“Do you know where this place is?” asked Samuel.
“Pacific, between Grant and Kearny. Everyone knows the famous Mr. Song, the owner of the shop. He holds all the secrets of Chinatown.”
“Does this place have a name?” asked Samuel.
“Right here.” He ran his finger over the red characters, “MR. SONG’S MANY CHINESE HERBS. You have the last part that says CHINESE HERBS in red letters. I’ve guessed a little about the first part from your friend’s writing, but I think it’s close enough.”
“That was written by a friend of mine who doesn’t know Chinese.”
“That obvious,” he said and laughed.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help, Louie,” said Samuel. “Say goodbye to your mother for me. Why won’t she ever say hello? She at least acknowledges your other customers.”
“It’s because you have red hair. She thinks you’re the devil.”
“Shit, you learn something every day. Okay, Louie, don’t forget, I’m betting on the Forty-Niners this weekend.”
“Goldie brings good luck to my customers, but not to you,” said Louie, laughing.
Samuel was too tired to go to Camelot and tell Melba what’d happened. So he went to the corner grocery store and bought a roll and an apple and went home. After he ate, he went to bed and fantasized about having sex with Blanche, until he fell asleep.
* * *
“I know where Reginald stored things away,” Samuel informed Charles.
“We’ll get to that. Come and look at the photos. I had them developed last night.”
He followed Charles over to the small table next to his desk where the photographs were laid out. Samuel took the picture of the first half of the claim check, number 85, and set it alongside the other half they had taken from Engel’s. The edges fit exactly.
“I think this will be important today,” he said, “and I know where to go. I’ve found Mr. Song’s,” he said, smiling, expecting a pat on the back.
“Yeah,” was all Perkins said.
“Didn’t you hear me? I know the significance of the claim check. It’s for a jar.”
“Not so fast. I think we should start at the bank, since that’s the place where people usually put money,” interrupted Charles, pointing his finger in Samuel’s face.
“I don’t think so,” said Samuel, backing up to avoid getting poked in the eye by the finger. “I tell you we should start with Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs. Rockwood hid something there. It could be the clue we’re looking for. We have the claim check,” and he shook half of it in the air.
“You’ve heard of delayed gratification, haven’t you?” asked Charles. “Let’s do the perfunctory things first, then we’ll go for the goodies.”
“Okay,” said Samuel, reluctantly. The smile left his face and his shoulders sagged a bit further. Charles was in control; he had the subpoenas.
They again walked out of the Federal Building and this time went up the block to Market, where they hailed a cab. Charles instructed the driver, “Straight down to Front Street.” There were decorated Christmas trees in most of the windows; the ubiquitous Salvation Army men—dressed in their dark blue uniforms with the red bands around the caps and their infernal jingling bells stood out in front inviting the public to put some money in their donation pots. The Emporium, at Fifth and Market, had just opened its doors, and people were still filing in.
They exited the cab at Front Street and were directly facing the Ferry Building over the Embarcadero Freeway. They crossed Market Street, walked a couple of blocks to Sacramento, and entered the bank. Just as Engel had said, Rockwood had his account there. Charles served the subpoena and the manager brought them the records. There were weekly deposits of Rockwood’s paychecks, plus a monthly deposit of a check for $150. There were no checks written on the account. Each time it reached $3,000, there was a cash withdrawal and the process would start all over again. They examined the records for the four previous years and the pattern was the same.
“This doesn’t help us much,” said Charles. “The guy lived a pretty dull life with no surprises.”
“What about the $150 a month? What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have the bank check out where it came from, and they’ll report back to me.”
“I wonder what he did with the cash?” asked Samuel.
“We may never know. How do we find the herb shop?”
“I’ll show you. We can walk there,” said Samuel. “It’s right around the corner. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”
Thanks to Samuel’s work the previous evening, there was no delay in finding it, and soon they were in front of a shop with a sign that had the same Chinese characters in red that Samuel knew meant Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs. Garlands of dried herbs in the windows framed the view of the interior.
As they entered the front door, a small bell attached to the top of it tingled announcing their arrival. In the dimness of the interior were dozens of medium-sized, earth-colored containers eighteen inches high and six inches at their widest point in the middle. They were stacked on shelves from the floor to the top of the eighteen-foot ceiling on two of the four walls. On a six-foot portion of the east wall were shelves of even larger jars, also from floor to ceiling. Each had a top secured by an iron band around it with two padlocks, which Samuel thought must be a precaution against earthquakes and robbers. And each had Chinese characters in black, apparently some kind of number code. On at least twenty wires near the top of the high ceiling hung more bundles of dried herbs of every sort imaginable. Samuel and Charles were almost overcome by the mixture of pungent smells.
About twenty-five feet into the shop, and visible from outside the store, was a shiny black lacquer counter with Chinese scenes painted on the front panels. Behind the counter were hundreds of small boxes, each four inches square, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Every one had a latch that was secured with a padlock, and each had Chinese markings. They saw a ladder pushed up against the boxes in the corner, which was undoubtedly used to access the jars. The lighting was bad so they couldn’t tell if the place was dusty or if everything was just in dull earth colors.
From behind a beaded curtain, which separated the front of the store from the living quarters and more storage, stepped such a strange looking man that Samuel and Charles were startled. He was a Chinese albino. He observed the two men with his pink eyes from underneath his bushy eyebrows, while he stroked his wispy white mustache and goatee. His skin was abnormally pale and smooth. His facial features were transparent and looked as though they’d been painted on with a brush. It was impossible to guess his age—he could have been anywhere from fifty to a thousand years old. He was wearing a gray Chinese jacket with an understated design of bamboo in black thread and wide sleeves that covered his hands. He nodded slightly, greeting them.
“We’ve come to ask you some questions about this,” said Charles, when he got over the surprise.
The old man squinted at the photo and the piece of claim check Charles was showing him and then he made a gesture that he couldn’t help them because he didn’t understand.
“I don’t think he speaks English,” said Samuel.
A short man, slightly hunched over, wearing blue trousers and a matching blue collarless top, entered the room. He was obviously some kind of assistant to Mr. Song, but it was soon clear that he didn’t speak English, either. The albino said a few words in Chinese to the assistant, who then hobbled out the door, leaving the bell tingling in his aftermath.
“Do you recognize the claim in this photo?” asked Charles, pointing to the torn piece of the claim check and the photo of the other half that he’d laid on the counter top.
The albino wouldn’t even dignify either of them with a look. He’d already indicated that they should wait, and nothing irked him more than the white man’s impatience and lack of courtesy.
“I think...,” said Samuel, but he started coughing heavily a f
ew times and took out his handkerchief to clear the phlegm from his throat. Charles gave him a dirty look but the herbalist turned and watched him with interest.
In a few minutes, the bell tingled and a young, fresh-looking Chinese girl entered the herb shop followed by the short old man. She was dressed in a Gordon plaid skirt with the hem just below the knees and a starched white blouse with an emblem on the left pocket. In the center of it was a pagoda. The letters surrounding it read: “Chinese Baptist School, San Francisco, California.” Her most notable feature was her buckteeth, which made her look like a beaver. She saluted the albino with great respect and became deeply engaged with him for a while in a language that Samuel, having lived so long in Chinatown, recognized as a Southern Chinese dialect. She then turned to Samuel and Charles. “Mr. Song asked me to come and help him find out what you want.”
Charles moved in front of Samuel, who was about to speak, and pointed his finger in an authoritative way. “Tell him I’m an attorney with the federal government. We’re investigating the death of Reginald Rockwood. We have reason to believe he has something of value deposited here.”
The girl translated for Mr. Song, who didn’t seem in the least impressed by Charles’s wagging finger.
“This is an herb shop. We sell herbs to people who are looking for cures for all sorts of ailments,” Song answered through her. He spoke in an almost inaudible monotone.
“Can you tell us if this claim check is for something that you hold here for Mr. Rockwood?” asked Charles.
“I only see half a claim check. It is torn in the middle,” said the girl for Mr. Song, as he raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Tell him the photo on the counter shows the other half,” said Charles.
“He says that is not enough. In Chinatown, there is a famous saying, ‘No ticky, no laundry’.” The girl couldn’t control herself, laughing as if she’d heard the funniest joke in the world. The albino brought her back to earth by pinching her.
Charles turned red. But Samuel had gotten the contagion from the hilarity of the girl’s reaction and could barely control his own laughter. He liked the idea that Mr. Song was making fun of the presumptuous Charles Perkins.
“You tell Mr. Song that we represent the United States government, and if he refuses to honor our subpoena, I can have him thrown in jail!” Charles threatened.
This frightened the girl, who translated what Charles said, gesturing hysterically, but Mr. Song answered, unmoved, his arms folded across his chest with his hands inside his sleeves.
“He says the same thing. ‘No ticky, no laundry’. He doesn’t care if you represent the president of the United States.”
Samuel tugged at Charles’s sleeve and whispered to him. “Don’t antagonize him. Don’t you see this is some kind of private depository? Look at all those double padlocks on the jars and boxes. He is just protecting his clients. We can get the medical examiner to come up here with the other half of the claim check. That way the word won’t get out that he caved in.”
“At least tell me this, Mr. Song,” Charles demanded, showing him the two keys they had gotten from Engel’s. “Does one of these keys here open something that belongs to Mr. Rockwood?”
Mr. Song picked up half of the claim check and shook it in Charles’s face.
“All right, Mister. We’ll go and get the other half. Just make sure you don’t do anything with whatever belongs to Mr. Rockwood. We’ll be back tomorrow,” said Charles, fuming.
Charles stuffed the subpoena back in his briefcase and dragged Samuel toward the exit. Just as they were walking out, the girl called out to Samuel. She was smiling. “My honorable uncle, Mr. Song, says that you have a bad cigarette cough. If you will take this Chinese medicine three times a week for a month, you’ll get better. But, he says if you don’t stop smoking you’ll die young.” She handed him a half-pint bottle with Chinese writing on it. Samuel nodded in appreciation and took out his wallet in an attempt to pay, but the albino waved him off.
“Ask Mr. Song if he wants to buy an advertisement in my newspaper,” said Samuel.
The girl translated. “No Chinese person reads your newspaper, and an ad wouldn’t help his business. If his clients read such an advertisement in the press, they’d think that his business was bad, and they’d stop coming. That’s not very convenient.”
“That’s too bad,” sighed Samuel, putting the bottle of medicine in his jacket pocket.
Once outside, they stood talking on the sidewalk. Charles was clearly unhappy, but Samuel convinced him they were making progress.
“I’ll subpoena that examiner bastard up here tomorrow morning, and he’ll have to bring the claim check with him,” said Charles. “Then we’ll see if this asshole still thinks he can make fun of me.” And he turned and walked off down Pacific toward Montgomery.
* * *
When Samuel arrived at Mr. Song’s herb shop the next day, he couldn’t believe what he saw. There, on the sidewalk, was Charles, dressed in the same clothes he had had on the day before, unshaven, with two federal marshals next to him. An upset-looking medical examiner was pacing back and forth, trying to argue with him. A Chinese gentleman dressed in a Brooks Brothers three-piece suit leaned against the shop storefront with one leg bent and the heel of that foot resting against the low sill that held the plate-glass window with Mr. Song’s sign on it. He seemed to be the only one who wasn’t in a hurry.
“You didn’t have to do it this way!” exclaimed the examiner, red in the face and breathing heavily.
“You wouldn’t cooperate,” said Charles. “That’s why I had to stay up all night and prepare the lengthy affidavit I took to the magistrate. So now I have a search warrant.”
“Did you have to serve me at six in the morning?” asked the examiner, glaring again at Charles.
“I need the claim check, I can’t keep wasting time. If you’d given it to me when I asked for it, we’d both have been able to sleep in,” said Charles.
“But you didn’t need me!” exclaimed the examiner.
“I’m sure you remember the chain of evidence argument,” Charles teased.
At ten o’clock sharp, Mr. Song’s assistant unbolted at least five locks from the inside, and the small man stepped aside as Charles, the medical examiner, the two marshals, the elegant Chinese man, and Samuel entered the establishment. The bell on the door tingled wildly, welcoming the procession.
Once they were all inside, the assistant hobbled through the blue beaded curtain and, within a couple of minutes, Mr. Song appeared carrying a cup of steaming tea with a top on it; he opened the top from time to time to breath in the aroma and take a sip. His black suit with a Mandarin collar emphasized his whiteness. He had on his head what looked like a black Chinese skullcap. He bowed slightly and mumbled something in his language.
“He says good morning, and he hopes you have many male children and live long lives,” said the Chinese man in the suit, who introduced himself as an official federal government interpreter.
“Tell him we are here to examine the contents of the jar. We have both halves of the claim check,” said Charles.
“You must put them here so he can see them,” said the interpreter.
Charles summoned the examiner to the counter, and they both put down their respective half ’s of the claim check. Mr. Song pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses out of his sleeve and put them on over his pink eyes. This had the eerie effect of enlarging them, making him look like an ostrich. Mr. Song stared at the two pieces for a long time, while the others tried to control their impatience. “This is claim check number 85. Now you need the key,” he said, through the interpreter.
“Shit!” exclaimed Charles.
“I think we have the key. It’s one of those Mr. Engel copied for us,” said Samuel, fishing around in the manila envelope from Charles’s briefcase and pulling out two keys.
The assistant pulled the ladder over to the middle of the stack of clay jars on the eastern wall. Mr.
Song pointed with a long bony finger to number 85.
“He says to climb up and see if one of the keys opens the top. It’s the second from the last one up there, a little to the left.”
They looked at each other and, since no one volunteered, Samuel scurried up the wooden ladder that creaked with each step. He started inserting keys into the band that held the top fast on the jar, not an easy task because the ladder moved and his hands shook. He also didn’t like heights. At first none worked, but as he calmed down and was more careful, he found one that did. He then started inserting keys into the band that held the container against the wall. A scream from Mr. Song stopped him. The albino was gesturing like a madman with both his arms in front of his face as he talked to the interpreter.
“No, no,” said the interpreter, “Mr. Song says he will take care of the rest.”
“Why didn’t you bring it down in the first place?’ asked Charles.
“If you didn’t have the key to open the jar, no need to bring it down because it wouldn’t have belonged to you,” said Mr. Song through the interpreter.
Samuel came down quickly, while the assistant brought a huge key ring from behind the beaded curtain. Mr. Song sorted through the keys and chose one, which he gave to the assistant. With startling agility, given his age, he went up the creaking ladder, unfastened the band that held the jar to the wall, brought it down, and placed it on the counter. Mr. Song checked to make sure it was the right number and then stepped back.
“He says you are welcome to examine it, the contents belong to you,” said the interpreter.
“No, no,” said Charles, “we want him to open it. It might be booby trapped or something.”
This interchange produced a hilarious moment between the interpreter and the assistant. Mr. Song joined by smiling slightly, which consisted of his showing a row of pointed teeth for an instant. Finally, the small man removed the top, tipped it over until it was lying lengthwise on the counter, and started removing the contents. The first to come out was a vegetable material. There was a lot of it, and it had a strange musty odor.
The Chinese Jars Page 7
