take over aspects of the family business.
“My brother had evidently purchased this item,” Malcolm went on. “It is supposed to be one of a set of three.” Mae held her face immobile. She recognized the Kuanyin’s style. It matched the two she had taken home.
“Did you wish to return the item?”
“I don’t know…if the other two are available, I’d like them, I guess.”
Mae leaned over the counter. She exposed her small cleavage to good advantage. Malcolm carefully averted his eyes. Bosoms were not to his taste.
“Did Ms. Dee send you?” Mae’s voice was sharp.
“Who?”
“Ms. Vanna Dee. Did she send you?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t know Vanna Dee. Has she been here trying to pass herself off as my sister?” Malcolm’s anger thickened his tenor voice to almost a hoarse base. He was growing red in the face.
“She said she was the secretary of the original purchaser, and wanted to come by to pick the article up. I checked with both of the Misters Wong. The purchaser had taken it with him.”
“Was the purchaser a large man, perhaps dressed in a red dragon robe?”
“Mr. Wong, Mr. Waylon Wong, waited on him. He remarked that the man was a Caucasian dressed as a Chinese Mandarin of the T’ang Dynasty. He thought it in very poor taste.”
“That sounds like my half-brother, Quigley Drye. Quig had no taste.” Malcolm unconsciously brushed an imagined speck from his right lapel. “This artifact was among the possessions he carried when he died.”
“He is dead?”
“In the quake. Part of a freeway overpass fell on him. Quite flattened him.”
“Ms. Dee wished to have me be an agent for her in acquiring the other two for her employer.”
“Quig employs no one, now. I shall have to contemplate legal action against Ms. Dee; I have already advised the police of her fraudulent representation of herself as a Drye sister.”
Mae spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I own the other two statues. A street thief brought them in a few days ago. Without the third, they are worth little. Even as a set, they are crude Qing Dynasty work. I do not know how this shop got the one you have; the ones I bought obviously came from some of the rubble in the City.”
“According to the notes my brother kept, they were worth a great deal to someone in China,” Malcolm said, “but only as a set of three.”
“This is not a good place for us to talk; I do not want to jeopardize my employment with the Wong brothers. What is your name, sir?”
“Malcolm. Malcolm Drye.”
“Mr. Drye, I am Mae Ling.” She wrote an address on a piece of paper. “Come tonight to see me at this address. It is public enough we may both feel safe, and private enough we may conduct business in private. Perhaps we can discover what makes these clay figures valuable, and come to some agreement about sharing their value.”
Malcolm took the piece of paper. He recognized the address of the Palace of the Jaded Concubine, a discreet restaurant that catered to a clientele desirous of privacy. He had used it himself on those few occasions his date for the evening required absolute discretion.
“I know this place. I’ll be there,” he said. “At what time, and for whom shall I ask?”
“At seven, I think, before the place is too filled and busy. Ask for White Lotus. You may identify yourself as the Lesser Dragon. I will arrange for our meeting. The owner is a relative.”
“Done,” Malcolm said. “Until seven, then.” He waved as he left the shop.
News from Greeley
Ben received a news clipping and obituary from Highland Ewall, his professor’s lover. A graduate student, furious that his wife was having an affair with a professor, shot and killed John Dilbert Doe by mistake, thinking him to be the adulterer. Ben read them in shock.
Ben Soul
817 Lost Sombrero Lane
Cowpens, CA
July 7, 1979
Ben Soul:
It is my sad duty to tell you our beloved Dill has passed away, the victim of mistaken identity and a murderer’s bullet. We buried him in Denver June 30th. I’ve enclosed a newspaper clipping with further information.
In sad sincerity,
Highland Ewall
Professor Slain
Greeley, CO, June 21, 1979—A professor was shot today on the CSC campus. Professor John Dilber Doe was walking from one class to the next when a graduate student leaped from a spireia hedge and fired three shots at the professor. One shot struck him squarely in the heart. He died instantly at the scene.
Campus police apprehended the shooter after a short chase. The shooter, as yet unidentified, claimed Professor Doe was romantically involved with his wife.
The shooter’s wife, also unnamed by police, admitted she was involved with a professor on campus, but vehemently avowed it was not Professor Doe she was involved with. Police investigation continues.
Ben wrote condolences to Highland.
Highland Ewall
1868 Forgotten Lane
Greeley, CO
July 18, 1979
Highland Ewall
Your news shocked me. I have trouble imagining all that vitality stilled. Dill was always so vigorous. I can still hear his laughter. I can still hear him boring through the bullshit to make a profound point. I will miss him.
Let this be my testimonial to him that you ask for. I wandered into his class because I thought he was a dynamo, not because I had any interest in philosophy. Within a lecture or two, he had me fascinated with playing ideas against each other. Soon he included me in several informal seminars at his home. He confronted me with my sexuality.
I was profoundly disturbed that anyone had divined my difference. He helped me understand what a gift my difference could be by telling me his own life history. I’ve learned since he’d done similar things for a lot of other young gay men who were struggling to come out. How ironic it is, for him to have died for the reason he did.
How did that graduate student ever mistake Dill for the professor who seduced his wife? Well, leave that to the law to punish.
Do take care of yourself, Hi. If you come this way, drop by to see me and I’ll introduce you to Len.
Ben
Ben did not hear from Highland Ewall again.
At the Palace of the Jaded Concubine
The Palace of the Jaded Concubine did not advertise its presence with neon. One entered its foyer through a small red door set in a brick wall along an alley of the City. In the foyer a young man dressed in what Malcolm thought of as a Fu Manchu costume, a long black robe, a stiff black square hat almost like a mortarboard, and long drooping moustaches, obviously false, greeted him.
“This is a private establishment,” the young man intoned.
“The Lesser Dragon is here to dine with White Lotus.”
“Of course, sir. Right this way.”
The young man led Malcolm through a discreet black door behind a richly embroidered wall hanging. The interior of the Palace, reserved for the privileged, was a long corridor flanked on either side by booths of dark rosewood. Dim lights provided only enough illumination to keep one’s feet on the dark red carpet. Many of the booths had curtains made of glass bead strings that distorted and deflected both sight and sound from within the booths.
A portly man of solemn mien came out of the men’s room at the far end of the corridor and entered a booth near the point Malcolm and his escort had reached. The portly man brushed aside the beaded curtains, and said “Hello, Peter,” to someone inside. The portly man’s voice oozed mellifluous menace.
The person inside said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Sidney.” Malcolm guessed the accent was possibly French; his voice held a perpetual whining undertone as menacing as the portly man’s mellow tones.
Malcolm’s escort knocked discreetly at a solid door on the right hand side of the corridor near the end with the restrooms. A voice
said something Malcolm couldn’t quite make out.
“I bring the Lesser Dragon,” his escort said.
Mae Ling opened the door. To Malcolm’s surprise she wore a simple sheathe, dark green in color, with matching pumps. He had expected something more ornate, more like a geisha’s kimono and obi. She peered at him, and nodded.
“Come in,” she said. “I have ordered for us. A chef will serve us soon. We may discuss business after we have eaten.” She stood aside so Malcolm could enter. Yellow ginger jar lamps with red paper shades lit the room dimly. Malcolm thought it dark and mysterious. Incense had burned in the room, though none was burning now. Malcolm thought the stale sweetness in the air stuffy and the psychic atmosphere threatening. He took the seat Mae indicated for him. Again a discreet knock at the door.
“Enter,” Mae Ling said.
A man, neither old nor young, yet somehow more boy in appearance than man, opened the door and pushed a small metal cart in. He swiftly pushed the cart into a corner. Malcolm recognized him from previous visits. He was the one they called Toy Boy. Malcolm had not realized he was also a chef.
“We will begin,” Toy Boy said, “with sliced jellyfish and Golden Wontons.” He opened his cart to reveal a work surface and a burner with a wok. First Toy Boy lit the burner. Then he stooped, took out ingredients from behind the doors of the cart, and put them on the work area. The jellyfish was already sliced and on chilled plates. Toy Boy set these plates before Mae Ling and Malcolm. Chopsticks lay beside their place settings.
“Enjoy,” Mae Ling said, and deftly picked up a ring of jellyfish with her chopsticks and brought it to her lips. Malcolm followed
Ben Soul Page 41