The Chinese Jars

by William Gordon

  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.

  Samuel, feeling cheated, watched the small group of men on the other side of the mirror.

  “We didn’t get shit from that lying asshole,” said the Customs agent.

  “You’re wrong. I wasn’t looking for answers,” said Charles, “If my instincts are correct, he’ll spread the word about what he heard today. We’ll have to wait and see how long it takes for it to filter into the neighborhood, and who responds.”

  Samuel let out a laugh. He’d underestimated Charles.

  * * *

  When Mathew didn’t return to the apartment the night he was arrested, Virginia didn’t waste any time. She went to the bedroom, climbed a stepladder, removed a panel from the ceiling and took out two boxes of money that Mathew had left her. Then she replaced the panel. It was impossible to see where the crack was in the ceiling because it blended in with the wallpaper. She counted the stacks of hundred-dollar bills to assure herself there was half a million dollars. She never imagined she’d have to handle that much money. It was a cash transaction and her partner had to trust that she would make the deposit when it was time. She took a roll of butcher paper and twine from the utility closet and began to put the money in packages, wrapping each with the resilient string and tying it with a perfect square knot so it wouldn’t come unraveled. When she finished, she put the packages into two canvas bags and tied the tops with quarter-inch rope and another knot.

  Early the next morning, she sent Fu Fung Fat to Mr. Song’s with instructions to deposit in her receptacle the packages she had prepared as soon as he opened. She told him to contract for an additional jar in her name, since it wouldn’t all fit in the one she had.

  The one-armed man had to make two trips. He loaded the first sack on his back, gained his balance, and staggered to his destination; he then came back for the other. After he finished, he gave Virginia the two claim checks and two keys. She hid them behind the same panel in the ceiling, sticking them to the beam with adhesive tape. She then calmly waited for events to unfold as she anticipated they would.

  It didn’t take long for the authorities to show up at the Grant Avenue apartment. She received the agents without fuss when she was taken into custody and acted like the ride in the police car was a social event. She underwent hours of interrogation by Charles Perkins and the U.S. Customs agents. They already knew Xsing Ching had spent time with her, including how many times and on what dates, but she could tell they didn’t know much else, and certainly nothing of her involvement. She easily deducted that they’d had him under surveillance. She admitted that she had been Mathew O’Hara’s lover, but for some time now she only worked for him. Her interrogators thought she had all the attributes to please such a rich and refined man as O’Hara, and they felt a certain sense of envy. She wore a green silk blouse with the top button undone, and Charles and the Customs agent were having trouble concentrating on the questions.

  “What discussions did you have with Mr. Xsing in connection with the delivery of the merchandise?” asked Charles.

  She straightened up slightly and smiled seductively, looking Charles straight in the eye. Her nipples pressed up against the silk. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I wasn’t aware of the delivery of any merchandise, or whatever you want to call it. I only had dinner with Mr. Xsing and Mr. O’Hara. It was a social thing. It was my job to wine and dine the people from Hong Kong or anybody else who had business with Mr. O’Hara. It was public relations, nothing else. He was always there, and I never talked business with any of them. In fact, I had no idea what they were discussing. Mr. O’Hara never confided any of that to me.”

  “Were there others, besides Xsing Ching, at these meeting?” asked Charles.

  “No, just him.”

  “What about the times when Mr. Ching came to your apartment when Mr. O’Hara wasn’t there.”

  “He had a sick child and I was trying to get him medical help here in San Francisco. Check with Dr. Rolland from the University Medical Center if you don’t believe me.”

  They had absolutely no luck in interrogating Fu Fung Fat or the cook. They both claimed they spoke very little English. Both denied knowing anything other than that Mathew came to visit Virginia, and they only admitted that because it was common knowledge he owned the apartment. They both remembered that Xsing Ching had been there to dinner but couldn’t remember any of the details. Their mistress and Mr. O’Hara received many guests, they added.

  When the authorities searched the apartment, they looked in all the usual places: under the beds, in the back of the closets, behind the headboards. They rolled up the Persian carpets to see if there were any hidden trap doors, and removed all the pictures from the walls looking for secret vaults. They even tipped over the ancient Chinese vases, but they found nothing.

  * * *

  “Would you like to go to a movie at the Larkin theatre tonight? I saw in the paper they were showing Rififi, a French movie,” said Samuel to Blanche.

  He had on his going-out suit, the most decent one he owned, and had just gotten a haircut. They agreed to meet at Camelot. Blanche also made an effort. Instead of pants and the usual tennis shoes, she had on a spring dress and a white blouse. To Samuel she looked more attractive than ever, although this new, more feminine and flirtatious Blanche intimidated him.

  “I like the sound of it, but we’re not going to understand a word,” she said.

  “It has subtitles, for sure. Afterwards, we can drop by the Blackhawk. Dave Brubeck’s in town.”

  “How did you know I’m a big fan of his?” asked Blanche, surprised. “I have all his records.”

  During the movie, things didn’t go quite as Samuel expected. After half an hour, he figured that he could put his arm on the back of her seat, and ten minutes later he let it fall casually to her shoulders. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t move. It would have been better if he could have held her hand but she was busy munching on popcorn like it was a lifesaver. There weren’t many options left to Samuel, and he bravely tried to snuggle head-to-head with her. Blanche, sitting stiffly in her seat, didn’t make things easy. Samuel stretched his neck as far as he could, but she was taller than he was, and he couldn’t reach her unless he raised himself in the seat. He couldn’t hold that position for too long, so he delicately pushed her head toward him, but with such bad luck that his glasses got caught in her hair. He tried to pull away, but Blanche couldn’t stop laughing, and her volume kept rising as he struggled to free his glasses while he cursed in panic. People started to complain, and soon a voice told them to shut up. In the process, she started laughing louder and he got more confused. At that very moment the sound in the movie stopped. Two, three, five minutes, and nothing but silence with more shushes for Blanche to shut up. With a sigh of relief Samuel recouped his glasses and soon Blanche calmed down. Ten minutes passed and the movie was not only silent but was getting darker.

  “Yo
u’d better talk to the management, there’s something wrong with the sound,” Blanche suggested.

  Samuel left his seat and was gone for a couple of moments, and came back to tell her that Rififi had twenty minutes of silence.

  “Oh, I suppose it’s a French thing. Be patient,” she said, trying not to make noise with her popcorn bag because the audience seemed absorbed.

  By the time the movie was over, Samuel was worried, first that he hadn’t understood it, then that Blanche hadn’t liked it, and finally that he’d made a total fool of himself. He walked out behind her, dragging his feet.

  “Would you still like to go to the Blackhawk?” he asked, apprehensively.

  “Yes, of course,” said Blanche. But her tone was less enthusiastic than before.

  They walked the block and a half to the Blackhawk. He paid the cover charge, and they sat down at a table toward the rear of the nightclub. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks, and Blanche ordered a glass of orange juice.

  As they listened to Dave Brubeck playing the piano and his musical companions backing him up, Samuel observed her out of the corner of his eye, happy that they didn’t have to talk because he couldn’t think of anything to say. He motioned for the cocktail waitress. “I’ll have another Scotch on the rocks,” he said, nervously. He swallowed the drink in two gulps. In a little while, he ordered another.

  “Don’t’ you think you’ve had enough,” Blanche noted.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he slurred. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He hailed a cab right outside the club, and asked the cabbie to take them to her home in the Upper Castro. During the ride, she was stone-faced and silent, hugging the door as far away from him as possible.

  “Are you going to say anything, Blanche?”

  “What do you want me to say? You’ve had too much to drink. Frankly, I’m disappointed, because until we got to the club, I was having a wonderful time.”