by Max Lockhart
The streets of Chinatown were crowded and noisy as the people thronged in front of stores and teahouses to shop or gossip. The scent of incense permeated the air, not so much because the Chinese couldn't live without it, as because it was a defense against clogged sewers and drains, rotting fish and vegetables, and the all-pervasive odor of too many people crowded into too small a space. Cleary had read somewhere the French perfume industry developed for much the same reasons.
A battered old half-ton truck pulled up in a cloud of diesel fumes, sloshing water all over the street. The Chinese driver jumped out, and nimbly clambered up into the back. A giant fish tank filled with equally giant catfish sat precariously in the truck bed. Gaffing a big catfish, the Chinese hurled it off the truck onto the sidewalk, where it flopped and thrashed and bled over the concrete. Cleary unconsciously stepped over it, walked next door, and stopped at the distinctive street entrance to the gambling den.
Touching the bullet holes in the door, he tried to reconstruct what had happened the night before. Maybe, just maybe, a reconstruction would pin down what was giving him an itch along his backbone. He stepped inside and walked up the same staircase he ran down last night chasing the two masked gunmen. It was the same steep staircase and orange railing, looking a little dirty and shabby in the bright morning light. Halfway up the stairs, he saw the hole blasted into the wall at head level. This was where he almost died when the masked gunman cut loose with the shotgun. Looking at the size of the hole, he wondered why he hadn't died. He must have a guardian angel, because there was no way he could've ducked that blast without help.
Guardian angel, or a ghost? He shivered as he opened the orange metal door with the symbol of the dragon swallowing its tail. Stepping inside the gambling den, he closed his eyes and recited the multiplication tables through the fives to himself. It was one way to get his mind off the supernatural and back on a rational course. Math was nothing if not rational. Two times two always equaled four. Which was more than he could say about the case. However he added or multiplied, nothing was equal.
He opened his eyes and stood still for a moment, reliving the violence that took place in this room last night. Instead of sunlight streaming through the windows, there was black, starless night. Instead of empty silence, there were voices, clicking mah-jongg tiles, the rustle of money. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened as he heard a noise where there shouldn't be one. Breathing rapidly he pulled his .38 and turned toward the windows, where the sunlight shone into his eyes, nearly blinding him. Still the rubbing sound continued, coming from the place of brightest light.
Shielding his eyes, he walked silently toward the light, his breathing quieting as he made out the figure of... He halted, stunned by the sight of a young Chinese woman, lovely in the sunlight, trying to scrub the bloodstains and chalk marks off the linoleum floor. The floor seemed to tilt, as for one terrifying moment he thought it was her, his ghost. But it wasn't. This woman's features were too strong, her eyes expressing too much independence.
"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.
She looked at his gun, her features stiff with terror, and he felt like some pervert exposing himself in the public park. He looked at his gun, swallowed, and tucked it back in his holster. "Who are you?" he asked again.
"Kai-Lee, Officer," she answered, her voice having only the faintest accent.
"I'm not a cop. I'm a private investigator."
The veiled fear left her eyes, and she went back to scrubbing madly, as if her life depended on it. Who was she? he wondered. The laborer's wife? His daughter? He didn't know. "You're destroying evidence. You'll have to stop," he continued.
She kept on scrubbing the blood away, and he reached down to take her arm. "Didn't you understand me? That's evidence."
She avoided his touch, flinching away like a wounded child. Like the kid at the station house. "No. Please," she said, an imploring note in her voice that wrenched his belly. "They arrested my brother for the murder."
She bent her head, exposing the vulnerable back of her neck like a convicted woman awaiting the fall of the executioner's axe. Then she broke the spell by falling to her hands and knees and scrubbing mindlessly at the bloodstains, a pitiful, Oriental Lady Macbeth performing an act of absolution.
Cleary couldn't stand the sight of it. He reached down and gently pulled her to her feet, clasping his hands around her fragile arms. "You're destroying evidence."
She shook her head, the black cloud of silky hair flying about her head with the force of her motion. "You don't understand. He has brought enough shame on our family already with his gangs, but this..."
Cleary felt the anger flare, searing along his nerves. "What is it with you people? This isn't China. Shame's got nothing to do with it. Family's got nothing to do with it. It was his choice. You didn't make it, your family didn't make it. He did. He killed a guy. Wiping up the man's blood isn't going change that."
"It's not possible. He couldn't do it," she said, her eyes turning liquid with tears, and the shape of her mouth blurred by quivering.
"The shotgun and the mask they caught your brother with are the ones the holdup men used. There's no mistake. I know. I was here last night."
She grasped the lapels of his coat. A faint scent of jasmine floated like a memory through the air. "Then you know he didn't do it."
Cleary released her and stepped back, out of the range of scent-invoked memories. "Lady"—he sighed—"I don't know who did it." He realized it was the truth. He didn't believe the boy was guilty, and it wasn't just because his sister wore jasmine perfume that reminded him of someone else. It was because the boy didn't remind him enough of the gunman. Congratulations, Clearly, he said to himself. First you see a ghost, next you'll be reading tea leaves.
She stepped closer to him. "Help him, please. I'll give you anything you want."
The scent of jasmine was stronger, her features blurred like the image in a pool of water, and he closed his eyes. His ghost was dead. She was not this woman. Touching the warm silk that was this woman's skin would not be the same. The feel of her would not be the same. He couldn't help this woman.
"I told you," he said harshly, opening his eyes. "I'm not a cop. Why don't you go to the tong? They run things down here. Tell them to get all inscrutable, and get the kid out. But I can't help you."
Kai-Lee looked up at him, disillusionment in her eyes. "I should have realized. You're just like the rest of them." She gave him one last look and ran from the room, tears flowing down her golden-tinted skin.
He heard her steps clattering down the staircase and moved to the window to watch her. He frowned. The sunlight had gone, the rain streaked the window. A peal of thunder shook the building and his mind, shaking loose dust from the ceiling, and images from the closed drawers of his memory. He grabbed his head as if to keep the images locked inside, but it was too late. He remembered...
... the peal of thunder as he skidded the Narcotics Division police vehicle to a stop in front of the circle of cops and plainclothes detectives, his headlights washing over their faces. Heavy rain beat down on their hats, pouring off the brims in miniature waterfalls that threatened to deluge the cups of coffee each clutched in his hand. Steam from the coffee and smoke from their cigarettes rose to mix with the rain. He could hear the subdued laughter and isolated punch lines as they joked among themselves.
Harsh headlights from parked vehicles highlighted the ugly aftermath of a crime, illuminating the big men, throwing strange, elongated shadows over pavement and brick walls. The headlights flickered intermittently as lightning stole away their artificial illumination and encouraged the shadows to dart and spiral around in a nightmarish dance. Hine, Sfakis, a plainsclothes detective named Dibble, and a couple of uniformed cops stood drinking coffee out of paper cups, their faces alternating between brightness and shadow in time to the lightning.
Cleary jumped out of the police vehicle, leaving the door swinging behind him, not bothering with a hat or coat, and ap
proached the circle of men. "Where is she?" he demanded.
Hine elbowed Dibble. "I told you this was bound to happen, Cleary. This is Chinatown. You stay in your place, and don't rock the boat. Not even to save your life. And that goes for cops, too."
"Shut up!" said Cleary, trying to take a breath to ease the suffocating feeling in his chest. "Just show me where she is."
Dibble spread his hands in resignation and nodded toward Hine. The other detective finished his coffee and tossed his cup in the gutter, then led Cleary down the alley. He stopped at a body covered over with a sodden, olive-colored blanket. Leaning over, he casually flipped it open with the same careless motion he used to toss away his paper cup. He stood up and watched with a half smile.
Cleary felt as if he had been hit in the belly by a sledgehammer as the lightning flashed and he saw clearly the delicate features of the Chinese prostitute. Her eyes were open, their liquid beauty dulled. Her hair lay in damp hanks about her face and shoulders, trailing down like wet seaweed against the scarlet red dress. He sank to his knees and gently touched a bronze medallion that still lay nestled between her breasts. He licked his lips and wondered at the salty taste of the rain.
The blinding light of a flashbulb went off in his face, and blinking, he looked up. The police photographer lowered his bulky camera and quickly sniffed nasal spray into his nose. "Trying to fight off a cold," he told Cleary. "Getting called out in the rain to take pictures of dead Chinese pros doesn't help any."
Cleary sat back on his heels, wondering why he couldn't find the strength to kick the photographer's nose through the back of his skull.
"You got enough?" Hine asked the photographer. The photographer tucked his nasal spray back in his pocket and shifted the viewfinder back to his eye. "Just a couple more."
Out of the corner of his eye, Cleary saw Sfakis walk up, gaze disinterestedly at the corpse, and turn to Dibble. "I got twenty bucks says Brooklyn all the way."
Dibble snorted and wiped his nose. "Forget it, Sfakis. You still owe me for the '51 Series."
Hine shifted his feet, and Cleary no longer felt the detective's watchful gaze. "I get hungry just coming down here. Come on, Cleary, we're going to grab some chow mein."
Cleary looked up as Hine rejoined the circle of cops. A circle, never ending, with him on the outside.
He looked down at the exquisite young girl and struggled to regain his equilibrium. "I did what I could," he whispered, and knew he lied. The chilly rain saturated his shirt, and he sat unmoving, watching it pour off his unprotected head and onto the already soaked blanket.
He heard the other cops wander away to snatch meals and drinks on the cuff from Chinese owners of restaurants and bars too afraid to turn them away. He stayed, unable to stomach food. Or himself. A loud pop startled him, and he looked up into another blinding flash...
... of lightning. He looked around the empty gambling hall, and sank against the window, his hands shaking. "Oh God," he whispered, and looked out the window at the rain saturating the brilliant colors of Chinatown. He licked his lips and tasted salt.
SIXTEEN
Cleary sat at his desk in midmorning silence staring at a faded newspaper clipping, his mind running around and around like a train on a circular track, seeing the same scenery over and over again. Chinatown, the tong, the prostitute in the scarlet dress, her eyes now alive and beckoning, now dead and staring. The faded photo mocked him with his own face, pale and sick and apologetic, hair plastered against his skull by the driving rain, a glimpse of the sodden blanket and an outflung hand visible in the background. He rubbed his hand over his face, scratching his own palm against the stubble that was growing its way into a beard. He knew without looking that his blue eyes were red-rimmed and feverish looking. Another night without sleep, and he would be a candidate for the coroner. But not before he made sense of what had happened in Chinatown, both last night and five years ago. This time he wouldn't fail the victim. This time he wasn't a cop, he was a free agent. A private eye.
He reached over and picked up his cup of coffee, took a sip, frowned, and slammed his fist on the desk. "Dworski!!!"
He glared at his door until it opened, admitting Dottie, caught in midapplication of her daily makeup. He looked at her and his lips twitched. Mascara and a false eyelash adorned one eye while the other remained in pristine condition. He decided he liked it better. Two fat pink rollers peeked out of the nest of curly bangs like cherubs peeking through the clouds. "You screamed?" she asked coolly.
"Can't you do that at home?"
"Do what?"
"Put that gunk on your face. I never know if it's Halloween, or you're going to a masquerade party."
Dottie took a deep breath and put her hands on her hips. "I'll stop using 'gunk' when you start shaving. I never know if I'm working for a private eye or an advertisement for Burma Shave."
"I've never heard any complaints before," he said.
"You ain't listened. Now what did Your Highness want?"
He held up his coffee cup. "This coffee is cold. I'd have to heat it up for icicles to form."
Dottie pranced over to the desk, glanced down at the cup, then spread her arms in mock surprise. "Well, how do you like that for thermodynamics?"
Cleary glared into her one virgin eye. "Are you taking a vocabulary course, or is that word supposed to answer my question?"
"I brought it to you over an hour ago, Cleary. You're supposed to drink it while it's hot."
He glanced at his watch, then buried his head in his hands, feeling totally disoriented. An hour? Jesus, he had to work. He couldn't sit around reliving the past, or the past was going to repeat itself. He heard Dottie step around the desk to stand by his shoulder. He raised his head. "Sorry, Dottie."
She patted him, glancing over his shoulder at the desk. "Everybody's got a right to be cranky once in a while." Her voice faded as her curiosity got the best of her and she focused on the faded newspaper clipping extracted from a nearby folder crammed with police-related memorabilia.
He covered up his photograph taken at the crime scene, but the headline, CHINATOWN PROSTITUTE FOUND MURDERED, stared up at him from the inconspicuous page ten article. He shoved the clipping back in the folder. "Heard from Betts?" he asked calmly.
Dottie stepped back as Cleary stood and grabbed his coat. "Yeah, he called. I told him you didn't want to be disturbed. That's when I thought you were catching a nap." Her eyes told him he would have been better off doing that than looking at old photos as she handed him a note. "He said he's got the info you wanted."
Cleary shrugged into his coat as he rounded his desk. "Tell him to sit tight." He straightened his collar, his mind dancing backward. "I've got a stop to make first."
He started through the door, then stopped and turned to smile at Dottie. "Friends again?"
Dottie smiled. "Sure, Cleary. Just try to get some sleep, huh?"
"Sure. When I have time," he said, taking a step through the door.
"Cleary?"
He stopped, and looked over his shoulder. "Yeah, what do you need?"
"Watch yourself in Chinatown. I heard it's bad news down there."
"You're nagging, Dottie," he said, getting all the way through the door this time.
"Cleary?"
He stopped again, but didn't bother to look at her.
"Get a shave."
He didn't answer and made it all the way down stairs and out the door.
A pair of ancient hands, working with infinite care, slowly placed a ginseng root into the nearly finished swirl pattern in a black lacquer box. Her hands were gnarled, much like the small roots of the ginseng she touched. Her placement was perfect. The swirl was exquisite in its beauty, an art form of another world.
Along the long counter, other hands transformed the ginseng roots into intricate mosaics to adorn other boxes. Each box was at a different stage of design, beginning with a sunburst in the very center, then working outward, each individual root fitting into a space that
only it could occupy—like a Chinese puzzle.
It was the artistic expression of the order of things, thought Cleary, standing in the aisle of the Chinese herb shop and watching the ginseng ritual taking place in front of him. There was a timeless elegance to the Chinese women's motion. But it was a comment on their world and their sense of order that all the ginseng patterns were alike. There was no place for the individual who might want to alter that pattern. Such a woman would simply be cast out and another take her place, like the dead whose name and place was passed along to another.
He shuddered, feeling very foreign all of a sudden in this environment, surrounded by all manner of strange and exotic Far Eastern herbs, spices, omen powders, and Chinese remedies from rhino-horn powder and dried snakeskins to shark fins. He was in the midst of a far-flung outpost of an ancient civilization, and he was about to challenge the very root of the order of things.
The women fell silent, looking at someone behind Cleary for downcast eyes. He turned around and saw Ko-Chen Lu, a young, thin Chinese man who motioned him to follow. With a last glance at the old women, he trailed after Ko-Chen Lu to the rear of the store and into a step-up back office resting on a raised platform.
Tendrils of the inevitable incense smoke floated past photographs commemorating past presidents of the tong, a bronze statue of Tien Hau, Queen of Heaven, sitting next to a portrait of Eisenhower, autographed to Uncle Lu. It was a typical Chinatown arrangement, thought Cleary. The power of the Caucasian world was acknowledged, but given no more emphasis than long-dead leaders of a strictly illegal Chinese quasi-criminal organization.
Four Chinese elders sat around a table cluttered by invoices and sales slips. Smoldering joss sticks burned around the room, filling it with a cloying sweetness. An old Chinese man sat in the corner working on an abacus at incredible speed, faster than a banker could operate an adding machine. The sound of the rhythmical clicking, along with the incense-saturated air, was hypnotic. Cleary found himself trying to blink away the effects.
