talk to you later.”
After we hung up, I squinted down Canal. Just because Mr. Chen had nearly fallen over in a faint when he saw the photos, and just because I was irritated with Joel, didn’t mean other jewelers might not have seen these pieces. I’d need to keep going, but that would have to be tomorrow. All along Canal, Closed signs were going up in store windows.
Hungry, thirsty, and tired, I headed to Pho Viet Huang for a bowl of noodle soup. I was annoyed at Joel for getting on my case, annoyed at my mother for being right about me getting annoyed at Joel, and annoyed at myself for having the sneaking suspicion Joel might be right, too. Joel Pilarsky and my mother—now there was an unholy alliance.
The soup was full of mint, bean sprouts, and beef, and after it I felt much better. I went to the park, sat on a bench, and spent twenty-five minutes on a conference call with my brothers. Ted’s and Elliot’s wives, Ling-an and Li-jane, were in on the call; Andrew’s boyfriend, Tony, stayed out of it; and Tim’s girlfriend, Rita, was too new to get mired in Chin family business. The subject was my mother, her stay in Flushing, and how we could leverage the experience into an argument for a permanent move. The conclusion we came to, as usual when the five of us discussed anything, was none at all.
“She was adjusting, she just needs time,” was Ted’s mild assessment.
“She seemed fine,” came from Elliot, who’s an emergency room doctor and tends to see all emotional states less dramatic than hysteria as the same.
“She liked the garden,” said Andrew, who’d made the long trip to Flushing a couple of times during my mother’s month there.
“She hated the whole thing,” retorted Tim, who hadn’t gone but is the one my mother calls to complain about the rest of us.
“Lyd?” Andrew said. “How did she seem when you got home?”
“Like the only way to get her to move to Flushing would be to stuff her in a box and load her on a van. Look, guys, it’s good to have Ted’s apartment there, but I think it’ll be a while until we can talk her into it.”
“That okay with you?” That was also Andrew. Tim wouldn’t think to ask, and the others are afraid to, in case someday I might say, No, I’ve had it with this.
“Right now she seems intent on proving what an uninterested, privacy-cherishing housemate she is,” I said. “I can deal, for the time being.”
So we decided to do, say, and plan nothing. A classic Chin family outcome.
To stay on Sensei Chung’s good side, I went down to the dojo. When I got home, my mother was watching the news on Cantonese cable. She looked up. “Have you eaten?”
“I had some soup. Is that shrimp I see?”
“To cook with spring onion.” She added, “It was cheap.”
Uh-huh. I knew what shrimp, one of my favorite foods, was selling for. “I’ll chop the onion,” I offered. It no doubt took iron self-control, but she didn’t stop me.
Dinner conversation was mostly about my brothers, my niece and nephews, and, in expanding rings, various cousins whose exploits, troubles, or luck required discussion. After the dishes, jet lag suddenly clobbered me. I took an herb-laden bath. When I came out, barely able to keep my eyes open, I found my mother absorbed in a Hong Kong soap opera, one she’s been following since I was in first grade. It’s set in an apartment complex on Kowloon, and the cast must have changed ten times since it began. I kissed her; she kissed me back but kept an eye on a red door closing to ominous music.
5
In the morning I found my mother sewing on a blouse she was making for Ling-an.
“How did you sleep?” she asked as I put water on.
“Strange dreams. I think it’s the jet lag. What’s going on in Cloud Lake Mansion?”
“On television?” She seemed dumbfounded by the question.
“Is that girl marrying the rich guy her father wants her to? And what about that soldier, did he come back?”
“I didn’t know you followed that show.”
“Ma, it moves so slowly I only need to walk by once a month when you’re watching to catch up. Did the politician’s wife have the baby yet?”
She blinked. “No, but she’s in the hospital, she’s having problems. And that pretty girl is a fool. She’ll marry that old man to make her father happy, instead of waiting for her soldier.”
“She probably will, but I’m surprised you don’t approve. Isn’t she being properly filial, doing that?”
“Of course. But if her father were a proper father he would care more about her happiness than making a good business alliance.”
“I guess he would. Do you want tea?”
“Yes,” my mother said, and added, “Thank you, Ling Wan-ju.”
* * *
I hit Canal Street, heading for Bright Hopes to see if Mr. Chen was ready to talk to me, but before I got close, my cell phone rang. When I answered, that bellowing tenor blasted my ear:
“ ‘Pretty lady with the flower,
Won’t you give a lonely sailor
’Alf an hour?’
“Sondheim, Pacific Overtures. Chinsky! Come up here right away.”
“Now? But I was—”
“Whatever you’re doing, drop it. Something’s fishy, and I want to talk about it.”
“What is?”
“Come up here.”
“Just tell me—”
“Chinsky! Now!”
Then a click. I stood for a moment, fuming. Who the hell was Joel Pilarsky to give me an order and then hang up? I almost called him back just to say that. Yes, well, chill, Lydia. Just go up there.
We certainly did have to talk.
I got in gear and trotted to the N train, reaching the platform in time to see red taillights. Served me right
for arguing with myself. Well, so Joel would have to wait. Served him right for pushing me around. When the train finally came, the ride was shorter than the wait had been.
Joel’s office was in midtown, in a 1930s building with complicated corridors and cranky steel windows. Its elevators grumbled and its terrazzo floors sagged. Joel claimed he didn’t move because the place was such a dump the landlord paid the tenants, but I knew the truth. From the day we met, I’d seen Joel’s impatient know-it-allness for what it was: a smoke screen for his secret identity as a hopeless romantic. Like most romantics, he was disappointed in little and big ways dozens of times a day, and like most, he kept trying. These rabbit-warren hallways, these glass-paneled doors with names in gold, creaking onto small rooms with vast Manhattan views—what could be a more romantic place for a private eye? Joel Pilarsky, I thought, you don’t fool me.
I got a nod from the lobby guard. My last case with Joel—the runaway wife and the noodle king—had been only a year ago, so maybe he recognized me. More likely he just hoped he did so he wouldn’t have to tear himself from the Enquirer’s coverage of a spaceship landing in Pittsburgh.
The elevator muttered all the way up as though I’d interrupted its lunch break. On Joel’s floor I walked the maze, left-right-right-left. I knocked and pushed his door open. There was an outer office, as though Joel had a secretary, but he didn’t, just a part-time bookkeeper to send out the bills. I walked through to the inner office, saying, “Pilarsky, this place is a mess. If you’re going to make me drop everything and run over here, the least you could do—”
I stopped. Joel was sitting in his office chair, but though his eyes were open he wasn’t looking at me.
Or at anything, anymore.
I tried. I ignored the oceans of blood soaking his shirt and felt his neck for a pulse, though I knew he wouldn’t have one. But it was the by-the-book thing, and Joel would have been disappointed in me if I hadn’t done it. I looked around, taking in the open drawers and file cabinets, but I didn’t touch anything. I used my cell phone to call the police and then I waited in the corridor, so no one else would make the mistake I had, of touching the doorknob, maybe screwing up the killer’s prints. And I left Joel’s eyes open, and his yarmulke on the floor where it had fallen, though I wasn’t sure that was okay, at all.