” What sets him off?”
” Not getting his way. He’s an egotist and a borderline sociopath; as far as he’s concerned, the universe revolves around Carl Emerson, and everybody else is there for his own personal amusement.”
” Has he ever hurt anyone else? Physically, I mean.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said. ” He’s hurt any number of people, but in more subtle ways.”
“Would that number include his business partners?”
“Yes”
“In what way? Neither of them seems to care much for him.”
“I’m sure they hate him. He’s used them, used their talents; without them, there wouldn’t be any Mid-Pacific Electronics.”
“But I thought he designed the component Mid-Pacific manufactures.”
“No. The original design was Orin Tedescu’s. Carl made certain refinements, patented the component in his name; that was his only contribution other than arranging for the financing so they could get started.”
“Why did Tedescu go along with that?”
“Carl talked him into it. Orin has no business sense; Carl convinced him their chances of success were greater with his name on the patent, because of his contacts and cachet in the industry.”
“What about Bexley?”
“The same thing, more or less. Phil does have a business sense—he’s a marketing genius—but he’s also insecure. A follower, not a leader. By the time he and Orin realized what Carl had done to them, it was too late; the partnership agreement they’d signed giving Carl controlling interest was ironclad. Carl saw to that.”
“So Tedescu and Bexley do most of the work,” I said, “and Emerson reaps most of the profits.”
“Essentially, yes. About all he does, I’m sure, is give orders, entertain customers, and act as a general supervisor.”
“No wonder they’re so bitter.”
“No wonder we all are,” she said.
“Do you hate him, Ms. Emerson?”
“With a passion. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Then why did you keep his name?”
The delicate shrug again. “When I divorced him I had a line of credit as Jeanne Emerson; it would have presented too many problems to start over again as Jeanne Ng. And it’s easier for a Chinese woman to get by professionally if she has a Caucasian name. There’s still a lot of prejudice in this world, you know.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know.”
“His name is one of the few useful things I got out of the marriage. I agreed to a very small settlement to avoid any more trouble with him; he would have taken me to court if I hadn’t, and I wasn’t in any frame of mind for that. I just wanted out.”
I thought I understood now why she lived here as she did, with no Oriental trappings of any kind. She had known too much unhappiness with Emerson, lived too long in the midst of an obsession; it was a kind of backlash effect that had led her to adopt a wholly Westernized life-style. There was no self-delusion in it, no rejection of her heritage; it was evident that she was still proud to be Chinese. The trappings themselves were all that she had rejected—her way of burying the past, moving ahead with a new life.
I let a few seconds of silence go by. Then I said, “Well, I think that’s about all the information I need. You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Emerson.”
“My pleasure, believe me.”
When I got to my feet I felt a small cut of pain in my shoulder; it made me wince. I adjusted the sling a little, and the pain went away.
She said from her chair, “Is your arm bothering you?”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Gunshot wounds must be very painful,” she said.
I was just starting to move away from the chaise; the words stopped me, brought me around. I gawked at her the way I had out in the hallway.
“Oh, yes,” she said in the same matter-of-fact voice, “I know who you really are. I recognized you right away. The photograph in the papers wasn’t a very good likeness, but photography is my profession. So is journalism, and you’ve been a major news topic in recent days.”
I sat down again, slowly. “Why did you keep up the pretense?”
“I wanted to find out why you’d come. And why you’re so interested in Carl. It seemed easier to follow your lead.”
“And now? What do you think?”
“I think Carl is involved in the shooting somehow. Or you believe he might be. That’s it, isn’t it? I cant imagine any other reason why you’d be investigating him, asking questions about his Chinese connections.”
I stayed silent.
“If you’re worried about me telling him or anyone else,” she said, “you needn’t be. I wouldn’t do that.”
“No? You’re a journalist.”
“Not that kind. Why do you suppose I was so open with you about Carl?”
“Why were you?”
“Because if he is mixed up in the shooting, I’d like nothing better than to see him caught and put away. I don’t consider myself a vindictive person, but the idea excites me. After all I’ve told you, I’m sure you can understand that.”
“I guess I can,” I said. “But I don’t know that he is involved.”
“But you do believe he is?”
I hesitated. “Maybe.”
“In what way?”
“I’d rather not say. It’s only supposition at this point.”
“Are the police investigating him, too?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Okay, I won’t press you anymore. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. You Ye a good detective; you’ve proven that. The police gave you a raw deal when they suspended your license and I don’t blame you for working independently of them. Just tell me this: Do you think it’ll be long before you know for certain if Carl is involved?”
“No,” I said, “it won’t be long.”
“Good. If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”
I nodded. “There is one other thing. I’ve never seen Emerson and I don’t know what he looks like. A description would help.”
“I can do better than that,” she said. “I can show you a photograph of him. I kept one, for my portfolio. Not because of any sentimental reason; only because I took it and it’s rather good.”
She got up and left the room for a couple of minutes.
When she came back she handed me an 8 X 10 black-and-white glossy. It was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a tall blond man with aristocratic features, a heavy underlip, and eyes that were both shrewd and petulant. He was handsome, and he was smiling, but there were shadows on his face, an unmistakable sense of weakness and cruelty in his expression. I wondered if it had been a conscious effort on her part to capture his negative aspects. If so, she had succeeded—and maybe that was another reason why she’d kept the photograph.
“You can borrow it if you like,” she said. “But I would like it back.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll remember him. He’s got the kind of face you don’t forget.”
“Yes,” she said. “No matter how hard you might want to try.”
She went with me to the foyer, and when she opened the door she gave me her hand. Her eyes seemed to linger on my face. “I’d like to see you again when this is finished. And not just because of Carl.”
“Why?”
“You’re an interesting man. And you’re also a victim of the system. I think I’d like to do a piece on you for one of the magazines.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious. Would you be agreeable?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to think it over.”
“Do that. Meanwhile, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“And good hunting,” she said.
Out in the hallway, I stood looking at the door for a few seconds after she closed it. I had never met a woman quite like Ms. Jeanne Emerson before, and she’d left me feeling a little nonplussed. She was some lady.
> But I felt more grim than anything else. If I could believe everything she’d told me, and I thought I could, I had a stronger case than ever against Carl Emerson. I also had a pretty good hunch as to what lay behind this whole thing —the reason why he had bribed or tried to bribe Eberhardt, the reason why he’d hired Jimmy Quon to blow Eb away. And I did not like it worth a damn.
The hunch was a dead hooker named Polly Soon.
Fifteen
On the way over to North Beach, I kept thinking about Emerson’s probable motives. My hunch was based on three things. First, the revelation that he was a Chinaphile, had a penchant for Chinese prostitutes, and owned a violent temper. Second, the fact that Polly Soon had fallen to her death from a fifth-floor walkway at the Ping Yuen housing project a couple of weeks ago; both Ben Klein and Richard Loo had told me it was a case Eberhardt had been working on. And third, bits and pieces of what Eberhardt had said to me before Jimmy Quon showed up with his .357 Magnum that Sunday afternoon:
“I hate my goddamn job sometimes. Its a hell of a thing being a cop, you know that?”
“Somebody’s got to do it. And you’re one of the best.”
“Am I? I don’t know about that.”
And:
“You don’t know what I’m liable to do; neither do I.”
And:
“Whores are better off dead anyway. Who cares about a damned whore?”
Put all of those things together, juggle them with a few other facts I had learned about Carl Emerson, and they added up this way:
Emerson picks up Polly Soon at a Chinatown bar—either that, or they’ve had an ongoing relationship—and takes her back to the project. Something happens after they arrive, maybe an argument of some kind, and Emerson loses his temper. Polly Soon tries to get away; Emerson goes after her, out onto the walkway that runs across the front of the building. There’s a scuffle, and she either falls accidentally or Emerson pushes her over the railing. Then he manages to get away without being identified by any of her neighbors.
When the initial police investigation doesn’t turn him up he thinks he’s got away clean. But Eberhardt is a tenacious cop; somehow he gets on to Emerson, with enough proof of Emerson’s guilt to confront him. Emerson’s only out is to offer a bribe lucrative enough to keep Eberhardt from arresting him and filing an official report. Only something goes wrong with the scheme; maybe Eberhardt has second thoughts, maybe Emerson decides the stock-transfer payoff wasn’t such a good idea after all because it leaves him vulnerable. In any case, he opts to take the big plunge into premeditated homicide and hires Jimmy Quon. Emerson knows his way around Chinatown, has probably done some gambling at Lee Chuck’s; it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to find out which Hui Sip body-washer was willing to waste a cop for the right price. Lee Chuck himself might have acted as the go-between; that would explain how he knew it was Quon who pulled the trigger, and why.
A nice, tight little scenario. And I hated it because it meant Eberhardt had not only taken a bribe but done it to cover up a homicide.
The thought gave me a sick, ulcerous feeling in my stomach. You go through life believing in certain things, certain people; they’re central to your outlook, your whole philosophy of right and wrong, good and bad; they’re what you hang on to when the going gets tough. Take them away, one by one, and what did you have left? Nothing, an existence without meaning. That was what was happening to me. Six weeks of erosion, of psychic crumbling, that had reduced my little corner of the world to a pile of rubble. All I could do was to poke around in the ruins, try to rebuild this or that place of meaning so I could go on living there. Only with most of them it seemed to be too late; they kept on crumbling when I touched them, disintegrating into handfuls of dust.
There was not much left now. A few bricks of justice, maybe; I still had those. Emerson was going to pay for what he’d done. So was Jimmy Quon. And so was Eberhardt, if it came to that.
I found a place to park near the Central Station precinct house on Vallejo. Over near Broadway, there was a neighborhood bar called Luigi’s; I went in there and back to a public telephone near the restrooms. It was just seven o’clock when I dialed Kam Fong’s number. I had told him to be there at seven, and he was; he answered on the second ring.
“What did you find out?” I asked him.
“Only man name Emerson known here,” he said. “Other two, no.”
“How is Emerson known? As a gambler?”
“Yes.”
“Does he frequent Lee Chuck’s parlor?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you get that from Chuck?”
“No. Not talking to him.”
“What about the local whores?”
“Please? Not understand.”
“Emerson likes them too, doesn’t he? Chinese whores?”
“Nobody talking about that.”
“Someone talked to me about it. Did you know Polly Soon?”
Silence.
“Come on, Fong. Polly Soon—did you know her?”
“I … yes.”
“How well?”
“Not well. Nobody know whore well.”
“Did she take on Caucasian tricks?*’
“Yes, maybe.”
“How did she die? You hear anything about that?**
“No.”
“Did Lieutenant Eberhardt ask you about her?”
“He asking, but I having no answer.”
“Who else did he talk to?”
“Don’t know. You think Polly Soon’s death … ?”
“That’s just what I think. Did she have any close friends? Another prostitute? One of her neighbors?”
Silence.
“I’m waiting, Fong,” I said.
“Maybe … woman name Ming Toy.”
“Also a hooker?”
“Yes.”
“Where does she live? In the Ping Yuen project?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been to her apartment?”
“No. Not visiting whores.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “What floor does she live on?”
“Fifth floor.”
“What apartment?”
“Near Polly Soon. Next door.”
“Did you tell the lieutenant about Ming Toy?”
“Yes.”
“When? Right after Polly Soon was killed?”
“No. Later. He asking me find out who Polly Soon’s friend.”
“How much later? A few days before the shooting, maybe?”
“I think yes.”
“Do you know if he talked to her?”
“No, not knowing.”
“All right. Does Ming Toy work the bars too?”
“Bars, yes.”
“Any one in particular?”
“Pink Dragon Bar.”
“Where’s that?”
“Broadway.”
“Near Grant?”
“Yes.”
“What does she look like? Describe her.”
“Very small. Long pigtail.”
“How old?”
“Over thirty. But she look young, like teenager. People here … they calling her China Doll.”
Yeah, I thought, China Doll. I said, “Is there anybody else who was close to Polly Soon? Any other names you gave to the lieutenant?”
“No. No one else.”
“Okay, Fong. You stick around there in case I need to talk to you again. Don’t go out anywhere tonight.”
He muttered something in Chinese. Then he said, with a kind of nervous resignation, “You call any time, I stay here.”
“Good enough.”
I cradled the receiver and went back out to the street. Dusk was just starting to spread over the city. On Broadway and along Columbus, the garish neon signs advertising the North Beach topless and bottomless joints were already ablaze, softened and given a misty sheen by the fog. There was more fog now than there had been earlier—a thickening
mist wind-blown in from the sea, chill and wet and sinuous, eerie in its movements and distortions. Such heavy fog this early in the evening usually meant a London-style pea-souper later on. It was going to be some night.
I pulled the collar of my overcoat tight around my throat, walked down to the intersection of Broadway and Columbus, and crossed over into Chinatown.
The Ping Yuen housing project took up most of the block of Pacific Avenue between Grant and Stockton, a couple of blocks from the Pink Dragon Bar where the China Doll plied her trade. It was one long, tall structure, divided into wings and oddly designed so that it resembled a bastardized architectural hybrid of Chinese pagoda-style and Western motel-style. It was painted a faded pastel green, with rust-red pillars and support posts that had Chinese characters etched into them in black. Set behind an iron-spear fence, the building had a forlorn, decaying look in the fog and approaching darkness.
I pushed through the main entrance gate, under a pagoda arch bearing four statues of stylized Oriental lions. Inside, there was a narrow pebbled-concrete courtyard with some benches and a few shrubs and spindly trees. It would be somewhere in there, on that hard concrete, that Polly Soon had died. A scattering of lights on poles illuminated the area, and there were more lights glowing hazily on the upper walkways and in the windows of the blocky wings between them.
Nobody was hanging around in the courtyard, or at least nobody I could see. I crossed it to a bank of mailboxes, only a few of which bore names; none of the names was Ming Toy’s. I got into a creaking elevator festooned with spray-painted initials and let it carry me up to the fifth floor. As soon as I stepped out I was on the open walkway of the lower wing. The wind blew cold up there; that, and the fact that I was prone to vertigo in high, open places like this, forced me in close to the building wall. The outer portion of the walkway was a thin waist-high wall, with no railing on top of it. It would be easy enough for somebody to fall over it, either by accident or design.
It took me ten minutes and three brief interviews with fifth-floor residents to find out that Ming Toy occupied Apartment 515, in the middle wing. When I got to the door marked with those numerals I rapped on it with my knuckles; there wasn’t any doorbell. Silence from inside. I rapped again, louder, but that did not get me any response, either.
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