by Henry Chang
Changing one’s habits was like changing one’s appearance. No more designer-label lifestyle, she’d thought, they’d be looking for that. Obviously, avoid the nightlife. The night being their time, their underworld.
If they find me, she resolved, it will be in daylight. Bok bok gwong gwong. All clear to see.
And I will not go quietly.
She remembered the letter-opener dagger in her jacket. Be prepared.
72 Hours
The bleak morning brought Jack back to the Ninth, where his vacation days were approved, where he accessed the precinct’s computer setup. He tapped into Seattle’s Bureau of Vital Statistics but didn’t find a birth certificate for Edward Ng. Or for Edward Eng. To Jack, this merely confirmed that Eddie hadn’t been born there but may have been relocated there as an infant.
There were twelve Edward Ngs listed on the school-system database but the ages were all wrong. None of them was in his mid-twenties now. Foreign immigrants and their immigrant offspring. Their addresses were spread across the span of the city.
Four of the Edwards had driver’s licenses but their DMV photos showed they were older men, and all were over five foot six. Too tall.
The Social Security databank yielded 148 Edward Ngs and Engs across the nation’s Chinese communities. All information requests had to be made in person.
Jack took a deep shaolin breath, then another, exhaling stress.
He tapped SEATTLE CHINATOWN into the keyboard.
The designation INTERNATIONAL DISTRICT appeared but took a long time to boot up. Jack rubbed his trigger fingers into his temples until the information came up. Compared to New York, Seattle was a small city, a couple of million people spread out across the great Northwest expanse. Chinatown was part of the International District, the I.D., a designation that Chinatown leaders didn’t like, seeing it as an infringement of Chinese culture and history there.
The Chinese had arrived in Seattle first, as miners and railroad coolies on the Northern Pacific, but then were driven out by racist hate. American hate. They’d created two bustling Chinatowns before fleeing to the East Coast, starting over in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, and Chicago.
The Japanese followed as America turned against the Chinese, becoming the dominant minority group after Congress passed the Chinese Exclusion Acts. They created Japantown. Nihonmachi. J-town thrived until World War II happened and America rounded up Japanese-Americans, forcing them into the internment camps.
The Filipinos, who were U.S. allies, founded Filipinotown.
The Vietnamese arrived after the lost war and cultivated the Little Saigon area.
Koreans and Indians added to the international Asian identity.
There were more than twelve thousand Chinese in Seattle, so it wasn’t going to be easy the way Billy Bow had joked, like “just pull up a chair” and wait for Eddie to walk by. But who knows? thought Jack. Shit happens.
Altogether, Seattle Asians totaled maybe fifty thousand people, crammed together in a district that mixed and muted all their cultures and true colors. More diversity, Jack realized, but less unity.
New York City, Jack knew, had more than fifty thousand residents in any one of its three Chinatowns. He pushed back from the computer and closed his eyes.
Alex came to mind and he pictured her on a plane somewhere over the Midwest. The CADS and the New York ORCA members, having booked their flights weeks in advance, had arranged for an early departure that would put them in Seattle around noon.
Jack was only able to get a last-minute flight that wasn’t scheduled to depart JFK until mid-afternoon. He envisioned early-evening traffic congestion, and rainy skies at Sea-Tac International.
0-Five
Jack hopped a downtown M103 bus to Chinatown. He didn’t see Captain Marino in the 0-Five, but proceeded to make copies of data from his open-case files, reviewing the information as it piled up. He pocketed one of the .22-caliber slugs that had been placed into the evidence file.
It was already afternoon when he caught the sai ba, minibus, on Market Street, its harried driver bouncing his passengers toward the Williamsburg Bridge, back to Sunset Park.
In his studio apartment, Jack changed into a black suit, over which he’d planned to wear an all-weather jacket. He tossed a permanent-press shirt and another dark suit into a backpack. He checked his Colt Special, and his badge. The kitchen garbage bag went into the hallway chute.
He made sure his studio’s windows were secured, locked, with the shades drawn. It wasn’t that he was planning a long trip but in Brooklyn, New York, it was better to be paranoid than sorry.
Knowing that the Chinese drivers were experts at skirting the traffic bottlenecks en route to JFK, he called one of the see gay radio cars from Eighth Avenue.
The flight was delayed.
Jack purchased a plastic disposable camera, and tried to work up a profile of Eddie while he waited. Eddie Ng, the ma lo, monkey; bad monkey. Shorty, the Red Star gang member as a juvenile, breaking-and-entering raps, the tattoos. What part had he played in the Ghosts shoot-out? What was the beef between him and the gang vic in Doyers alley, Koo Jai, a.k.a. Kid Koo?
Seattle was known for its great outdoors activities but Jack didn’t feel that Chinatown-wise Eddie was a sailing, kayaking, biking, and hiking kind of guy, especially in the raw weather patterns of the Northwest. Indoors, figured Jack, but probably not bowling, movies, anything like that. He’d want to go somewhere he could blend in, or be left alone. Something solitary. He didn’t figure to stray too far from Chinatown, risk losing his invisibility.
He found a seat near the boarding gate and fought the urge to close his eyes and catch an hour’s worth of power nap.
Curious George the monkey came to mind….
Shorty
Watching the eight ball, near the side pocket, he knew it was an easy shot. He saw the nine ball next, at the other end of the table, almost against the short rail, two feet from either corner pocket. He casually blew blue chalk off the tip of the stick, put English on the cue-ball stroke, and pocketed the eight. He hadn’t put enough draw behind the spin, however. Shit, he cursed quietly.
He’d played it wrong and the white cue ball rolled to the middle of the table, leaving him a long stretch and a hard angle cut-shot to the corners. He’d have to slice the nine ball razor thin and then hope it didn’t graze too much rail and bounce.
He chalked up the stick again, scanning the run-down Filipino community center. Most of the kids had gone and it was quiet.
On his tiptoes he leaned full-length across the table and stroked the shot carefully, focused on the slice. He finally flicked his wrist and the white cue ball nipped the edge of the yellow nine, sending it along the rail into the corner pocket, the ball plopping into the worn leather netting that hung beneath the table.
Fuck yeah! he grinned, dew chut! Willie fuckin’ Mosconi.
He took a breath, saw the dark afternoon outside the center’s windows, snow threatened in the forecast. His grin turned into a frown as he checked his watch, considering playing one last rack of balls before calling his amigos.
Night Games
The sky was roiling darkness when Jack landed at Sea-Tac at almost 6 PM.
He took an airport shuttle to the Courtyard and checked in. Seattle television news filled the lobby bar, live coverage of a double shooting in the Madrona Park district. Such shootings were routine in New York, thought Jack.
One of the victims was believed to be a city councilman’s son. There was a sense of urgency in the administration’s tone, and police officials looked grim.
His motel room was small and Jack was glad he had traveled light. He remembered that Alex had a series of workshops scheduled, then a dinner party. He tried calling her room via the front desk but there was no answer.
He washed his face and executed a few shaolin stretching exercises to take the stiffness from the long airplane ride out of his joints.
The concierge ordered up a car th
at took him to Seattle Police Headquarters in the West Precinct, which included Chinatown and the I.D., the International District.
Cops
Jack presented his NYPD identification and detective’s gold shield to the cop at the desk. They perused one another’s badges momentarily. Jack noticed the Seattle badge had a spread eagle perched on top of the shield with a star in the middle. Not as round as Jack’s badge, more pointed.
The young cop at the duty desk had a fresh face and wore a light blue regulation uniform and had a military haircut. The three hash marks on his shirtsleeve meant he had at least three years on the job.
“I’m looking for a person of interest,” explained Jack.
“The detectives are out right now,” the duty cop replied, snapping shut Jack’s badge wallet and handing it back.
“I’m reaching out to them any way I can. I’m only here in Seattle over the weekend.”
A moment of sympathy crossed the young cop’s face, after which he replied, “All the detectives are out chasing a red ball. They’re after POIs, too, but there’s fresh blood here.”
“You’re referring to Madrona Park?” Jack asked, knowing that “red ball” meant an all-out manic manhunt for perps.
“Correct,” the cop replied hesitantly, surprised at Jack’s knowledge. “But you can leave a voice mail. Or a note. Or you can wait if you like.” He gestured toward a wooden bench.
No time to wait, thought Jack, offering his PBA card. “I’d appreciate if someone could call me. Anytime.”
“No disrespect,” the young cop offered, “but honestly, I don’t know when any of the detectives will be back. This could go on all night, maybe all tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’m staying at the airport motel, the Courtyard.”
“Ten-four,” the cop acknowledged. Jack wondered if he’d ever seen a Chinese cop before.
Jack left headquarters and walked through the misting night. Figuring that Alex would be at her dinner deal, he decided to call her later. Chinatown was nearby and he headed in that direction. He knew he couldn’t cover all the Chinese restaurants in Seattle, but he wanted to check out the locals, maybe have dinner in one of them.
Walking the small grid of streets, he realized that the names of the restaurants were just like those in New York and in other Chinatowns he’d visited: Canton House; Golden Phoenix; China Dragon; Hong Kong Harbor; May Lay Satay; Hunan Palace; King Mandarin; Kau Kau.
He decided not to flash his badge; he didn’t want to scare up local talk that could warn or spook Eddie. In his quiet Cantonese, he informed the waiter that he was awaiting a party of two, and asked if he could use the washroom.
“Of course,” answered the waiter, pointing the way. To and from the washroom, Jack was able view the kitchen help, peeping at them in case one was a Chinese shorty. Jack repeated this in six different restaurants, finding nothing, before he felt hungry enough to have dinner. It was already after 8 PM when he chose May Lay Satay, ordering Singapore rice noodles with a side of roti canai, keeping his eyes on the kitchen area.
Maybe Patrol would pick up something down the line, he thought, after the red ball.
The food was good but he didn’t see anyone remotely resembling Little Eddie.
He remembered that he needed a map and the White Pages, so he requested them from the Courtyard concierge. It was after 9 PM and he called Alex in her hotel room.
“Hey,” she said, fatigue edging her voice.
“Done already?” Jack asked.
“They went drinking,” she said, annoyed. “Macho stuff, when we have an early morning tomorrow. I’m presenting at the youth awards breakfast.”
“Don’t feel like drinking?” teased Jack.
“I had drinks at dinner.” Alex yawned. “And I’ve been up since dawn.”
He’d thought she’d be ready for a nightcap but said, “Okay, I get it. You’re beat.”
“Right, I’m tired and I don’t need to go drinking.”
He wasn’t sure if she was referring to the CADS or dropping him a hint.
“You’re right,” he said, “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“I’m free around mid-afternoon,” she offered, some cheer in her voice. “We can make up for that rain check, maybe.”
Mid-afternoon, thought Jack, replying, “Sure, let’s see what happens.” Play it by ear.
“Okay then, call me,” she said. “Or leave me a message.”
“Sure thing, ten-four,” he kidded. “And good night.” He heard the click at her end as she hung up.
Jack considered snooping at a few more restaurants but it was already nine thirty, and the dinner crowd would be a wrap. He peered into the alleys of the restaurants he passed along the way, watching out for any short da jop, kitchen help, bringing out the black plastic bags of restaurant garbage.
He’d have to get back to his room, a half-hour ride to the motel. He purchased a tour map at a Jackson Street gift shop, noting the areas around the International District, assessing the ground he’d have to cover in the sixty hours he had left.
After Jack got back to the Courtyard, the concierge sent up a White Pages and a general street map of the city as requested. Plotting out his strategy, Jack knew he’d have to get an early start. It would be a busy Saturday morning and he had a hunch he wanted to follow up on.
But what if his hunch was all wrong? Eddie would have to find work but if he was an American-born Chinese, ABC, or jook sing, then he wouldn’t be limited to Chinese-language-only businesses.
Maybe he didn’t need to work and was just hanging out, enjoying his freedom. But where would he hang out?
Jack considered Chinese videotape shops where Eddie might rent kung fu movies, or porno flicks. He wondered if Eddie visited Asian massage parlors. In the morning, Jack knew, he’d have to check the Seattle Chinese directories.
For local traffic and news he powered on the television and caught an update on the Madrona Park shootings: three juvenile gangbangers had robbed and shot up an indoor hydroponic marijuana farm not far from the golf course. Two dead. Two wounded, critically. And the report confirmed that one of the dead had indeed been the son of a city councilman.
The news program followed with a special presentation about new-age pot growers in the Emerald Triangle of the Northwest. He turned off the TV.
He took out the evidence from the 0-Five and spread the array of data along the edge of his bed. Eddie’s juvenile poster and gang information. The little gray .22-caliber slug. There was a photo, and a note listing the serial numbers of the Rado and Movado wristwatches taken from the victims.
The story the Boston Chinese kid caught in the traffic stop had told him echoed in his ears. Was the Seattle connection just pure bullshit?
Jack considered visiting the local Chinese associations, but decided not to blow his cover yet. He didn’t want to warn them off by broadcasting his investigation. Check the streets, Billy had advised; street guys always wind up back on the street.
He felt thirsty and drained one of the little bottles of vodka from the minibar. He opened the White Pages and spread the maps on the carpet. He resisted a second bottle as he drew a big circle around the International District and West Seattle. As he started plotting the businesses and addresses he wondered how much of a Chinaman’s chance his investigation really had.
Hoping for a call from Seattle PD, he fell asleep thinking about red balls and yellow killers.
Cleansing
The Spa Garden, with its mix of fake and real greenery, its soft wood tones, and its cheery check-in counter, had seemed more like a yoga or fitness club than the glorified massage parlor that it was.
Mona had estimated that the spa was roughly a half-mile walk from her basement place on James Street, a trek that brought her to Union Place just under the freeway. She considered the walk as exercise, the air clean and revitalizing, a way to energize her legs and lungs. The walk would be followed by a two-hour session at the spa that c
onsisted of thirty minutes reflexology, thirty minutes deep massage (neck and shoulders), ten minutes hot whirlpool, thirty minutes sauna/steamroom/shower, capped off with a healthy chirashi salad and Relaxation green tea from the on-site commissary.
The spa was the one indulgence she allowed herself, a ritual she brought from New York, the need to cleanse her body and also dissolve the toxins in her spiritual heart.
She kept a fresh change of clothes, and $666 in cash in her locker.
She’d jog the half mile back, then visit Chinatown to replenish her provisions.
The Spa Garden, as Mona quickly discovered, was Taiwanese-owned and operated. The facility provided a range of services, from facials to manicures and pedicures, from massage to waxing, and could readily manage eight clients during peak times. There were two large steam-room units and three hot tubs, and the manager, a fortyish Taiwanese woman, spoke enough Cantonese in response to Mona’s clipped Mandarin that they’d been able to set up a membership plan.
Mona planned to dedicate two hours a week to the spa but was unsure about how many months she’d use the services. She signed up for a monthly membership instead of an annual plan. Cash, of course.
Many of the clients were Caucasian women, which conveniently allowed Mona to keep her distance, playing up her inability to speak English. “No speakee Englee,” she’d learned to say.
The Garden also featured a backyard sundeck that opened onto a view of a waterfront park. The deck included three round tables under large red beach umbrellas, a vantage point that looked out over Elliott Bay.
Water Becomes Water
She caressed the charm even as the masseuse’s strong fingers worked the soles of her feet, pressed into her neck and back, even as hot water and steam drew her blood to the skin’s surface. The heated red jade bangle seemed to glow in the hot mist.
It was the deep massage that cleared the tension and the bad chi from her muscles, that broke up the knots across her shoulders, but it was the steam that drove the demons from her soul.