by G. M. Ford
"Something like that," I hedged. "I was looking for something that might have pushed my father into killing Peerless Price."
She looked mildly amused.
"At my warehouse?" she scoffed.
"Fourteen dead people make an excellent motive for murder."
She compressed her lips into something thin enough to pass for a scar. "And you think your father was, in some way, connected to that tragedy?" She cocked her head. "You've confused me, Leo. Just a moment ago, you said your intention was to protect his honor."
I changed the subject. "They say that you and my father were ..." I searched for a phrase but came up short.
"Were what?" she prodded.
"Lovers," I said.
Her eyes took me in all over again.
"And if I were to say to you, yes, that is true . . . what then? Would you not then find it necessary to defend your mother's honor?"
"My mother's face isn't all over the front page."
"You should be careful what you ask old women. The older we get, the more likely we become to tell you the truth."
"The truth is what I came for."
She thought it over, looked at me as if to say I'd been warned, and said, "Then . . . yes, since you insist the truth is what you shall have. It's true. Your father and I were business associates and lovers for many years."
"Did my mother know?"
"Yes," she said.
As I sat there rolling it around in my head, she made a face and continued.
"In those days, the world of business was not open to little China girls. In order to do business, I had to find a . . ."
Now it was her turn to search for a word.
"A patron," I said.
"Yes. A good word. A patron. Your father was my patron. Your father had what they call today clout. He opened a great many doors for me, and ... I would like to think . . . was amply rewarded for his efforts on my behalf."
I swiveled my head around.
"Looks like you made out pretty well too."
Her eyes grew darker and her voice took on an edge. "This may be difficult for you, but what I have is the result of my efforts and no one else's. As I said, your father opened doors. It was I who walked in."
I switched gears again.
"People say it was your company that was bringing those people who died into the country." She made a resigned face but didn't speak. "Was it?"
"And if it were? What then? Would it be so terrible to assist others in the quest for a better life? When I do it here, they call it 'giving back to the community.' A public service. They give me plaques." Her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps it's just that bothersome feeling that we Asians don't value life as do you Occidentals. What with there being so many of us and all."
"Now I know where Gordon learned the trick."
"What trick would that be?"
"Throwing the race card whenever you get pushed. Just sort of segueing into bigotry at random."
"Perhaps you are on the wrong side of the issue to be making judgments such as that."
"What side of the issue was that family in the container on?"
"The inside," she said.
She adjusted the cap on her head and looked up at me.
"Do you honestly think those people were unaware of the risk they were taking?"
"They probably didn't plan on dying."
"Neither life nor business is without inherent risks."
"You seem to have played your cards right," I said.
"Once again, my success seems to surprise you," she eluded. "You're not one of those who believe business acumen is the sole province of the white Anglo-Saxon male, are you?"
"I didn't mean it that way," I said quickly.
"One of your father's many attributes was that he never underestimated anyone. A habit, which as I am sure you understand, while not necessarily more accurate than its counterpart, is necessarily more successful."
I made a mental note not to make that mistake with Judy Chen and then shifted gears again.
"I seem to have made your son Gordon rather nervous."
She didn't flinch.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"I just stopped in to ask him a few questions. He threatens me with the cops, throws me out of his office and then he makes a beeline over here to talk to you."
"And thus, quite obviously, underestimated you," she said, with a wan smile.
"That remains to be seen," I said.
"Gordon is very protective of me."
"Are you sure that's all he's protecting?"
She motioned me over toward an ornately carved stone bench along the west edge of the roof. The pinwheel roof of the Kingdome lounged among a sea of cranes. To the south, a dozen yellow construction cranes encircled the hole in the ground that was to be the new retractable-roofed baseball park. To the north, a forest of bright orange loading cranes stood ready to pluck at the container ships.
"I'll tell you a little story," she said. "Then perhaps you will understand why Gordon is at times a bit over-zealous in his attempts to protect me from the world."
She motioned for me to sit, pulled the cap from her head and shook her thick hair out. She used both hands to pull the hair back away from her face and then settled the cap back onto her head to keep it there. She pointed toward the south. Toward Pier Eighteen. "I came here on a boat from British Hong Kong in nineteen fifty. I was twenty years old. Unlike many others, I was not indigent I was sent to work in my uncle's import business. My father had smuggled a great deal of money to my uncle. My father believed that I was to be taught the business as a partner." She shrugged. "My parents were ..."
I let her go through her life story, marveling at how different cultures, ten thousand miles removed, could so completely share the same set of hopes and dreams. It took her another ten minutes to get back to where-she'd started.
"But my uncle was an old-fashioned man. Women were to him little more than animals. He treated me like a dog and when I objected, he put me out into the street without a penny."
Her eyes searched inward and then she continued. "By then, I was twenty-five. My parents had been murdered by the Communists. I was alone. I did what I had to do." She seemed to wait for me to say something, so I did.
"What did you do?"
"What else? I found a rich young man and married him."
"Just like that?"
She gave me a wink. "What else was I to do? Go to work in a laundry?" Her mouth took on a bitter cast. "He was only twenty ... so eager. His name was Jimmy Chen. His parents owned frozen fish warehouses. He had a big trust fund. I seduced him."
She turned her gaze my way and looked at me as if she had new eyes. She waved a hand. "To make a long story short, Jimmy Chen was a drunkard and a wife beater. I divorced him and used my half of the settlement to go into business for myself. I knew my uncle's customers. They knew me." Her eyes twinkled. "Before long, my uncle sorely wished he had made me his partner."
"And that's when you met my father?"
She nodded. "I needed better port facilities. The jobbers were squeezing me out. My goods would sit around for months sometimes. I couldn't do business that way. They said your father was a man who could arrange such things." She averted her gaze. "Your father was a very impressive man," she said.
As usual, other people's stories about my old man gave me the urge to be on another planet.
"If you don't mind me asking, what's all this got to do with your son Gordon being overprotective?"
"I knew your father then . . . I mean ... we were involved. Gordon and I lived above the warehouse on Pier Eighteen." My face must have told her something, because she stopped her story. "I can see you're surprised. It's true. Gordon and I lived above the warehouse until he was eighteen. Money was very tight in those days. Everything I had was invested in that building. Nothing was left over for housing." She sounded almost nostalgic.
She took a deep breath. "In the beginning . . . before the divorce
Jimmy Chen used to get drunk and beat me bloody. On two occasions, I had to be hospitalized." She looked up to make sure she had my attention. "Gordon was there in the room on those occasions. Once when he tried to help me, he was beaten unconscious." She paused for effect. "It was an experience which neither of us has forgotten. So I hope you forgive him for wishing to protect his mother."
If there was a snappy rejoinder for a moment such as this, it was lost on me, so I waited until she went on.
"I'm sure you must be every bit as sick to death of hearing about your father as Gordon is about hearing about his," she said. "So I am sure then that you, above all others, will appreciate the fact that I have no intention of betraying any of your father's confidences to you or to anyone else." She folded all of her fingers except one into her palm. "I will tell you the following, however. Your father did not kill Peerless Price."
"How do you know that?" I said quickly. "Did you kill him?"
"No," she said. "I did not. I know it because I know your father. Shooting a man in the head was not at all his style. That would be much too direct for your father. Your father was a master at insulating himself."
Once again, despite my best efforts, she read my face.
"You doubt me?"
"I'm keeping an open mind," I said.
She brought another finger out from her hand.
"Secondly, I will assure you that your father was not involved with the tragic incident in which that family perished."
"Because you knew my father?"
"No," she said quickly.
"How ..." I began.
Her face closed like a leg trap. She shook her head. "You came for answers and now you have them," she said.
Before I could ask another question, she got to her feet and walked over to the elevator. I followed along. She pushed the button and then turned back my way.
"Your father will weather this storm like he weathered so many others. He doesn't require your assistance."
"I think maybe I'm the one who requires assistance," I said.
"Then I wish you luck."
The door slid open. The maid was standing in the car, once again drying her hands on her white apron.
"Consuelo will show you to the door," Judy Chen said, before turning and walking briskly back toward her basket of bulbs.
I stepped into the narrow elevator car and turned back toward Judy Chen. She'd stopped walking and stood on the flagstones, facing me again, her hands at her sides. "Leo," she said.
Consuelo leaned forward and pushed the down button.
"Yes," I answered.
She spoke quickly as if reciting. "Just because someone gave you a dead mouse doesn't mean you have to carry it around in your pocket for the rest of your life,"
As I opened my mouth, the door slid shut.
Chapter 16
Rebecca reached across the table and speared three of my French fries. Her theory on fried foods was that they weren't fattening as long as she ate them from my plate.
"And she admitted it?" she said, before stuffing her mouth.
"Not exactly."
She washed the fries down with some iced tea.
"Tell me exactly what she said."
We were sitting in a red padded booth in the front window of the Coastal Kitchen, a trendy little restaurant on Fifteenth Avenue East, just about at the center of Capitol Hill. She'd ordered a Cobb salad. When I'd asked Jennine for a burger and fries, Duvall had immediately gone into her Food Police routine, enumerating, in great detail, the suicidal caloric and fat content of such unclean foodstuffs. Since then, in addition to inhaling her salad, she'd eaten half my burger and damn near all the fries. Arrrgh.
"Okay," I began. "First she told me that my old man hadn't killed Peerless Price. So I asked her how she knew that, and I asked if she'd killed old Peerless herself."
"And she said?"
"She said ... no ... she hadn't offed Price and she 189 knew my father hadn't killed him either because it wasn't his style."
"Do you believe her?"
"I don't know. I'd like to, but, you know ... testimonials and a buck will get you on the bus."
Anytime I hear that So-and-so just couldn't have done such-and-such because that just wasn't his style, I recall how the neighbors of serial murderers like David Berkowitz and Jeffrey Dahmer always claim they were nice, quiet boys who kept to themselves and were always polite.
She gigged another golden fry and waved it at me.
"What reason would she have to lie?"
"None that I can think of."
"You told me the other day that only an idiot lies unless he has a reason."
She had a point, but I wasn't sure it mattered. Despite Judy Chen's testimonial, things looked worse now than they had when I started. Now I had a source who said it was common knowledge that Judy Chen's company was running illegals into the country back in sixty-nine. And, given a chance to flatly deny the allegation, Judy Chen had demurred. Color me with a cynical crayon, but I was taking that as a confirmation. Worse yet, lo and behold if this wasn't the same Judy Chen who turned out to be my old man's longtime business associate—and oh, by the way—mistress of thirty years or so. Not only that, but the whole matter of illegal aliens just happened to be one of the very issues upon which Peerless Price was regaling the city at the time of his death. I didn't like the sound of this at all.
Rebecca liberated a couple of more fries and read my mind.
"You think Price was onto it, don't you?" she said.
"That's pretty much the worst-case scenario."
No doubt about it. If Price was onto my old man's mistress and the dealings on the docks, no telling what might have happened. That scenario backed my old man into the kind of corner where all bets were off, and ending up in a bed of loam with a bullet in your brain was the rule rather than the exception. Judy Chen's stylistic assurances notwithstanding, people like my old man do not go gently into that good night. And even if he didn't have the stomach to pop Price himself, he sure as hell was acquainted with the kind of people who did.
She reached across the table and patted the back of my hand.
"You okay with all this?"
"It's frustrating," I said. "I was hoping that I could finally put a face on my father. Maybe squash all the feelings I have and all the stories I've heard into something recognizable. But the deeper I get into his life, the more he's got a quicksilver quality to turn. It's like digging in sand. Every time I turn a comer, I find out something about him that points in a whole new direction, and none of it's anywhere I want to go."
She wiped her mouth and then reached for her purse.
"I know you don't want to hear this, sweetie, but maybe you ought to stop turning comers and digging holes."
Before I could respond, she gave me a devilish grin, slid out of the booth and said, "Not to mention mixing metaphors."
"Don't be a language maven. It's unbecoming."
I got to my feet and helped her on with her coat
"You headed home?" she asked.
"I've still gotta see this Bruce Dickinson character this afternoon." I checked my watch. One fifty-five.
"The guy who wrote the book about the Garden of Eden?"
"Yeah."
Something in my tone turned her face serious.
"You know, Leo, every time you mention this lead you've got to the bar, you sound like you're a whole lot more upset about the possibility of your father hanging around in a gay bar than you are about the prospect of his being involved in a tragedy."
"What if he was doing more than just hanging around?"
"You just found his mistress, for crimeny sake."
"What if he ..." I waffled a hand. ". . . you know."
"Swung from both sides of the plate?"
"Bite your tongue."
She pointed a long finger my way.
"See, I told you."
She may have been right, but there was no way I was coming clean. In that moment, a conversatio
n I'd had with Norman a couple of years back flashed across my mind. I'd come around the corner of First and Yesler one afternoon to find him standing on a fire hydrant speaking in tongues to a pack of German tourists. Later I'd asked him why he'd acted that way. He'd glowered down at me and said, "They treat you like you're retarded. I'd rather they thought I was crazy than stupid. There's more respect that way." Dude.
In this case, however, the truth was that both possibilities were disasters, both career enders and both more than enough motive to put Peerless Price in the ground. I hedged.
"I'm not fond of either of them," I said. "The only good news is that there's no way the cops are going to get onto either scenario."
"Why's that? They've got all your dad's stuff."
"That crap leads nowhere without Bermuda and Judy Chen, and there's no way either of them is going to tell the cops a damn thing."
"All the more reason to just let the whole thing die."
I hate it when she's right, so I ignored her. She slipped her purse over her left shoulder.
"I'll be home about seven," she said.
As she headed for the door, I threw a twenty on the table and reached for my coat.
BRUCE DICKINSON WAS exactly where his wife said he'd be, in the writers' room on the second floor of the downtown library.
I'll admit it. When I called his home and got a woman who said she was his wife, I was a bit put off. I guess I'd subconsciously assumed that anyone who would research and write a book about Seattle's gay community must necessarily be gay. Just shows to go ya.
As if to make my assumptions even more asinine, Bruce Dickinson was no more than a biscuit short of three hundred pounds. A ponytailed monster with military tattoos and forearms the size of my legs. He could have carried me around like a purse, were he so inclined, which, to my great relief, he apparently was not.
"Nixon changed all that," he said. "Before Nixon, everything operated on what might be called a gentleman's agreement. You slip the gentleman an agreed-upon amount of cash, and the gentleman agrees to look the other way."
"Which is what the authorities did for the Garden of Eden?"
"Right. The club paid the cops to leave them alone. Nobody thought anything about it. It was like the cops' four-oh-one K plan. It was how they sent their kids to college or paid off that retirement lot over at Lake Chelan. Once it became part of what might be called standard operating procedure, it became part of the status quo, and as such, worth defending."
