Mandarin Yellow (Socrates Cheng mysteries)

by Steven M. Roth

  “Finished,” Socrates said.

  He gently screwed the cap back onto the barrel and returned the pen to its box. He carefully re-tied the ribbon and fastened the Mandarin Yellow in place. Then he nudged the open box back across the desk to Bing-fa.

  “What did the person look like who returned this to you?” Socrates asked.

  “I did not see him,” Bing-fa said. “He required that I place the canvas bag with the payment on a table, turn away, and face the wall. I heard him walk up behind me, unzip the bag, and then walk back across the room and out the door.” Bing-fa paused. “I waited for other instructions if he returned, but he did not.

  “I soon turned to face the empty room and saw the pen box on the table where the money had been.” He paused again as if gathering his thoughts. “I opened the box. It contained the glorious writing instrument,” he said, nodding down at the boxed Mandarin Yellow. “Then I left, satisfied he had kept his part of our agreement, just as I had kept mine. That is all.”

  Socrates wrinkled his forehead, and said, “He didn’t say anything about returning everything else?”

  Bing-fa looked hard at Socrates. His patience was taxed. “As I said before, this transaction involved only the return of the treasured Mandarin Yellow. Nothing else. I will wait for the other objects to be offered to me at some later time. Perhaps now that I have shown my good faith in this first transaction, this person will again contact me so we can arrange my purchase of all the stolen treasures.”

  “Bing-fa,” Socrates said, “I have to tell you something.” He hesitated and took a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts.

  “This Mandarin Yellow,” Socrates said, pointing at the pen box sitting between them on the desk, “the pen you just ransomed. It’s beautiful and it seems to be undamaged. Unfortunately, it’s also a fake.”

  SOCRATES’ FIRST INCLINATION upon declaring the pen a fake had been to puff out his chest and silently say to himself, I told you so, to find some measure of gratification in his minor triumph over Bing-fa’s continued disdain for his advice. After all, he didn’t particularly like the man and he resented Bing-fa’s unceasing haughtiness. Yet all that changed as Socrates watched Bing-fa react to his stark statement, when he saw Bing-fa’s shoulders slump, his mouth turn down, and his chin droop toward his chest. Socrates immediately wanted to undo the anguish he’d just caused, to offer words that would prove to be an anodyne for his ill-chosen candor.

  In an effort to salvage something from a bad situation, Socrates assumed a saddened facial expression appropriate for the circumstances. He reached across the desk, picked up the pen box, and looked closely at the Mandarin Yellow as if he just realized he might have missed something critical the first time. He stepped out of character now and ignored the so-called First Rule of Holes he usually prided himself on following — the rule that stated, When you’re in a hole, stop digging.

  “Honorable Bing-fa,” he said, “perhaps fake was the wrong choice of word, was misleading. I think the pen is probably genuine, a vintage Parker Duofold Mandarin Yellow, but I’m afraid it’s not your pen, not the historic writing instrument stolen from the gallery.”

  Bing-fa said, in a soft, flat tone, “Under the circumstances, Mr. Cheng, that seems to be a difference without a distinction.”

  Socrates nodded, and paused briefly to consider how he now wanted to approach this.

  “For this to make sense to you, Bing-fa, I need to explain a little of the production history of the Mandarin Yellow, to put your pen and my statement in context.”

  “Proceed,” Bing-fa said as he burrowed his arms up his wide sleeves.

  Socrates briefly told Bing-fa the story of how George Parker had decided to create the Mandarin Yellow model in 1927, and said, nodding toward the box on the table, “So, what we first have to decide in evaluating this pen is whether it’s the 1927 model or a later one. If we conclude it wasn’t manufactured in 1927, then this Mandarin Yellow couldn’t be Production Copy No.1, your pen.”

  He paused to let Bing-fa process this information.

  “Continue,” Bing-fa said. His impatience was palpable.

  Socrates placed his fingers on the box, thought about his next words and, without lifting the box from the table, slowly rotated it clockwise like a slowly moving ceiling fan in a 1940s Grade B tropical-locale Hollywood movie.

  “The 1927 Mandarin Yellow had two important stylistic characteristics,” he said. “One was that its barrel was stamped with a banner containing the words, LUCKY CURVE.” He pointed to the LUCKY CURVE inscription on the pen sitting between them.

  “But George Parker used the phrase LUCKY CURVE on both the 1927 and the 1928 Mandarin Yellow models. Starting in 1929, you don’t see it anymore. That means that this pen,” he said, pointing at the box, “was manufactured in 1927 or 1928, not later. That narrows the inquiry for us. Now we have to decide if this pen is a 1927 Duofold or the 1928 model.”

  Socrates stared at the pen and box for a few seconds, then looked up.

  “Another characteristic of the 1927 model was that it had a single gold band ringing the cap. Parker’s customers seemed to approve of this style, and the pen sold fairly well, but Parker was a salesman at heart and always looking to increase sales. As such, he subscribed to the doctrine articulated by General Motors in 1923 called Dynamic Obsolescence which posited that to bring in new customers, you had to continuously offer new (or changed) products. Accordingly, Parker in 1928 created a new model Mandarin Yellow by replacing the single gold band with two narrow gold bands.”

  “That means, Bing-fa, that this pen here,” he pointed again at the box sitting between them, “since it has both the LUCKY CURVE slogan and two narrow bands on the cap, was manufactured in 1928, not 1927.” Socrates paused to give Bing-fa a chance to register the import of this information. Then he continued: This pen cannot be Production Copy No.1.” He fanned out his palms as if surrendering to the inevitable. “It’s not your Mandarin Yellow.”

  Socrates wondered why he still felt as if he should apologize to Bing-fa for bringing him this incontrovertible bad news.

  Bing-fa spoke in a soft, unemotional voice. “So this writing instrument I paid ransom for,” he said, “is not our national treasure even though it contains the inscription to Generalissimo Chiang?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Socrates said. “The pen’s not a fake, strictly speaking. It is a genuine Mandarin Yellow.” He paused, then added, “But it’s not the pen George Parker presented to Chiang Kai-shek, not the Mandarin Yellow used by Chiang and Mao when they signed their temporary truce in 1937, and definitely not the vintage Duofold stolen from the gallery.”

  ONCE SOCRATES COMPLETED his explanation of the pen’s status and provenance, he and Bing-fa had nothing more to say to one another so Socrates left and walked home. He checked his watch as he approached his condo. It was too late to go over to his parents’ hotel to visit them and root out Jade’s earlier explanation to them why he had abandoned them and Jade after dinner. They’d be settled in for the night.

  Socrates stepped through the doorway into his apartment, tossed his unopened mail and keys into a round wicker basket he kept for this purpose on a sideboard table in the foyer, and walked to the kitchen. He put water on the gas stove to fix himself a cup of green tea. While he waited for the water to heat, he called Jade, but didn’t reach her. He left a message on her voice mail saying he would like to get together for dinner the next night, if she had time, to make up for abandoning her to his parents tonight. Then he changed clothes, sipped his tea, and afterward went out into the night for a short run.

  He was dressing after his run and shower when the intercom buzzed. He looked over at his clock radio. It was a little after 10:40 p.m.

  Socrates smiled and ran his palms over the sides of his head to smooth back his damp hair as he quickly walked across the living room to the intercom panel by his front door.

  A surprise visit by Jade, he thought. How nice. He pushed the ‘Talk’ but
ton and said, “Hello, Jade.”

  No one answered. Not even George, the doorman, who should have been monitoring the intercom until he went off duty at Midnight. Socrates pushed the ‘Talk’ button again. “Hello,” he said.

  Still no response.

  She’s probably on her way up, he thought.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, he realized, that someone who lived in the building, someone going in or coming out the front door, noticed an attractive woman standing at the intercom panel and gallantly held the door open for her without requiring that she be screened from upstairs or by the doorman as the condo’s security rules required.

  No big deal, he thought. People probably recognized Jade by sight, she’s been in and out of the building so often. Her beautiful Asian appearance was memorable.

  He decided he would greet Jade by waiting in the hallway so she would see him when she rounded the corner coming from the elevator.

  Socrates stood in the hallway and smiled in anticipation as he listened to the elevator’s door slide open and then slide closed.

  He could not have been more wrong about the identity of his visitor.

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Socrates said. He reflexively stepped back to the edge of his doorway and warily watched Eldest Brother approach him.

  Bing-wu ignored Socrates’ question. He glowered at him, then brushed past Socrates, striding through the open door into the condo. Socrates followed him in, but intentionally left the door open.

  Eldest Brother turned to face Socrates. He answered Socrates’ question without emotion, and spoke in a timbre so flat and subdued, so seemingly without menace that Socrates felt menaced by it. Eldest Brother’s well-modulated, minatory tone exuded authority, restrained power and, above all else, latent peril.

  “You were told by my Twin brothers to cease your interference in matters involving our family,” Bing-wu said, “but you have chosen to ignore us. Because Bing-jade seems to care for you, even though you are low faan, I will warn you one more time. After this, you will regret it if you continue to disregard me.”

  Socrates instinctively clenched his fists, although he knew better than to physically challenge Eldest Brother or even to suggest with his body language that he might challenge him. Years ago, Jade had told Socrates that Eldest Brother was a student of various Chinese martial arts forms and had been such since he was five years old. Eldest Brother, according to Jade, still was a skilled and dangerous martial artist.

  Socrates, long out of practice and these days entirely divorced from his martial arts studies, had no desire to find out for himself. He relaxed his hands and let his arms dangle by his sides, his open palms facing Eldest Brother in a classic, submissive posture. To further avoid provoking a confrontation, he also did not look directly into Eldest Brother’s eyes. Instead, he looked at Bing-wu’s feet while Eldest Brother spoke to him.

  “You will stay away from Little Sister and you will no longer involve yourself with our father. Do you understand?”

  Socrates said nothing, and deliberately gave nothing away about his mounting anger. He continued to stare at Eldest Brother’s feet.

  Eldest Brother said, pointing his finger at Socrates, “You have been told for the last time. There will be no other warnings.”

  He didn’t wait for Socrates to acknowledge that he understood. Instead, having delivered his point once again, Eldest Brother strode past Socrates, bumping into him and knocking Socrates off-balance, as he stormed out of the condo.

  The next afternoon, Socrates sat in his living room thinking about his recent brush with Eldest Brother when his cell phone rang.

  “Hi, Pop,” he said. “Nice surprise. What’s up?”

  An anomalous silence followed. Then his father coughed once, cleared his throat, and said, “Your mother is taking a bath.”

  Socrates wondered why his father answered his question by telling him about his mother? It was not a promising sign.

  “I need to talk to you, Son, as soon as possible. Today.”

  The urgency in his father’s plea was unmistakable. Socrates’ stomach tightened. He held his breath, then slowly let it out, and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you when I see you. Don’t worry. You’ll help me work it out.”

  “When and where?” Socrates said.

  “The sooner the better. I don’t care where as long as I can get a drink there. Something strong. For this, I need something with a kick to it.”

  That statement fueled Socrates’ concern. All his life, on those few occasions when his father said he wanted a strong drink, that was his father’s signal he had something very serious and problematic on his mind.

  THEY SETTLED IN at a corner table at the M Street Bar & Grill located in the Hotel St. Gregory on the corner of 21st and M Streets, not far from Socrates’ parents’ hotel. They ordered drinks.

  Socrates waited until the waitress left them before he broke the ice.

  “I’m worried, Pop. You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone.”

  His father looked down at the table as he spoke.

  “When we had lunch the other day and you asked me how I was doing, I wasn’t straight with you. I’ve done something I shouldn’t have done, and I was ashamed to tell you.”

  Socrates took a deep breath and waited. He knew better than to rush his father at a time like this.

  His father raised his eyes from the table. “It’s the government, Sonny, the tax people. I screwed up and I’m in trouble. I put off dealing with a tax problem for the plant, and now it’s caught up with me. I don’t have no choice any more. It might even be too late.” He slowly wagged his head and looked back down at the table.

  Socrates reached over and put his hand on his father’s forearm. “What’s the problem, Pop? Tell me.”

  “I didn’t pay my employees’ payroll taxes,” his father said. “I needed money to keep the plant open. I figured I could make it up later when things got better.” He paused and shook his head. “It was either that or lay off workers who worked for me for years. I couldn’t do that to them.”

  His father looked up at Socrates. “I haven’t been honest with your mother either. I got a letter from the tax people, and hid it. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her, I was so ashamed and scared. When I got a second one, I didn’t say anything to her because I didn’t know what I’d say if she asked me why I didn’t show her the first one. After that, it got worse with each letter. I really messed up.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Mom already knows, Pop. Not the details and not about the letters, but she knows something’s going on with the IRS. She answered the phone the morning you were coming to Washington. You were in the shower. It was the IRS calling you. Mom said she told you, but you said it was nothing, just a mistake. Don’t you remember?”

  His father looked confused. He squinted, then slowly shook his head. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

  Socrates watched his father’s face morph from puzzlement to relief as the import of Socrates’ words took hold. Socrates strained not to pepper him with questions. Instead, he kept quiet to let his father unburden himself at his own pace.

  “I never answered even one letter or called the tax people like the letters said. But I didn’t do any crime, Sonny, nothing like that. What I did was I didn’t pay my share of payroll taxes, the owner’s part. I only paid my worker’s portion.”

  His father paused. Probably, Socrates thought, to give him a chance to say something, But Socrates remained quiet, processing what he’d just heard and thinking about its implications.

  His father continued. “It all came to a head a few weeks ago. The tax people shut down the plant. They swooped in one morning, made everybody leave, and padlocked the doors.” He shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “Their printed sign on the door said they’re going to sell everything. Then they’ll come after our house and bank accounts if the sale isn’t enough to pay what I owe.” He
again looked back down at the table.

  Socrates didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come across either as patronizing or as condemnatory. The fact was his father had screwed up big time. There was no doubt about that. The IRS does not like to be ignored and will come down with both feet on a taxpayer’s throat if it is ignored. Especially when the issue involves an employer’s failure to pay his or his employees’ share of payroll taxes which the IRS considers to be a trust fund held by the employer for his employees.

  Socrates reached out and put his hand on his father’s shoulder. He squeezed gently.

  His father looked up at him with rheumy eyes.

  “I know this is hard for you, Pop, but we’ll work it out somehow. We’ll all get through it together. You’re not ignoring the problem anymore.” He squeezed his father’s shoulder again. “I’ll call the IRS and deal with them for you.”

  SOCRATES’ CELL PHONE rang as he and his father arrived back at the Westin Grand lobby. He looked at the readout screen, turned to his father, and said, “It’s Jade. Should I take it or let it go to voice mail? It’s up to you. Either way’s okay.”

  “Take it,” his father said as he stepped away.

  The call surprised and pleased Socrates. Jade rarely called him during the work day.

  Jade suggested that she take Socrates and his parents out to dinner that evening using her university department’s use it or lose it junior-faculty goodwill expense-account to make up for their recent disjointed dinner together.

  Socrates put Jade on hold and passed the dinner invitation on to his father who now was standing alongside him.

  His father shook his head. “Thank that Jade for us,” he said, “for your mother and me. That’s sweet of her, but you young people should have some time alone, even when your mother and me are in town. Besides,” he said, “I need to talk to your mother about my problem. We won’t be hungry after that.” Socrates didn’t try to talk his father out of his position.