Red Jade

by Henry Chang

  Jack holstered it and dropped it into a file cabinet, locking it.

  “He’s in the room,” said the uniform. “They grabbed him off Delancey Street. He don’t talk English too good.”

  Jack smirked at the irony of what he was hearing.

  Sitting in the interview room was a beefy-looking Chinese kid, maybe twenty-one but he looked younger. On the table was a Boston Red Sox baseball cap.

  “Man, I’m glad to see you,” the kid said when Jack walked in.

  “Okay, so you speak English,” challenged Jack. “Why are you pretending?”

  “I wasn’t! No disrespect. But the white cop was outta line. I didn’t want to talk to him the way he was playing me.”

  “So you spoke to him in Chinglish?”

  “And I asked for you.”

  “You know me?” Jack asked bluntly.

  “I’m cousin of the Jung twins,” said the young man.

  Jack narrowed his eyes at him, said, “Yeah, and …?”

  “You know, they got themselves killed in that shoot-out at Bowery? Near OTB? Your case; it was in the papers.”

  “Go on,” pushed Jack.

  “The cop pulled me over, near the bridge. Said I didn’t signal the lane change, something. He checked my plates. Then he started talking crap about how the Red Sox suck and made me get out of the car. The other cop lifted my jacket off the front seat and saw the knife.”

  “What the hell are you doing with that?” pressed Jack.

  “I work in a warehouse. We use it on the job.”

  Jack poked his finger at the red ball cap, and said, “Boston, huh? What’re you doing down here?”

  “I came up for the hundred days.”

  “Hundred days?”

  “Go to the cemetery, you know, pay respects. My two cousins. You’re Chinese. You know, you understand.”

  Jack remembered: the Jung twins, victims of the brazen shoot-out between factions of Lucky’s Ghosts. The “hundred days” after the burial, when Chinese people visit the deceased, was an ancient tradition.

  “Well, they can charge you with carrying a concealed weapon,” warned Jack.

  “What concealed? It was on the front seat. We keep it out to cut ropes and cartons, for deliveries.”

  “The officer says it was in your jacket.”

  “No way! I took my jacket off in the car. It was hot and I put it on the seat. It may have been covering the knife but I wouldn’t call it hidden.”

  Jack shook his head disdainfully.

  “No, man, no,” pleaded the kid. “It wasn’t concealed. And I wasn’t carrying it.”

  Jack remained stone-faced. “If they press it, you’re looking at a coupla nights in the Tombs. Maybe Rikers.”

  The Boston Chinese started pumping his knee, nervous, fearful because the Chinese cop wasn’t helping him.

  “Then you’d need to raise bail,” Jack added, “and your Boston shit is going to get screwed by your being busted in New York. At the very least, you’d have a lot of explaining to do back home.”

  “Look, help me out, huh?” Desperate now.

  “Tell me why I should,” Jack challenged. “Because we’re Chinese?” Raising the ante. “Because what?”

  “Because I got something that maybe can help you?”

  “Yeah, and what’s that?”

  “There’s someone missing from that shoot-out. A punk-ass named Eddie, right?” There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

  “How do you know that?” asked Jack, raising an eyebrow.

  “He’s with the dailo’s crew. And no one’s seen him since.”

  Jack was quiet a moment. He’d suspected that Eddie Ng had been one of the shooters, but it was all circumstantial.

  “So you know where he is?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy,” snapped Jack.

  “Help me out?”

  “Talk,” Jack waited.

  “He’s from Seattle.” The kid’s words followed a deep sigh. “My cousin mentioned it last year.” Both of his knees were pumping now.

  “Where in Seattle?”

  “That’s all I know. Chinatown, maybe.”

  “Maybe? There’s a lot of Chinese in Seattle, boy.”

  “That’s all I know. Please.”

  Jack shook his head in disbelief, and left the kid in the room. The uniformed cop gave Jack the kid’s driver’s license while he sweated it out. Jack took the information and ran it for priors and warrants as he reviewed the OTB shoot-out case file.

  The reports had tallied up six dead near OTB; five were confirmed Ghost gangbangers, and the sixth was an old Chinese man who’d happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught himself a cardiac.

  The final victim was the Ghost Legion dailo himself, Lucky, who might never regain conciousness.

  Seattle PD already had Eddie’s juvenile mug shot that Jack had forwarded via the Wanted posters, but if they focused on Eddie’s height of four foot seven, they’d have a better chance of spotting him. There were a lot of short Chinese around, but not too many that short.

  Jack decided he’d give Seattle PD a reach-out and a heads-up, see if Eddie turned up in the older West Coast Chinatown.

  Priors and Warrants came up negative for the Boston Chinese kid. Jack had already figured the arrest was a “meatball” bust anyway, with an overzealous cop trying to make a weapons-possession rap off a questionable traffic stop, a case that’d probably be tossed by a grand jury, more waste of taxpayer money and time.

  Jack went back into the room.

  The kid’s eyes were big, scared, hoping against hope.

  “First thing,” Jack said. “You can forget about getting the knife back.” He flipped the driver’s license onto the table and the kid sat straight up. “Second,” Jack continued, “Don’t come down here again.” He tossed him his Red Sox cap. “Next time they’ll grab you for ‘driving while Chinese.’ Know what I’m saying?”

  The kid jumped up and practically kowtowed to Jack all the way out the door. Jack heard his footsteps bounding down the stairs to freedom.

  Putting away the OTB shoot-out case file, Jack decided to give Billy Bow a call.

  Neighborhood Blood

  “Yo, Jacky boy.” Billy Bow’s voice came chuckling out of Jack’s cell phone.

  “I need your help—” began Jack.

  “Like Batman needs Robin. What else is new? Shoot.” Billy snickered at his own cleverness.

  “How many Ngs are there in Seattle?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Serious, man,” said Jack, grinning.

  “You sure you don’t want Lees or Wongs? I heard they’re on sale this week.”

  “C’mon. Serious.”

  “Well, there’s gotta be hundreds, right? Maybe thousands.”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot.” Jack sighed.

  “Look, I can check with one of the old-timers later, lo oom. He belongs to the Eng Association.”

  “Let me know, Blood,” Jack said.

  “Bet. Anyway, did you hear the joke about Chinese math?”

  “Later, Billy,” Jack said abruptly. “Tell me when I see you.”

  Inside the Tofu King, Billy was ready with his jokes.

  “Check out this Chinese math,” he began.

  “Aw, c’mon,” Jack protested.

  “Nah, listen.”

  Jack rolled his eyes, shook his head, and resigned himself.

  “If three Chinamen jump ship with six ounces of China White, and then chase the dragon three times each before delivering the remaining heroin to the tong, how far will they get if they flee by rickshaw, going six miles an hour, before the pursuing hatchetmen catch them and chop them into eighteen pieces for dipping into the product?”

  “Where do you get this stuff from?” Jack chuckled. “The rickshaw drivers work for the tong, right?”

  “Damn right.” Billy laughed. “They didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance to begin with.�
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  “So what do you have for me?” reproved Jack.

  Billy paused for effect. “Two hundred eighty-eight Ngs in Seattle. That’s including Engs, with the ‘E.’”

  Jack knew the surname was written and spoken only one way in Chinese. “The old man said that? Two hundred eighty-eight?”

  “He said the Seattle Eng Association has about two hundred members.” Billy grinned at Jack’s confusion. “The Seattle local directories, man,” teased Billy. “You can look that shit up on the Internet, you know.”

  “Didn’t know you were a computer nerd,” Jack retorted.

  “Just surfin’, dude. Plus, there’s no telling how many Engs floating around illegally, know what I’m saying? Add another coupla hundred.”

  Jack grimaced at the daunting challenge, a thin lead based on a desperate kid’s bid to stay out of Rikers, and nothing had come back on the Wanteds, not from Seattle or anywhere else.

  Seattle PD would have been looking for a wanted likeness based on an old juvie photo. In view of that department’s inefficient and racist past, what were the chances they’d look hard for someone who hadn’t been charged with any crime?

  “Watcha expect?” Billy said. “All Chinamen look alike, right? You think white cops are gonna put a big effort behind this?”

  Jack frowned at the cynical truth in Billy’s words.

  “Shit,” Billy continued, “you’d do better going out there yourself. Pull up a squat in the middle of Chinatown and watch it roll by.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jack replied sardonically. “Not a Chinaman’s chance, huh?” He backed out toward the front door, waved, said, “Thanks for the math.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Billy grinning. “And don’t let the door slap your ass on the way out.”

  Easy Pass

  The bilingual Chinatown directory from Seattle’s Chinatown Community Center proved to be very useful. Mona quickly located Ping Wong Beautician Supplies and purchased a medium-length gray wig. The booklet offered listings for local discount stores and thrift shops where she bought a drab sweater, black slacks, and a cheap down jacket, all made in China. She found plastic magnifier eyeglasses, looped on a beaded chain, at a Chinese pharmacy. She wore no makeup, and the clothing and accessories helped her appear more matronly: an aging spinster.

  Mona easily blended into the rear of the group of wah kue, overseas senior citizens, as they boarded the bus to Vancouver. Avoiding the mentholated scent of mon gum yao, tiger balm, she made her way to the back.

  She enjoyed the view from the window seat as the Seniors Weekend Junket rolled north out of Seattle’s Chinatown through the cold city morning.

  The charter bus gained speed once it reached the highway. She noticed the number ninety-nine on many signs, nine being a yang number, an auspicious place in the fung shui. In the system of I Ching trigrams, nine was the element of gold. She thought about her cache of jewelry, the gold Panda coins she’d hidden.

  The city blurred past outside the window as she caressed a jade charm nestled in her right palm, closing her eyes to find a quiet space.

  She was stroking the contours of the arrangements of raised lines and sharp etchings like a rosary, feeling above and below the surface of the jade talisman.

  The white jade octagon, a bot kwa I Ching talisman, was the size of a fat nickel. It was not Shan or Ming dynasty; it was quality jade but not rare. The charm had been a gift from her mother, her only memento, and had touched three generations of the women of her family. It was her mother’s soul.

  On its flat sides, in bas-relief, were symbols of the Eight Trigrams. Yin and Yang together representing the eight elements of the universe: heaven, earth, wind, fire, water, thunder, mountain, lake. The center of the charm was carved into two embryonic snakes chasing one another’s tails, forming the forever changing symbol of the Yin Yang, harmony of the cosmic breath.

  Mona had learned to read the symbols, Braille-like, in a single passing of her finger, feeling the lines of the hexagrams. She pondered the prophecies in her mind. Dragging her thumbnail across the etched series of lines, she sought guidance and direction, a prophecy from the I Ching, the Book of Changes.

  The combination of lines and broken lines kept coming back to the hexagrams Thunder over Wind and Heaven over Wind: the sky roars, the wind howls. All regret is gone. Go forward over the Great Mountain.

  She measured her breathing.

  Wind over Heaven read the hexagrams: a new career, opportunity—but also, conflict, misfortune. Opening her eyes she saw a darkening sky with heavy clouds promising rain. She felt anxiety in the air, an impending storm.

  In the face of violence, one must withdraw.

  The vistas changed as they left behind the skyline of highrises, rolling toward the grim mountains in the far distance. She saw rugged bedrock ridges, steep-walled valleys, pristine wilderness, a lake, and a section of river. They came through rolling uplands, the far-off jagged peaks towering above them. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of the ocean, beyond a stretch of bays that were dotted with green-brown islands.

  The natural vistas reminded her of her journey across America, on a one-way train from New York to Saam Fansi, San Francisco. It did not seem that long ago. Now she was hundreds of miles farther north, evidenced by the colder weather and the unrelenting rain. From her next destination, Vancouver, once she moved there, she could head south to Chinese communities in Peru, or east to Toronto or Montreal, or even farther east to Europe, England or France perhaps.

  The world of the wah kue, overseas Chinese, seemed boundless.

  An hour into the tour, she smelled the aroma of po nai, tea, cha siew baos, roast pork buns, and assorted dim sum that the other old women produced from their nylon shoulder bags and plastic thermoses.

  But they were finished with breakfast by the time the tour bus crossed into the checkpoint.

  An immigration agent came aboard and checked the driver’s papers. He looked over the group of elderly Chinese women, and silently took a head count, matching the total against the manifest. He glanced at his watch, looked around cursorilly, and stepped off the bus.

  The line of vehicles had backed up along the highway, idling well beyond the checkpoint, the air thick with exhaust and the smell of rubber.

  The agent waved the charter tour bus through.

  No passport needed, Mona noted, an easy pass.

  The brief stop had allowed the winter cold aboard. Mona felt the chill and was glad to have worn the cheap down jacket.

  Back on the road, she noticed that some of the signs were in French. The highway led them to a bridge over a river, and abruptly to a big city spread below them—steel and glass towers, a modern metropolis set against a backdrop of dark but majestic mountains.

  She squeezed the jade, pressed out Fire over Mountain. Auspicious for the traveler. There is promise in the journey.

  Soon enough they were passing under a huge Chinatown gate in Won Kor Wah, Vancouver, tall concrete columns supporting a facade of yellow ceramic dragonheads in a classic pagoda motif. She saw buildings and parks bearing Chinese names, and Chinese words on the street signs.

  There were old, narrow buildings, many of which were rundown, showing an older traditional Chinatown. They visited a classical Chinese garden dedicated to Dr. Sun Yat-sen, father of modern China.

  She purchased a souvenir letter opener from a gift shop. It resembled a dagger and its metal handle was embossed with a colorful dragon design over the word CHINATOWN. Weighing its heft in her hand reminded Mona of Fa Mulan, the woman warrior.

  She put the souvenir dagger into her handbag. Then something red caught her eye; it was a red jade bangle. A simple jadeite bangle that was colored dark red, like chicken blood. Real red jade was rare, and she knew this bangle was only a gift-shop trinket, but she wanted to add to her luck. Red jade was especially lucky, and also brought longevity. It inspired courage.

  She purchased it as well, and while slipping it onto her unadorned left wris
t, she stepped back into the Vancouver Chinatown afternoon. Walking along the streets she heard Toishanese and Cantonese dialects, and even Spanish. Chinese from Peru, she guessed, from Mexico, perhaps Panama.

  The tour guide announced they were scheduled for dinner at the Good Fortune Restaurant.

  The bus wound its way through the city. She saw British signs that reminded her of Hong Kong places: Queen Elizabeth Theatre, King George Place, Stanley Park.

  They passed through a Japantown. The Japanese maple and cherry trees were pretty, she thought, but the history of hatred made her feel sad.

  The dinner at Good Fortune was very tasty, but inferior to the Chinese feasts she’d attended in New York. Gone now, she remembered, for good.

  Afterward, the old women checked into their rooms at the Budget Inn, where the Chinese staff made everyone feel at home. They were expecting an eventful day tomorrow so most of the seniors retired early. On the second day, the tour bus brought them to a different part of the city, to a different Chinatown where the buildings were new and tall, where the streets were clean, and the Chinese signs barely noticeable.

  The community didn’t look like a Chinatown, more like the modern Golden Village that it was called. The seniors enjoyed lunch at one of the many fine restaurants inside a huge luxury shopping mall. Most of the businesses were Chinese-owned, and the shoppers appeared more affluent, stylish, and exuded a fresh young energy.

  Mona imagined that she could start anew here.

  The tour group was allowed to roam the streets for an hour. Mona purchased two daily newspapers, Ming Pao and Sing Tao, to read on the trip back, thinking about local news and listings. She bought a Chinatown tourist map from a newsstand, and tried to memorize the streets as she walked, taking business cards from tea shops, clothing stores, Chinese supermarkets, and banks. New destinations, she thought.

  She overheard conversations in mainland-inflected Mandarin and Taiwanese.

  There was an international airport nearby.

  The afternoon turned to evening as they returned to the older Chinatown, to a buffet dinner at a banquet-style restaurant. The Budget Inn was within walking distance, and she finished the night going over the Chinese newspapers and watching the Chinese-language satellite TV news.