Cale Dixon and the Moguk Murders

by David Dagley

  A deformed man, wearing a soiled short–sleeve, blue, but-ton-down shirt and tattered khaki shorts, pulled himself along the pavement with two wooden blocks strapped to his contorted hands. The man pushed a small red plastic basket in front of him with a few baht coins swaying back and forth as he lurched after it. He repeated the process as he moved down the sidewalk. As Cale passed in the opposite direction, he leaned down and dropped some coins into the basket without breaking stride. The man clapped his blocks together, dropped his head, then brought his hands to his chest as a gesture of humble thanks, and continued on his way.

  Cale crossed the main street where three side streets merged on the opposite side. He turned onto one of the side streets where four jewelry store signs hung in the diesel-scented morning heat. Cale slowed his pace as he walked past the jewelry stores, looking at their merchandise through the windows, then returned to the first store. There were no customers inside. There was a tall thin Thai woman behind the counter wearing a black dress and a string of large pearls loosely doubled around her neck.

  Before Cale was halfway in the door, she greeted him, “Hello, can I help you find something? Are you looking for yourself or a woman? Do you want gold? Silver? Rings? Necklace? Bracelet? Pearls?” She touched her pearl necklace gracefully and intently concentrated on Cale’s lips, waiting for her potential customer to speak.

  Cale responded slowly, “Actually, I’m looking for someone who could help me with some stones I have, a stone dealer, perhaps?”

  She ignored him or didn’t understand what Cale had said. She asked, “You want diamonds? We have very good quality.” She walked behind a case made of double glass. She palmed the top edge of the case and gracefully slid her hands to the teak wood corner covers; her fingers, with immaculate nails, lifted. She smiled, not showing her teeth.

  Cale apologized politely and spoke deliberately, “I’m sorry. I’m not buying. I have some stones. I want to know what kind they are and how much they are worth. Can I speak to your buyer or appraiser?”

  She became visibly upset. Raising a palm at Cale, waving it rapidly back and forth, she said, “Sorry. No. Sorry.” She walked to another case, “You want maybe sapphire? Australian opal? New Zealand jade? Indonesian pearl? We have.”

  “No, thank you.” Cale backed up to the door and went out with a wave. He decided to pass the two stores in the middle and went straight for the furthest shop, considering another approach. He walked into the air-conditioned shop with a chill. Two women stood quietly smiling. Another walked in from the backroom, holding some small boxes filled with jewelry pieces in little ziplock plastic bags. She saw Cale and greeted him, “Welcome. Please look around. And if you have any question, let me know.”

  “Thank you. I have a question.” Cale walked towards the case she stood behind and continued, “I am looking for someone to help me with some stones I have.”

  “Oh, I see. Are you selling them?”

  “I don’t know. Is someone here that has the time to appraise them for me?”

  “One minute, please.” The woman passed the small boxes of jewelry to one of the two clerks and told her in Thai where to put the pieces. The woman turned to Cale and asked, “May I see one of your stones, please?”

  Cale reached into his pocket, popped open his film container, poured the two stones out in his palm, and he handed her one. The stones sparkled red.

  “Rubies. Good quality color. Where did you get them?” she inquired with admiration.

  Cale felt like lying, “A gift.”

  She smiled, looked up at Cale, then put her hand over her teeth, holding back an obvious call of bullshit laugh, “A gift? Very nice. One moment, please.” She handed Cale back his stone, turned to duck into a back hall, and called out, “Yongyot?”

  Cale could only hear Thai whispers between the woman and a man. Cale looked into one of the showcases of diamonds. He saw what looked like a Kokopele figurine made of gold and diamonds, arched into a bracelet. He pointed at the bracelet, looked at the idle clerk, and asked, “How much is this bracelet?”

  She looked terrified. She shook her head and looked at the other clerk pulling pieces of jewelry out of the little plastic bags. They both laughed nervously, neither speaking a word of English. Cale understood and smiled back.

  An elderly man emerged out of the back hallway, wearing imitation blue jeans and an imitation polo shirt. “Hello. My name is Yongyot. Will you come into my office, please?” Yongyot split an opening in a curtain of threaded plastic beads for Cale to pass between. Cale stepped through as the man continued, with the movement of his hand leading the way. The elderly man turned the corner with Cale and walked into a closet office with a desk and two chairs. White cardboard boxes and displays of stones were neatly and compactly stacked to the ceiling everywhere. There was a small workbench with a grinding wheel and a polishing wheel perpendicular to his desk. Yongyot asked, “Would you like something to drink?” I have coffee, tea, beer, and whiskey.”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. My name is Cale Dixon. I’m from America. I was curious if you could help me with these stones?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I can help you, but I will have to charge you an appraisal fee and for any extra time spent. Okay?”

  “Sure, that’s fine. How much will you charge?”

  “Today is your lucky day. I will charge you one hundred U.S. dollars.”

  Cale knew that was coming and responded to the negotiation, “I have fifty dollars. Is that enough?”

  Yongyot thought about it and agreed to go to plan ‘B,’ “That should be sufficient for now.”

  Cale reached into his chest pocket, pulled out a predestined fifty, put it on the table in front of Yongyot, and said, “I need to know as much as possible about these stones; name, where from, appraisal value, and their history, if you can.”

  “Old story,” replied Yongyot. He held out his hand and asked, “May I take a closer look?”

  Cale handed him his film container.

  Yongyot turned on a light and habitually moved a large magnifying glass into place. He poured the stones out on a piece of white silk, pinched one of the rubies with a pair of tweezers, and set it in a small cradle under the magnifying glass. Yongyot sat silently, rotating the stone and studying its characteristics. When he was satisfied, he replaced the stone on the silk and reached for the other stone. While he turned the second stone, Yongyot asked, “Do you have more of these stones?”

  Cale thought about it for a minute, “Yeah, I have a whole bag of these stones.”

  Yongyot put the stone back in the film container, and handed it to Cale, then drew a pack of cigarettes out of his desk drawer, offering one to Cale.

  Cale denied with a wave across his lap.

  Yongyot lit his cigarette and leaned back while he asked, “How big is this bag?”

  “The size of a rattan ball,” Cale touched his fingers together with both hands forming a sphere.

  Yongyot nodded his head languidly as he tilted forward, watching Cale through the smoke filling the small office rapidly, and said, “Without further analysis, I cannot be one hundred percent sure, but ninety-nine point nine percent sure, yes. I believe these stones are Moguk stones. I cannot appraise them fully at this point, but if these are natural, meaning not treated in any way, then you have a small fortune on your hands. Of course, it depends on the sizes and conditions of the stones.” Yongyot saw the blank look on Cale’s face, so he continued, “These stones are from Burma. The government now calls it Myanmar.” He watched Cale come to awareness and leaned back in his chair while inhaling on his smoke. “What line of work do you do back in America, Mr. Dixon?”

  “I’m a research investigator for the police in Northern California. These stones were found at the scene of a crime,” answered Cale.

  “They pay you to come over here and ask questions, Detective?”

  “No. I’m on a vacation. I’m actually thinking of going to Burma to find out more about these stones. I remember
ed these shops were here from the last time I was in Bangkok. I thought I would try to get more information.”

  “You always carry evidence around in a film canister, Mr. Dixon?”

  Cale didn’t know how to answer him, so he lied, “I signed them out so I could have a sample of what I was looking for once I got here.”

  Yongyot was not comfortable. He asked Cale straight out, “Are you investigating me and my shop, or are you merely asking questions and in need of an expert’s knowledge?”

  “Exactly. I picked you by chance and just simply need to know,” responded Cale.

  Yongyot reached for a Johnny Walker Red bottle and two glasses and proceeded to fill them both half full. He opened a small freezer and pulled out a tray of ice. “I can tell you their worth in a few hours and some of their properties and history in a few days, but it would cost you more than fifty dollars.”

  Cale smiled at Yongyot and said, “Well, can you give me the fifty-dollar version now? And if I have more questions, I’ll come back to you better prepared.”

  Yongyot laughed, “Of course, no problem, no problem. My ben lie.” He handed Cale a glass of Johnny Walker and raised his up to Cale’s. Yongyot looked at the remaining stone on the silk while thinking. He finally spoke, “You said you might go to Burma?”

  Cale nodded and said, “Yeah, kind of a working holiday.”

  Yongyot raised a finger and explained, “I have many friends in Burma. One of them is a jeweler. Good man. Professional stone cutter and dealer on both sides of the law. I buy many stones from him and his family. We are old friends, and he is very knowledgeable in this area. As long as you are not investigating us, I don’t see any harm in helping you.”

  “In America I take care of my contacts, otherwise they become my enemy. I don’t need enemies. I need information,” explained Cale.

  “Then my friends and I will be kept out of harm’s way as well?”

  “Completely.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Yongyot pointed to the stone in the cradle and continued, “These are some of the highest quality Moguk stones I have seen in a long time. This is what my friend in Burma works with in his jewelry, and his father did, and his father’s father did the same for the British. My guess is that the bag of rubies are made up of five to ten-plus carat stones, maybe some higher. These stones in their original form have some differences from say, Thai, Kenyan, or Tanzania, rubies. There are also some other stones that, with applied heat, try to imitate the Moguk stone. These fakes can be traced to the ruby belt between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where people try to sell their stones as Moguk stones. But they are not. Also, people wouldn’t kill people for anything but the real thing.”

  Cale smiled at the old man knowingly and continued to listen.

  Yongyot paused, trying to read Cale’s body language, waiting for a moment before he exposed the differences. He explained as briefly as possible, “The difference is somewhere between the glow of the stone and the attraction to the glow—you know, luster, sparkle, and fluorescence. An imitation is without it; or a reheated stone may clear up the color, but the luster will be dull or not there at all.” Yongyot looked at Cale, weighing the price of the lesson. “Listen, my friend, I cannot explain what you need to know in fifty dollars, and further research is needed to locate the exact province where these stones were mined, if in fact they were. It’s the only way to be sure if the stone is significant in your case. How long will you be staying in Asia?”

  “Two weeks plus sick days in reserve,” answered Cale.

  “Two weeks. Not much time. Okay, I want to give you your fifty dollars back, and you let me have one stone to study. I suggest you go to Burma. Find my friend. Talk with him about Moguk stones. When you come back, I will know everything about this stone. With a bag of stones the size of a coconut, it should be possible to find the seller, if it is not the military.” Yongyot nodded confidently and repeated, “Possible. My friend will know your seller and possibly give up the name of the buyer, with a donation. Possible, I am sure. In any case, I will locate the area, the value, give you a short lesson in gemology, and return your stone to you for one hundred dollars.” Yongyot began writing down his friend’s address and a small map showing where the man has his shop. “I suggest that you do not take any Moguk stones into Burma; they might not make it back out.” Yongyot finished drawing his map. “This information would cost you a great deal more in your country. But for me, I mean it when I say I haven’t seen this quality in a long time. I gratefully accept a challenge in my field while business is slow. Mr. Dixon, have you ever been to Burma?”

  Cale nodded.

  Yongyot stood up and handed Cale his fifty dollars and the address of his friend as Cale stood. They shook hands over the desk.

  Cale read the address and announced, “Mandalay. Cop Khun cop.” Cale half bowed.

  Yongyot did the same and led Cale out of the closet office with a graceful backhand wave towards the little door. Cale ducked under the header beam as he entered the corridor and turned left out into the showroom.

  Yongyot followed Cale out to the edge of the air-conditioning and began talking louder as Cale moved away, “To get to Burma embassy and begin paperwork, it takes one, maybe two, days and eight hundred baht, or maybe a little more. You can get an airline ticket across the street from the embassy. The travel agency is called Lucky Duck Travel. They are one of the cheapest airline ticket places around. Some others are cheaper, but why search? Go back one block to your left and follow it around to the embassy. I will contact my friend in Burma. He will be a big help to you, I think. He knows many people. If you get lost in Mandalay, show someone that you can trust the map. Good luck, and I will see you when you return.”

  —

  15

  —

  Cale boarded a Biman Airline plane headed for Rangoon. He sat with his knees and feet against the carpet-lined divider between first class and coach, noting that some unfortunate nonsmoker must have sat across the aisle from him in a recent epic adventure on the aircraft, due to the angle of a vomit projection crusting on the blue divider curtain. The plane crossed over a Malaysian mountain range with a few air pocket pressure drops and rolling jabs. Cale pulled up in his seat and looked over his shoulder to scan the rest of the people on the plane. It was oddly quiet. Cale saw a young white woman with light brown dreadlocks sitting alone staring out the window of the plane. She was half curled up, holding her knees, wearing a tattered pair of military issue pants and a soiled yellow linen shirt with a colorfully knit vest. She seemed supported by the curved wall of the plane. Cale thought about her, trying to picture her present state of being. He decided that she had come down from the mountains north of Chaing Mai to find the pulse of the opium poppy. A Dutchman and a Frenchman were smoking cigarettes at the back of the plane. The only person interrupting the layer of smoke was the seldom-seen stewardess. She wore a blue traditional Indian costume covering up everything but her hands and part of her face above her nose. It didn’t seem compatible with accidents or emergencies. A red dot rode her brow. Cale turned forward and closed his eyes, drifting into memories of past trips to Burma and the military boys: “Welcome to Myanmar because we need your money.”

  He remembered not to be in hurry getting off the plane because the first few have to get cash at the airport bank where the exchange rate was blatant robbery. If he could just carry on and get out of the airport, he could get to the black market exchange, which was considerably better for travelers. The black market segued his thoughts to the government registration of everything that makes money, including drugs, slavery, smuggling, and money itself. Burma had always been a crossroads for traders of every race that passed through its borders.

  The sky was dark by the time the plane landed in Rangoon. Cale walked right past the gun-toting guards and out of the building, with his eyes focused on a minivan taxi queue. He didn’t want his money to go straight into the pockets of the military, but rather into the fabric of th
e people that lived under the military thumb. After haggling with the driver for a minute, they were off for the black market money exchange and a hotel Cale knew of near the center of town and the Shwe Pagoda.

  Cale dropped his bag off at his room and went upstairs to the restaurant with a light manila case folder of photocopies and a few duplicate pictures of the murder case. There wasn’t anybody in the restaurant, so he picked a table and put his folder on it and sat in a wicker chair, taking a deep breath. A dark-faced Burmese man wearing a white button-down shirt and black slacks came out of the kitchen entryway and walked towards Cale.

  “Hello,” greeted the waiter. He handed Cale a menu and stood motionless, pen poised on a tablet, ready to take Cale’s order.

  “Can I have some curried chicken, a side of rice, two bottles of water, and a Mandalay beer, big, please?” Cale handed the menu back, and the waiter moved off, slaloming through the tables towards the kitchen.

  A woman walked into the restaurant and caught the waiter before he disappeared into the kitchen, “Excuse me, can I get a Mandalay, big, please?” She wore a black, long-sleeve blouse of rough silk, linen pants dyed olive green, and well-worn simple leather sandals. A silver anklet jingled and flashed as she moved.

  Cale noticed how completely tan she appeared. A boar tusk bracelet draped loosely around her wrist.