14
Mathew Tries to Deal
HIRAM GOLDBERG was his usual upbeat self as he flapped his Day-Timer against the pant leg of his double-breasted pinstripe charcoal brown suit. The smell of his sticky after-shaving lotion followed him around. The guard at the reception desk of the San Francisco County Jail, a beefy Irishman with his sergeant stripes tacked onto both sleeves of his faded blue uniform, smiled at his impatience.
“Here to see Mr. O’Hara again, Counselor? There must be things in the works,” he said, showing the substantial gap between his two front teeth.
“Just another dreary day,” replied Hiram, handing him a carton of Lucky Strikes. “Is my client well taken care of?”
“Of course, Counselor. Not just well taken care of, but well-protected by the band of brothers.”
“It is true, you Irish stick together,” said Hiram.
“It’s more than that, Counselor. When one of us makes it big, like Mr. O’Hara, our pride gets involved, and we want him to come out okay,” explained the man, made more loquacious by the cigarettes.
“Where am I on the visitor’s list?”
“You’re number three. There’re only two attorney rooms. My guess is it’ll be a half hour. If you have other things to do, I’ll save a slot for ya.”
“Thanks. I do have to check in down at Department 16. I’ll be right back.”
The guard stood up. His shirt barely contained his girth. He had the look of a bear but the hand he gave Hiram was limp.
“See ya later,” said Hiram with a firm shake.
An hour later, Hiram was seated across a small table from Mathew O’Hara. The door had a small window, which allowed a sliver of sunlight from the hallway into the room. There were only two folding chairs and a table the same color as the gray concrete walls.
Mathew was grim-faced and had bags under his hazel eyes. His brown hair was still closely cropped, and he was clean-shaven. The drabness of his jailhouse garb did not diminish the authority that he always projected.
“Not getting enough sleep?” asked Hiram
“Who can sleep in this fuckin’ place!” replied Mathew. “Besides, my wife says she’s going to divorce me. That’s all I need right now.”
“You’ve got the best divorce lawyers in the city. That should make you feel better.”
“Yeah,” sneered Mathew. “I hired the five best, so she couldn’t get her hands on any of them. You know about conflict of interest, don’t you? But, so what? That doesn’t help me out of this mess. Anyway, you’re not here to talk to me about that crap. Why am I in this shit hole? Isn’t this a federal rap?
“The feds have a deal with San Francisco. The locals warehouse their prisoners for the short haul while their cases are pending.”
“When do I leave here?” asked Mathew.
“When we make a deal or you beat the rap,” said Hiram. Mathew laughed cynically. “That’s bullshit. You know as well as I do, I can’t beat this rap. They have me nailed to the wall. What’s the best I can expect?” he asked.
“Probably six years plus a $40,000 fine and five years probation. That is if you cop a plea and give them something they can use.”
“I am not sure I have anything they can use,” said Mathew. “They already know about Xsing Ching. That’s how they got me. I can confirm that’s who I did business with.”
“They want something more. For instance, some information about who in Chinatown tried to kill the U.S. attorney handling your case.”
“What?” exclaimed Mathew.
Hiram saw the look of surprise come over Mathew’s face and wondered if it was for real.
“And they think I had something to do with it?” Mathew asked. “I’m not a murderer!”
“I know that, man. Calm down. They’re investigating to find out if the death of Reginald what-his-name was somehow tied into the deal you were in. They want everything you’ve got that could possibly connect the two.”
“You mean Rockwood?” interrupted Mathew.
“That’s the one, the guy who used to walk around in the tuxedos. Is it true that he lived in a janitor’s closet?” asked Hiram.
“This is attorney-client stuff, right?”
“You’ve got it. Nothing goes outside this room, unless you want it to,” replied Hiram.
“Frankly, I don’t know much about the guy. I did hear that he lived in a closet at his workplace. I would see him at Camelot frequently, and I used to buy him a drink once in a while. I paid an informant to learn about the blackmailer, and that’s how I heard that it was Rockwood.”
“What kind of information did you get?” asked Hiram.
“Someone knew that illegal Chinese art was for sale; and since I was the one who was buying it, I wouldn’t go through with the deal unless there was no chance of discovery. A lot of good it did me,” he said with a shrug. “My informant was Chinese. I can give you a description. Melba was in the bar the night he came in, and I am sure she can verify what he looked like. She wouldn’t forget a guy who looked like him! But I think you should talk to Samuel Hamilton. I understand he sells ads in a newspaper. He was buddy-buddy with Rockwood. And if anybody knows what’s happening in connection with his death, it’s gotta be him.”
“If you give ’em all you know about Rockwood’s death, and your deal with Xsing Ching, and you agree to cooperate, they’ll go for the six years,” said Hiram. “You could be out in three, with credit for the time served and good behavior. But if they think you had anything to do with killing him, you’re fucked. We have to be careful how we present this information.”
“And if I give ’em nothin’?” asked Mathew.
“Assuming it’s just the art and you go to the jury, if you’re convicted you could get ten years and a $75,000 fine.”
Mathew didn’t have to think for long. He was now seated with his arms folded in front of him. “I risked a fortune on this fuckin’ deal. To pay for that fine I’d have to sell stock that I want to keep. See if you can make a deal, just don’t get me in more trouble than I’m already in.”
* * *
After several unfruitful attempts to talk with Charles Perkins by phone, Hiram Goldberg made an appointment to see him in person at his office. He finally gained access after being searched by one of the three armed marshals protecting Charles, who had become paranoid since the shooting at Chop Suey Louie’s.
When he walked in, Charles had his feet on his desk and was leaning back in his chair, reading the newspaper. Hiram couldn’t see his face. He only saw the many piles of papers on his desk with a space carved out for Charles to put his feet. To the side was a table with a green leather inset where dominoes lay scattered among the several groups of documents strewn about its top. In one corner of his office were boxes of files labeled with case names. He recognized several of them.
“Hiram Goldberg here, Mr. Perkins. I’ve come to discuss the O’Hara case with you. I’m his lawyer.”
“I know who you are,” said Charles, dropping the newspaper and removing his feet from the desk. He folded the paper and placed it in an already crowded drawer. “Sorry, I was just catching up on the news. You’ve been trying to reach me for several days, haven’t you? What’s on your mind?”
“Trying to see if we have any common ground on Mr. O’Hara’s case.”
“Depends on what he brings to the table,” said Charles.
Hiram put his black leather briefcase with his initials stamped in gold on the floor and pulled at his overly tight shirt collar with a finger so he could catch his breath. Charles noticed the droplets of oil on his curly hair and the overwhelming fragrance of his cologne.
“Mr. O’Hara doesn’t know much about the extraneous case you’re inquiring about. I mean the one about the Rockwood fellow,” replied Hiram. “The most he can do is give you a description of the man who said the tuxedo guy had been taken care of. But that was only a week or so before he was arrested.”
“What was he doing with this man?”
“How did Rockwood learn about the art deal?”
“That’s exactly what my client would like to know.”
“Did O’Hara pay Xsing Ching?”
“No way, the deal didn’t go through. Guys like him always cover their backs. You must know that by now. My client wouldn’t let go of the dough until the art was safely in his possession.”
“We know he took half a million out of the bank,” said Charles. “Where is it?”
“Why do you suppose that’s related to the case?”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Mr. Goldberg.”
“I don’t think he has to disclose to you what he does with his money as long as it’s not illegal. I can guarantee Xsing Ching didn’t get it. Look, even if he were convicted on all counts, what would the fine be?”
“We’ll see about that,” said Charles. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Who?”
“You know who I mean, the Dimitri woman. How does she fit into all this?”
“The press said that she was O’Hara’s lover, but he has assured me that they had only a business relationship. She entertained his clients,” said Hiram.
“And you believe that fairy tale?”
“Why not? O’Hara isn’t the kind of man that lets a sexual infatuation interfere with business. Anyhow, when his wife read about it in the papers, she filed for divorce. That’s all you’ll ever get against Dimitri: she’s a home wrecker,” replied Hiram with a sarcastic laugh.
“I need to look into this some more. If what you say bears out, I’ll take the case up with the U.S. attorney.”
“My client needs to know what he’s looking at.”
“What we talked about before. A $40,000 fine and six years in the poky,” said Charles. “That is, if everything checks out.”
“You’ll let me know when?” asked Hiram.
“Within the week.”
15
Everybody’s Two Cents
SAMUEL WALKED into Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs shop. The bell above his head announced his arrival at the threshold and kept tingling as he approached the black lacquer counter. The herbalist’s assistant came out from behind the dangling rows of beads and craned his neck upward, straining to identify the visitor.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Song,” said Samuel.
The man disappeared behind the beaded curtain and shortly Mr. Song appeared. Samuel was again startled by the strange appearance of the Chinese albino dressed in a gray jacket with intricate embroidered designs woven into the fabric all the way up to the Mandarin collar. He had on black pants and a black gauze cap. He approached the counter and nodded his head slightly in an abbreviated bow. He’d recognized the visitor.
“I’ve come for some help with my smoking,” said Samuel.
Mr. Song beckoned to his assistant to approach him and whispered something in his ear. The man quickly left the premises, and Mr. Song offered Samuel a seat on one of the two chairs he made available. Samuel sat while Mr. Song examined him with his red eyes, scrutinizing him with such precision that it was all he could do to keep from leaving.
He had no doubt that the albino would quickly see through his request for treatment to stop smoking as an excuse to see if he could get information. Most probably he was wasting his time. It was no small feat to get any facts from this secretive man who couldn’t speak a word of English, although Samuel suspected he understood more than he let on.
Shortly, the employee returned with Mr. Song’s niece. Samuel hardly recognized the girl with buckteeth. She wasn’t wearing the Baptist church uniform and her black hair was cropped in a shorter cut with bangs. She saluted her uncle and turned to Samuel.
“My honorable uncle is at your disposal. What can he do for you?” she asked.
“I’ve come to ask for help to stop smoking,” he said with a straight face, but in a hesitant tone.
She explained the purpose of the visit to Mr. Song. He nodded, knowingly, and replied in Cantonese, “He has come to the right place. Tell him to follow me.”
The herbalist then went through the bead curtain and held it open with one arm so Samuel and the girl could follow. He ushered them into the back of the shop and pointed to an armchair in front of a Chinese screen painted with a picturesque mountain scene. Samuel was invited to sit down under a spotlight.
Buckteeth explained, “He will hypnotize you in order to help you stop smoking. Then he will give you Chinese herbs to reinforce the treatment.”
“How much will all this cost me?”
Mr. Song put up two fingers.
“Two dollars a visit,” she said, “and you will have to come every day for a week.”
“Even on Saturday and Sunday?”
“Of course. This is a serious treatment,” she explained.
Samuel saw Mr. Song’s pink eyes looking at him intently over the rims of his glasses as he wound a delicate chain with a gold medallion on the end of it around his long pale fingers.
“Mr. Song says you have become well known in Chinatown,” the girl translated.
“What does he mean by that?” asked Samuel defensively.
“He says people say you were a good friend of Louie’s.”
“I saw you and Mr. Song on the street, paying your respects the day of Louie’s funeral. Tell him it was me and the lawyer from the U.S. attorney’s office that they were really trying to kill.”
“He already knows that,” said the girl.
“And does he know why they tried to kill us?”
“He said maybe you were snooping where you shouldn’t.”
Samuel sat straight up. He could hardly believe that Mr. Song was coming out from behind his inscrutable façade and was willing to offer information.
“Does he mean getting too close to Xsing Ching’s business with the Chinese art?”
The herbalist coughed slightly and lit his clay pipe. The irony was not lost on Samuel since he was there to try and stop smoking.
“He says not Xsing Ching, he is just a businessman, but to something much more …” She abruptly stopped and had a lengthy discussion with Mr. Song in Cantonese. Samuel kept hearing them toss the same word back and forth with emphasis. Finally she said to Samuel, “You know the word sinister?”
“I do indeed. Why?”
They had another brief conversation in which the same Chinese word was used several times.
“My honorable uncle has nothing more to say on this subject. He wants to know if you are ready to begin your treatment?” she asked formally.
“Sure,” said Samuel, mulling over the word sinister in his mind, as he watched the gold medallion hanging from the gold chain swing back and forth in Mr. Song’s hand, until he lost all notion of time.
* * *
Samuel had no faith in the bizarre treatment he subjected himself to for the entire week at the shop, but he didn’t miss a session. He tried to engage the herbalist several times during their time together, but Song had retreated behind his shield of silence. Since the girl was not present to translate, their business was conducted in sign language, with Mr. Song pointing his finger to indicate that Samuel should consume the piles of herbs prescribed for him. To his amazement, by day six he not only felt slightly nauseated at the idea of smoking a cigarette but just the smell of tobacco bothered him. He decided it was now safe for him to show up at Camelot.
Excalibur began shaking his fanny with a happy rhythm from the moment he sensed Samuel’s arrival. Samuel felt welcome, happy to once again be with his family. Melba smiled broadly from her perch at the bar and motioned for him to sit beside her, as she crushed her cigarette in the ashtray already full of butts with traces of her lipstick. She blew the smoke in Samuel’s direction, and he, suddenly sick to his stomach, had to wait for it to clear before he sat down. She put a Scotch on the rocks on the counter, but he declined, asking instead for a club soda.
/> “Where the hell you been?” asked Melba. “And what happened to your fingers?”
“You won’t believe it, Melba, I stopped smoking,” he replied, looking at the ends of his fingers wrapped in adhesive tape.
“The hell, you say. Why would you do a thing like that?”
Samuel gave a nervous laugh and smoothed the sleeves of his new khaki jacket with no burn holes in it. He’d bought it secondhand, but it looked almost new. “The tape keeps me from biting my fingernails. My fingertips look like they’ve been in a meat grinder.”
“So now you don’t smoke but you bite your fingernails.”
“But now I only try when I really want a cigarette. It’s been a week. Mr. Song is responsible for this miracle. You should try it.”
“Looks like the cure is worse than the disease.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes and thought better of it, putting it back on the counter and tapping it with her index and middle fingers. “Did you ask Mr. Song if he could cure the biting, too?”
“Yeah, but he said it would cost more than stopping smoking, and it would probably just go away by itself, anyway,” and he shrugged.
Melba laughed. “What a relief. For chrissake, there are so many complications that it isn’t even worth trying.”
“I need to talk to you,” said Samuel, glancing in every corner of the bar. “But first, is Blanche in town?”
“Sure is. She’ll be here anytime now. I hear you acted like a real jerk at the Blackhawk.”
“She told you that? It’s true. I drank too much. I was a little nervous. She must be furious with me.”
“She doesn’t hold grudges. She’ll give you another chance.”
“Great,” said Samuel, biting his lower lip. “Stopping smoking was kind of a beneficial side effect. I really went to Mr. Song’s to see if I could get information.”
“Information about what?”
“About Reginald and Louie’s death. Mr. Song started to talk but he quickly shut up, as if he’d said too much. The rest of the week was all hypnotism and no conversation. The first day his niece was there translating, and I asked him point blank if the people who tried to kill us were connected to Xsing Ching and the Chinese art. Song started to answer, but then he and his niece got hung up on a word and they went back and forth. It was like they were having a tug of war, the way they were talking to each other.”
The Chinese Jars Page 17