by S. G. Wong
“Here.” Elaine steered Lola to a sofa patterned with dark stripes. Lola squinted in the glare from the windows. Elaine pointed a finger at her. “Don’t get up.” She drew the draperies.
“Pass me that package, would you? Feels a shame not to have something for my troubles.”
Elaine retrieved a large yellow envelope and a silver letter opener from the maple bureau. She held out both to Lola then sat at the far end of the sofa.
Aubrey made a sound of interest. “There’s no return address, but I can tell you right now it’s from the Gaming Commission. Same feeling as their Wards,” he explained.
Lola hesitated with the letter opener. “Is it from Copenhagen?” she asked.
Aubrey took a moment before answering. “I can’t tell. Perhaps. There is more than just the one—scent.” A pause. “I can’t pinpoint them all.”
“Can you tie any of it to your memory of her office? Her mansion?” Lola spoke while staring at the envelope.
Elaine was clearly interested as she watched Lola talk to the invisible Ghost. Lola shooed her away, but Elaine merely grimaced at her.
Aubrey replied after another short pause. “There. Yes. It’s her.”
“Perhaps something more to rub in my face,” murmured Lola, slitting the envelope along one end. She tipped out the contents. A medium-sized leather-bound ledger and a smaller envelope tumbled out into her lap. She reached for the small sealed envelope first, wondering if it contained an explanation. Instead, another sheaf of papers and a now tediously familiar photograph of the newly wed Mr. and Mrs. Martin Lee III.
“That photo seems to get around,” said Aubrey.
“Handsome couple like that, why not,” replied Lola absently. She riffled through the papers.
“Ah, the mysterious missing pages from your file,” deduced Aubrey. “Why has she changed her mind?”
Lola was onto the ledger now. It was an accounts book. Neat blue script inked out names, dates and amounts. Lola flipped quickly to the end, then returned to the first page.
Elaine stood. “I have the feeling I’m better off not knowing.”
“Now you say that?” Lola retorted, exasperated,
Elaine returned the look with a smile. “Have a care you don’t run yourself ragged today, boss-lady.” She brought over coffee and began clearing the breakfast table.
Lola’s attention flared back to the ledger in her hands. She read each page carefully, trying to calculate and collate in her mind. Aubrey remained silent. She presumed he was reading and thinking on his own. The clatter of dishes and the sound of running taps formed their accompaniment.
Finally, Lola looked up, her eyes distant. After a moment, she stood and went to the windows. She impatiently pulled aside the drapes and stared through narrowed eyes at the sprawling view below her.
“What’s she playing at? Why take the pages out only to send them to me? And with this ledger?” muttered Lola.
“Perhaps she’s being manipulated against her will?” said Aubrey. “She’s sending these pages to prove good faith? After all, that ledger’s pretty damning. She wants you to trust her so you’ll know it’s real.”
“Does she?” Lola shook her head. “I don’t buy it. She’s playing some hand I can’t even begin to see,” Lola murmured. She turned around and stared at the neat little black accounts book. “I know it’s real. I saw him, didn’t I? I saw him...” Lola trailed off.
“What are you thinking?” asked Aubrey.
Lola was silent a beat longer. “I think we owe Mr. Arbogast that update.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lola stopped in the lobby to speak to Mr. Wang. The grey-haired man unfolded himself from behind the reception desk, patting his China Times smooth on the desk. He offered a small, polite smile from his lofty height. Having learned from long experience, Lola halted just far enough away to avoid having to crane her head back to look into Mr. Wang’s face as they spoke.
“Just wondering about the messenger this morning, Mr. Wang.”
“Yes? A child in his twenties. He stopped long enough to collect my signature and tip his hat.”
“Nothing about the sender?”
Mr. Wang shook his head sadly. “The boy was minimally civil.” He stepped back to his desk and picked up a card. He handed it to Lola with a tiny bow of his head. “Perhaps this might help you.”
Pattison Messengers Limited.
Cordial service. Competitive Rates.
Hastings 4397
“No address. Hastings...don’t know it,” she murmured.
“No.” Mr. Wang smoothed a sleeve of his navy silk miehn-lahp. The subtle pattern of Chinese symbols flashed quickly, then disappeared against its dark background. “The boy’s name tag said Lyle.”
Lola thanked the tall, gaunt man and asked to use the office telephone. Mr. Wang nodded and led her to the administrative office just to the right of the lobby. A door, patterned to match the wall, stood at the far end of the elevators. Mr. Wang used a key to unlock it. He stood aside to allow Lola to pass by. It wasn’t much larger than the alcove at Lucky Bamboo, she thought, although the furnishings were of higher quality.
Mr. Wang said, “Simply close the door firmly when you exit. It shall lock with an audible sound.” He bowed slightly again and left.
Lola dialed the messenger’s office and asked to speak with Lyle. A young-sounding girl replied in a dull voice that he was on a delivery. She asked for particulars on Lola’s package and its destination; she would see if she could slot it in on Lyle’s schedule. Lola explained her purpose in calling. The girl’s voice cooled but she obliged. After a few moments of dead air, she returned to the telephone to inform Lola that there had been no pick-up for the package. Someone had dropped it off at the office for delivery, a rarity, true, but not interesting enough for the girl to give a description. Lola pressed the angles, but the girl had nothing to give. She sat for a minute after ringing off.
“Seems a lot of trouble to hide her tracks when I sniffed her out so easily,” said Aubrey.
Lola considered a moment longer, then stood up abruptly and readjusted her hat. She left the office as instructed by Mr. Wang and caught a lift down to the parking area. In the elevator, Aubrey chatted with Frederick’s wife. Lola remained silent save for the required polite responses to Frederick’s inquiries after her health. It seemed that intense thinking was enough to push away both nausea and headache. Lola was feeling better by the time Aubrey bid the other Ghost good day.
“Although I know the odds of you heeding me, it’s not a good idea to go downtown,” said Aubrey.
“For once, I agree,” replied Lola. “We’re going south.”
Lola arrived at Grove Avenue and turned eastward. It was a busy thoroughfare, connecting much of the eastern outskirts with the central core of Crescent City. Lola was content to stay steadily in her lane. When they reached Orchard Boulevard fifteen minutes later, she made good on her announcement and continued south.
“Where did you say Arbogast lives?”
“I didn’t,” said Lola. After a minute or so, she relented. “The old Southern orange groves.” Aubrey gave a slight grunt, then subsided. Lola was glad of the silence to collect her thoughts.
She saw the ledger once more in her mind, its neat script unable to hide the darkness of its contents. The names of over two dozen mah-jongg parlours. The money each parlour paid to avoid “bad luck.” Collection dates. Late payments. Curt descriptions of how the extortionists dealt with them: “Sent Chong”. Expensive joints, tourist traps, middling establishments, even dives. They were all there in the ledger: La Grenouille, Ivory Tiles, Lucky Bamboo, Water Lily and Silver Temple. She didn’t think it was coincidence she’d followed Arbogast to the very five places that had been on page one of the ledger. Bodewell Arbogast was a bagman for this extorti
on ring and AJ Copenhagen wanted Lola to know it. The mystery was in why.
* * *
Southern Fruit Company Limited was the third largest citrus fruit grower on the coast a hundred years prior. It had made enough to keep the Southern family moderately wealthy and to buy up over a thousand acres of adequate land on the plains east of the City. No hint of an ocean breeze touched the fruit orchards on Southern land, but the company logo of citrus tree and sea wave would argue otherwise.
Unlike many of its contemporaries, the company had built decent homes for its workers. Landscaped parks dotted the communities that grew up around the homes. Ordered streets, shiny new schools and suitably welcoming temples let Southern’s employees know that they were valued. It was an attitude far ahead of its time and thus, destined for failure. A late freeze and then tree rot led eventually to the family-owned operation’s demise. Bankruptcy allowed the creditors to sidle in and sell the thousand acres to a rival. That rival in turn sold the land, instead of using it, to a developer. Two years after the original bankruptcy papers were officially filed, many of Southern’s former employees were able to own the homes they’d been living in. Southern had been so good to them, the steep prices were no deterrent. The groves of orange, lemon and grapefruit trees had never recovered. They were torn out and the land redesigned to accommodate more families and more housing. Twenty-five years later, the valley was carpeted by row upon row of terracotta-tiled houses. Serene seated Buddhas heralded the many temples dotting the area. The lone Christian church among the old homes testified to the Southern family’s progressive ways. The large white cross still stood proudly atop the church’s bell tower. The tall bell towers of the two original schools provided visual accompaniment.
The smell of lemons filled the air. Plump little yellow fruit adorned the branches of trees lining the main roadway into Arbogast’s community, Southern Plains. Lola drove past the lemon trees. Her destination was far from the entrance gates. It was a medium-sized Craftsman bungalow with a front lawn the size of a postage stamp, complete with scalloped edges. The walk was bordered with bright pansies. Beds of tulips sat below windows. To the right, a Japanese maple hung its gnarled branches of delicate red leaves. Steps led up to the porch, which continued around the left of the house.
Lola killed the engine and got out. The day was bright and warm. She looked up and down the street. Tidy houses, almost identical to the one in front of her, lined the quiet lane. It was almost noon. Odds were children might begin appearing once the lunch bell rang, eager to get in, eat and get back out into the warm spring day.
As soon as she stepped onto the porch, Lola had a hunch she was facing an empty house. She raised the antique knocker and listened to its heavy thud echo within. No answering footfall. She glanced back at the street before slowly following the curve of the porch. The boards creaked slightly. Windows were shuttered and the rear door was locked. The back yard was no larger than the front. A detached garage house took up a third of the property space. Colourful flowers and an apple tree dominated the rest of the yard. Lola stepped down onto a pebbled walk and completed a circuit around the house.
Back in front, she climbed the steps and sat down in a wicker chair, facing the street. An intricately finished, wrought-iron mailbox stood just right of the front steps. Lola reached within and extracted a stack of envelopes. Personal correspondence, an electric company bill, something from the Gaming Commission. She returned everything but this last.
“Not in broad daylight, on the man’s porch, for gods’ sake, Lola.”
Lola ignored Aubrey’s anxiety. She took note of the stamped address for sender. “This isn’t the downtown address.” Lola felt the contents with sensitive fingers. “Just a single sheet, I think.” She eyed the quiet street with interest, then pocketed the letter. Aubrey gave no indication of his apoplexy, but Lola grinned, imagining it. She pushed off the chair and was down the steps in a flash.
* * *
The building did not compare to its sister downtown. It sat square and unremarkable, a two-storey brick office building. There were no plaques pronouncing its affiliation to the beauty downtown. There were steps leading up from the sidewalk. The secondary offices of the Gaming Commission occupied a quiet corner of a moderately busy commercial area. On the same block, Lola noted a book-seller, a florist, a diner, a drugstore. It wasn’t much different from her own office block. She eyed the building again.
“I recognize the Warding,” confirmed Aubrey.
“So they use the same Conjurers,” countered Lola, shrugging.
“I doubt the City Conjurers hire themselves out on evenings and weekends,” replied Aubrey. “This is clearly another City office building.”
Lola grunted but gave no further sign of her agreement.
The building was just as nondescript inside as out. A rectangular lobby with a bank of two elevators. An open stairway to the left. A security guard sitting behind a small desk, his shoe leathers creaking as he shifted his weight. He looked at Lola with dark eyes as she crossed in front and approached the directory board to the right of the elevators. She read, Accounts I, Accounts II, Accounts III, and so on. The entire building was dedicated to number crunching. Lola turned back to the guard.
“Bodewell Arbogast, which floor?”
The guard, now sitting on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, squinted at her. His thick lips barely moved: “Have an appointment?”
Lola eyed him up and down. “You don’t look like his secretary.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he deadpanned, standing. Lola braced herself. The guard stepped around her, but close enough that she might have taken a step back. He grinned and motioned for her to follow, calling over his shoulder: “I’m taking a visitor up, Charlie.” Lola noticed an irregularly shaped alcove tucked away behind the desk. It had appeared as a corner to be walked around. The top half of a split-door stood open. A man suddenly appeared in the open space. He glanced at Lola, then nodded curtly, stepping out from the guard station to man the desk.
Lola was led up the stairs, suddenly crowded with men in suits holding briefcases, to the second floor.
“Let me guess: Accounts,” said Lola.
“You’re smarter than you look, angel.”
“That’s quite a line from a bunny like you.”
“I collect ’em.” He walked down a hall lined on both sides with doors. Every one had a large pane of opaque glass in it, but no lettering. Lola’s heels clicked in counterpoint to the guard’s creaking shoes. He stopped midway down and opened a door with a sarcastic flourish. Lola preceded him within. A single desk sat across from the entrance. Chairs backed against two walls, all empty. A few potted plants dotted the corners, accompanied by cigar stands. Another door led deeper into the warren, closed for the moment against intruders like Lola.
A marcel-waved Chinese girl with deep pink lipstick and a perky nose looked up from her typewriter. A squawk box sat at her right, angled rakishly on her blotter. She gave Lola a speculative narrowing of the eyes before nodding at the guard. Lola heard his steps squelching away down the hall.
“Bodewell Arbogast?”
“Your appointment?” the girl answered in a high voice. She poised a pen above a schedule book, waiting with a skeptical air.
“Is this his stoop?”
The girl smiled with that perfect blend of civility and contempt perfected by the best civil servants. “May I ask your name, miss? So I can search for your appointment?” The pen remained poised.
The squawk box did its thing. The girl reached over and flipped a switch, answering. Lola couldn’t make out anything intelligible over the intercom. The girl, however, answered in the affirmative and flipped the switch off. The pen dropped from its unnatural perch and the girl sat back. She took out a cigarette case and did her routine with it. Lola stared at the other door, waiting.
&
nbsp; “She’s gone,” the girl said, indicating the inner office. “The boss lady.”
“Your boss-lady?” asked Lola. The girl nodded, exhaled a grey cloud. “Back hall?” At another nod, Lola looked impressed. “Why this is a regular warren, isn’t it.” Lola grabbed a chair from the wall and pulled it over.
The girl watched her impassively. “I know you. I’ve seen you at The Supper Club.”
Lola introduced herself, handing over her card. The girl nodded in acknowledgement and replied: “Pfeiffer.” At Lola’s raised eyebrows, she said, “Just ‘Pfeiffer’ will do.” A long exhalation of smoke. “So you’re looking for Bodewell. Business or pleasure?”
“’Fraid I can’t say.”
Pfeiffer looked amused. “I get that a lot here.”
“This is a Gambling Commission office?”
“The whole damn building. Didn’t you read the directory?”
“Mr. Arbogast is an accountant here?”
Pfeiffer said nothing for a moment, then asked, “You said ‘business’?”
Lola raised an eyebrow.
Pfeiffer shrugged. “Worth a try.” Another long drag on the cigarette. “I suppose he is, when all’s said and done.”
“Is he here now?”
“Depends.” But Pfeiffer shook her head when Lola made to count out a couple of bills. “The Spring Gala’s next month. The Supper Club,” she explained at Lola’s expression. “I want four tickets.”
“So now I’m your social planner. What kind of frail do you take me for?”
“That kind of smart won’t get you your answers.” Pfeiffer drew in a large lungful of sweet smoke, then exhaled in a long tendril.
Lola laughed out loud. “Gimme your card and I’ll have them sent.”
Their transaction completed, Pfeiffer stubbed out her cigarette with deliberate thoroughness and lit another with an ivory-inlaid lighter she pulled from a drawer.