by Fred Zackel
He chose to ignore that. "I need a solitary man. A man not indebted to his employers. A man who would tell me more than he would tell them. I do not want my problems discussed by secretaries."
"That's no problem," I said. "I got fired from my last job."
He understood. "Many clients must be very difficult."
"That was no client. My company fired me."
"Was there good cause?"
I thought it over. "Yeah."
"May I ask why you were fired?"
I thought it over. "No."
"Oh." He was shook. "Are you working on a case now?"
"You might say so. And you might not."
"May I ask who your client is?"
What the hell. "That's privileged information."
"Perhaps if I knew his name..."
"It's none of your business."
He didn't take offense, dammit. He took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. "Again I ask you. Who is your client?"
I stared a while. I wanted to laugh. This had to be someone's idea of a joke. I wondered where Sidney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre were.
He folded away the bill. "You are a most ethical man. You will not reveal your client's name. You respect that which is confidential. A man who refuses to be corrupted."
"Nobody's asked me yet," I snapped.
"There is another reason, of course. Your fee."
"I charge the same as anybody else."
"And how much is that?"
"Two hundred a day plus expenses."
He didn't flinch. One point in his favor. "There are some in the city who charge more."
I decided to re-evaluate my charges at the earliest possible opportunity. Maybe that would keep the clowns from my door.
"Perhaps it is negotiable," he added.
"You want a rebate on the fee?"
"I simply mean it may be more negotiable than for others who have more expenses, such as office rent, electric bills..."
"'Fraid not. And if you're thinking about tax breaks, you better forget it. I still declare my income tax, which means you would have to, too."
"Do you carry a gun?"
I stopped breathing. "Am I going to need one?"
"Oh, no." His face flushed. "What kind is it?"
"Oh, it's an ugly old thing."
"You do not wish to say."
"I can't see where it's any of your business."
He sat back, satisfied. "No, Mr. Brennen, there are not many like you. Perhaps you are the man who can solve my problem."
I had to say one thing about the crazy old man. He thought fast on his feet. He was determined to prove I was qualified faster than I was trying to disprove it.
I should have kicked him out then, but, like the cat, curiosity's going to be my downfall. Unlike the cat, I had only this life. "What's your problem?"
"A valuable jade necklace has been taken from my house. I wish to commission you to have it returned to me."
"When was it taken?"
"Sometime earlier this week. I cannot be more precise, for I was in Sacramento when it was taken. When I returned to the city, I discovered it was missing."
"And the police?"
"They have not been informed. The Chinese community has learned much from the white man's police force. We prefer to handle our own affairs and we hope they will do likewise."
"Have you heard from the thief?"
He thought that was funny. "I do not expect his call."
"I mean, the ransom. Have you received any note, any instructions, on how to pay it?"
"That will be your job. You see, the young man who took the necklace did not take it for ransom. Nor do I believe he will try to sell it. There is no place where he can sell it. It is too valuable for most dealers, and he is too intelligent to try the pawnshops."
"You know who took it?"
A faint smile. "I believe so."
"Why did he take it?"
"Revenge can be the only reason."
Oh boy. Start at the beginning on this one. "Do you have any photographs of the necklace? Maybe a drawing? Any detailed description will do."
"They have never been necessary. It is one of a kind."
"What's it look like?"
"Do you know the symbols of the Chinese zodiac?"
"A little. Twelve animals, right?"
"Yes. There is the dragon, the hare, the tiger, and so on. Certain craftsmen of the T'ang dynasty arranged the twelve animals in order from clasp to clasp on this necklace."
"A charm bracelet, right?"
He didn't like that. "It is a necklace."
"How old is it?"
"The T'ang dynasty. Around 700 A.D."
"And the value of the necklace?"
"Oh, it is priceless."
"Sure. How much is priceless?"
He pursed his lips. "It could well be part of the Brundage collection."
That was priceless. I asked what estimate the insurance company had placed on it.
He was hesitant, reluctant to speak.
"It is insured, isn't it?"
"When something is insured, it becomes noticeable."
Oh boy. "You mean, it's a hot rock."
"I do not understand."
"First you swiped it, then it was swiped from you."
"No, no. This is not stolen property. There is a bill of sale. It was brought from the Mainland. That is why it is uninsured."
"Who had it before you?"
"That should not be your concern."
"It is. Who had it?"
"A childhood friend from Kwangtung province. When the Mainland fell, his family came with mine to Taiwan. They had much art, valuable art. Some pieces were sold, but most were stored until the family could return to the Mainland. The government of Taiwan said that day would come."
I saw where he was heading. "And then Nixon went to Peking, right, and they started selling off their collection."
"He accepted my offer," Ng said.
"How did the necklace get here?"
"Oh, it had a very difficult passage."
"Was any customs duty paid on it?"
"Perhaps at a later date."
The rock wasn't hot, but it was lukewarm. No wonder the old man didn't call in the cops. "What would the police say if they knew that the necklace came into the country the way it did?"
He hadn't thought of that. "It would be most unfortunate." He startled himself. "They would take it away from me."
"That's right. And who has it now?"
"His name is Lim Song." He spelled it for me. "His family is also from Kwangtung province. His father has been a close friend for many years. I arranged for the youth to come here from Taiwan. He was enrolled in the public school system. Later, when he could read and write English, I offered him a part-time job with my law firm. It was a lowly job, and the pay was little, but for a young man of diligence and enterprise, there could be much achievement and steady promotion."
I had heard that line before. That meant the kid had no papers, that he was an illegal alien, that Tan Ng brought him into the country to work eleven hours a day, seven days a week, for a buck less than minimum. Without his green card, the kid didn't have a prayer. It was a coolie's job, pure and simple, and the kid had been caught in an ugly trap. Maybe Tan Ng got his start with the railroads.
"What makes you think he took it?"
"After he had been with my firm for several months, it was brought to my attention that he had a police record. I investigated and found it was true. I had little choice. I dismissed him."
"What had he done?"
"He was caught taking items from the retail merchants in Chinatown."
"A shoplifter?" I didn't believe it. "A shoplifter?"
"Is that not enough?"
I didn't think so, which shows you how much I knew. "How long was this crime spree going on?"
"Two years. He has been in San Francisco that long."
"Just how old is Lim Song?"
"He is sevent
een years old."
"And the jade's been missing since he was fired?"
"That is right."
"How did he know about it?"
"I told him to consider my home his home. The necklace was in a display case in my study. On several occasions, I have found him in front of the case. It is very beautiful. He was moved by its beauty."
"And so he took it, after you fired him."
"It could only have been Lim Song. And that, too, is part of your commission. I must know if he did take the necklace. If he is not the thief, I must make amends to his father."
"And if he did?"
"I wish merely its return."
"What if you have to pay for that?"
"I will pay it."
"How much will you pay?"
"Whatever is necessary."
"You know, shoplifting isn't much of a crime, especially when the criminal's only seventeen. When he's older, his juvenile record is sealed..."
"We Chinese are a law-abiding race."
"Yeah. Sure. But what else has he done? Maybe not illegal things, but things which still upset you. Maybe he's got a prostitute for a girlfriend. Maybe he hangs around the mah jongg houses. Maybe he smokes a pipe of opium now and then. There must be something else."
"It is his choice of friends," Ng confessed. "They are from Taiwan, from Hong Kong, but they do not work. They say, why should we work, there are no jobs, there are no good jobs, you do not pay us well enough." Understandable. "Go on."
"I do not know where they get their money, but they have fast automobiles. The back of the car is high above the ground, much higher than the front end. They drive so fast through Chinatown."
I knew the type. All-American Boys. Sorta.
"Will you help me, Mr. Brennen?"
I lit a cigarette and thought it over. The old man didn't like the threads of blue smoke that came up, so I cracked open a half-inch of window. The smoke was sucked outside, where it mingled with the monotonous rain.
"You'd better find yourself another boy."
"You are refusing me?"
"Oh yeah."
"Perhaps for two hundred a day plus expenses."
"There's no way I'm taking on this case."
"You wish more money?"
"I don't want your money. And I can give you a dozen reasons why I shouldn't even be listening to you."
"May I hear those reasons?"
"First, there's the hot rock. That necklace came into the country illegally. You didn't pay any customs on it. That's smuggling, and Uncle Sam's a poor sport about smuggling. Which means I can never call the cops, no matter what kind of trouble I get into. Secondly, the necklace isn't insured, so nobody can even prove it exists. Part three, there's Lim Song. You've just about admitted he's an illegal alien, that you brought him here to be your own personal coolie, yet you fired him for shoplifting, which is chickenshit. Maybe he took the necklace, and maybe he didn't. Maybe he still has it, and maybe he doesn't. But there's no way I'm going into Chinatown to mess with a Chinese juvenile delinquent."
"He is just a young man."
"No, he isn't. He's a Tong."
He was bewildered.
"There are no Tongs."
"Yeah, I know. They were just a turn-of-the-century fairy tale. Nobody uses that word nowadays. So the Tongs must be gone. Well, maybe you were one when you were younger, and maybe there are no more Tongs around, and maybe they're gone for good, but anywhere else Lim Song would be just another punk. In Chinatown he's a punk in Chinatown, and what the punks in Chinatown got is gangs. They're either Maoists, or part of the Chinese Mafia. Either way, whichever he is, it's no dice because, if I can help it, I'm not getting caught in that crossfire."
Tongs. Punks. Street gangs. Juvenile delinquents. Hoodlums. Gangsters. The awesome horror of murder is somewhere among all those labels. The proof is in any morning edition. A yellow-skinned high schooler is gunned down by a slant-eyed sharpshooter. The next night, a week later, a month or two goes by, then an ignition bomb explodes against a firewall, splattering blood and flesh and skin and bone through a maroon GTO.
No race differs much from another when it comes to revenge and greed, when it comes to slaughtered innocents and murder. Each race kills close at home, its own people, and no blood is exotic when it collects in puddles on the streets. The Chinese are no special breed.
"There could be a bonus for recovery."
I had to laugh. "It's not a question of money. You want me, a white man, to follow Lim Song, a yellow man, through his own neighborhood, a yellow man's ghetto, and pretend nobody's gonna notice. I've got to wonder if you're sober."
Tan Ng was silent for a long time. He looked like I felt the day my wife confronted me with my infidelity. Finally his watery eyes found mine. "Is it because I am Chinese?"
He had lost me again.
"Is it because I am Chinese?"
A while before I answered. "It's not because you're Chinese. It's because Lim Song is Chinese."
He rose from his chair. For a shrunken old man, he stood tall, with dignity. "I am very sorry you feel this way." A red and gold packet came from his pocket. "A small token for your trouble."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I have stolen your time. Time is most precious. It is a jewel in a man's life. No man should give freely of his time, when another man can pay him for it."
He went the way he came. Slowly and hesitantly. And every step must have been hell, for every step was a baby's step. I'd have carried him by the armpits, if it hadn't been for his fierce dignity.
When the elevator finally swallowed him up, I went back to my dinner. But I was too wound up to eat. I pushed away my plate. The old man had thrown me for a loop. He had a great little speech. Well-rehearsed, too, but I didn't buy it. God knows where he came from, what his game was, why he had chosen me. Maybe he thought he could get away with this silliness. Maybe I was supposed to see through this little charade. I didn't understand why it had to be me, but I had a feeling he had some wolves he wanted me thrown to.
The sound was down on the television. I stared at the silent movie for answers. The movie was almost over. A dust storm in the ruins outside Durango. The gold had gone back to where they had found it.
I pulled out Tan Ng's packet. It was the size of a small thank-you card. There were florid designs on each side. A fire breathing dragon and a tiger with golden fangs.
The Chinese call these packets "lucky money" and give them to their children and grandchildren during the weeklong festivities for Chinese New Year.
I opened the packet. A folded one hundred dollar bill was inside. So much for the movie. I went and put my dancing shoes on.
Chapter 10
The Arroyo Grande was a cocktail lounge down in the older half of South Airport Highway. It was surrounded by freeway on-ramps, car rental agencies and commuter flight motels. Like most of its neighbors, it could have been a bowling alley.
The barkeep was washing glasses. He was a small man with bushy eyebrows, no hair on his head and a sunken forehead. He looked like a shaved Neanderthal. "What'll you have?"
"How about a Millers?"
He shrugged and went to the cooler.
The only other drinker in the lounge was a man at the other end of the bar. He was busy mooning over a row of shot glasses. He could have been a thirsty conventioneer waiting for the next flight out, or a traveling salesman too cheap to flag a cab into the city. His face had the pinched look of a man who had seen no way out.
I had expected a raised stage with a few upright microphones, some speakers maybe, or even a set of drums left over from last night's show, but there was only a jukebox playing a country and western ballad. The box shimmered with pastel lights, and the bare spot in front of it was probably somebody's idea of a dance floor. A little crepe above the bar mirror was the only concession to Christmas, and a few cheap New Year's Eve decorations hung down like scalps.
The keep brought a cold bottle. "A buck'll do it."
I gave him the money. "That sign up there says Dancing Nightly."
He looked at me. "We got a jukebox."
"I thought you had a band."
"We got no band." He rinsed more glasses. "They quit a month ago. Didn't give us two weeks notice, either. Just called up and said they weren't coming in no more. That's why we got the jukebox. What do we need a band for, anyway? Only costs us money."
It made sense. You didn't need a band to work this dump, to soothe the losers here. If the band were any good, they'd brighten lonely hearts. The bar didn't mind losing a band. That cut costs and kept the suckers stewing in their brew.
A middle-aged woman with broad shoulders and no chin came from the back room and looked over the twilight trade. She looked like she wanted to spend New Year's Eve elsewhere.
I asked if Dani Anatole was around.
He stopped the faucets. "What do you want with her?"
"I heard she worked here."
He narrowed his eyes. "How'd you know that?"
"A guy told me. He said she was working here, so I thought I'd drop by and say hello. She does work here, doesn't she?"
"She don't work here no more."
My face dropped. "And I drove down here for nothing."
His brows arched. "Where you come from, pal?"
"Sacramento."
He felt like talking. "She was in that band that quit on us. She was the singer." He looked down. "She can't sing for shit."
"She can't be that bad."
"She ain't gonna be missed none, that's for sure." He didn't look at me when he said it. He sounded like cuckolded love talking.
"How long was she singing here?"
"About a year, I guess."
"About a year," I groused. I set my half-empty beer on the bar and glowered at it. "I must be getting soft."
"You shoulda been here last week."
"I shoulda been here last week. She's been here a year, and I shoulda been here last week. What was I suppose to be doing here last week?"
"She came in last week. Her and that Chinaman."
"A Chinese guy? Is that her old man?"
"He's just the drummer, as far as I know. That's why they came in. They were picking up their last checks."
"And when was this again?"
"Last week. Day before Christmas. Davey Huie. That's his name. He played the drums in her band."