On his third ring, the one-armed servant, Fu Fung Fat, opened the door a crack. “Is Miss Virginia in? I need to speak with her,” said Xsing in Mandarin.
Fu Fung Fat listened to his Chinese compatriot with a cold eye. “The mistress does not accept visitors without an appointment. Those are her instructions.”
“It’s urgent. Tell her I’m here, and let her decide,” Xsing responded with such authority that the other couldn’t ignore his request.
While he was waiting, Xsing continued his pacing. Was Virginia with another man? He felt ridiculous. She was free to do what she wanted, just as he was. Just the same, the agonies of jealousy left a sour taste in his mouth. He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his clammy hands and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead.
Several minutes passed before Fu Fung Fat returned. Again he only partially opened the door. “The mistress says to come back at three o’clock,” and he closed the door before Xsing Ching could further plead his case.
Xsing Ching walked the streets in a daze until it was time; at exactly three, he reappeared at Virginia’s door and heavily pushed the bell. He was more composed than he had been on his morning visit, but the undershirt he wore beneath his expensive suit was soaking wet from perspiration.
The manservant opened the front door, unlocked the chain, and ushered him inside with a smile. Now he was a welcome guest: he had an appointment. Walking down the hallway, Xsing reexamined the giant vases; he noticed details on them that had escaped him in the evening light. Sun from a skylight illuminated a collection of jade statues in niches of the wall. Even though he was an expert in antiques, he didn’t bother to examine them. His mind was on something else.
The servant showed him a seat and went to call Virginia. Half a minute later she came out of the bedroom with the fresh air of an innocent girl. If she was with another lover during the time he was wandering the streets, there was no evidence of it. She was dressed in black toreador pants that came to her knees, a gray silk belt around her waist, ballet slippers on her feet, and a man’s white shirt. She didn’t have on any jewelry or noticeable makeup. Xsing Ching got up quickly to greet her. For an instant he thought of making her his mistress and taking her to New York and installing her in an apartment facing Central Park, like a queen, and loving her the way both deserved to be loved. But his immediate concern was the urgent matter that brought him there.
“I’m very sorry I couldn’t see you this morning, Xsing. Why didn’t you call me first?” asked Virginia.
He came to her and kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you for seeing me, Virginia.”
“Fu Fung Fat told me it was something urgent,” she said, taking him by the arm to the sofa, where they sat down together.
“Yes, I have to talk with you.” He was so nervous his hands were shaking. “Thank you for seeing me, Virginia. My son is here in San Francisco. I brought him because he suffered another relapse of his leukemia, and the doctors in New York told me that California is the only place where they can do a bone marrow transplant. We didn’t expect this because lately he seemed to be getting better and his condition was in remission. But now I’m afraid he is gravely ill.”
“Oh, Xsing! How can I help you?” exclaimed Virginia. “Where is the boy? What’s his name?”
“His name is Ren Shen Ching. He’s in the Children’s Hospital on California Street. I remember that you offered to put me in contact with some doctors from here…,” and his voice broke.
Virginia caressed his neck. Xsing saw she was as moved as he was.
“I’ll take care of this immediately,” she said. “Just give me a few moments.”
She retired to her bedroom and closed the door. The minutes she was gone seemed like an eternity for Xsing Ching. When she returned, she found him on the sofa with his legs apart, his elbows on his knees, and his head cradled in his hands—the image of total desperation. She kneeled at his side and embraced him.
“Xsing, I’ve just spoken to Dr. Stephen Roland. You are to meet him at Children’s Hospital at four thirty. That’s in about half an hour from now. He’s one of the foremost authorities on leukemia. I explained the case to him, and he promised me that he would do everything in his power to help your son. He’ll meet with his treating doctor to see if he is a good candidate for a transplant. He did tell me that this treatment is still in the experimental stage.”
“I understand, Virginia, but we must try it. It’s the last recourse.”
As disconcerted as Xsing Ching was, he noticed that Virginia was crying. The tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto her shirt. Could his misfortune have moved this apparently cold woman?
“What’s the matter? Do you think Ren will die?”
“No, it’s not that, Xsing. He’ll be in the best hands, and I think they’ll save him. There are cases of miraculous recovery with the transplant.”
“Then why do you cry?”
“You see, I lost my only child some years ago from an illness. This brings back many painful memories. I know exactly how you feel. That’s why I’m so happy to help you.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, Virginia,” and he hugged her tightly, as they cried together.
* * *
A few days later Mathew went to the apartment. When he saw Virginia, he grabbed her around the waist and picked her up and kissed her on the mouth. She pushed him away and smoothed her clothes. She didn’t like displays of exuberance.
“We’ve got this guy in the palm of our hands,” said Mathew, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. “He’s ready to do business on my terms. He’s insinuated that he won’t divide the shipment of art, he’ll give me priority, and I’ll be able to have all I want before he offers any to the rest of his clients. This is formidable! How did you do it? He seemed as cold as a crab and you made him lose his head. Is he in love with you?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with love.”
“What then?”
“Gratitude.”
“Gratitude for what?”
“I found a specialist for his son who’s suffering from leukemia. They’re doing tests on all the family to see who’s a compatible donor for a bone marrow transplant.”
“What do you know about that? How did you get him a doctor?” asked Mathew.
“Let’s just say I have an old friend. It was just a matter of giving him a call to remind him of moments we shared in the past.”
“Was he your lover? Did you blackmail him?”
“It’s none of your business. I’ve given you what you needed. How I did it is my business.”
Mathew shrugged his shoulders. Virginia’s methods were irrelevant to him as long as she got results, and that’s what he paid her for. But he was curious and a little jealous. Virginia was attractive to him because she was a mystery. They had ceased to be lovers a long time ago and, since they were working together on many business deals, it was better not to mix in love or sex. Nevertheless, Virginia saw the slight bulge in her partner’s tan gabardine slacks, and she smiled to herself, sure she still had power over this man. Sooner or later she would have the need to use it.
“Have you had any news from Xsing Ching?” asked Mathew.
“Yes. He called this morning to thank me for getting him help so fast. The doctor was encouraging and felt the boy would survive the crisis. He told me as soon as his son was better he would come and see me so we could celebrate.”
“Good. We’ll close the deal for the complete shipment and you charge your commission. Congratulations, you’ve shined as usual,” said Mathew. He got up from the sofa, leaned over and kissed Virginia on the cheek, then began to walk toward the door. Fu Fung Fat accompanied him. Mathew had the impression that the strange servant always treated him with disdain, but he had nothing to complain about because he did his job and Virginia trusted him completely.
* * *
After Mathew left, Virginia went quickly to her bedroom, opened her clothes closet, dug deeply into
the rear and brought out a box with two black bands around it. She opened a jewelry box in the first drawer of her dresser and pulled out a claim check with the number 120 on it and a padlock key. She then called Fu Fung Fat to her bedroom. “You know what to do,” she ordered.
Fu Fung Fat, nodded and put the key and the claim check in his jacket pocket and put the box in a travel bag that he slung on over his shoulder, then he headed for the back stairs. He reached the narrow streets of Chinatown.
The tingle of the bell announced him. Mr. Song’s assistant greeted him as if he were an old friend and called for his master. Fu Fung Fat showed him the claim check. Mr. Song found the relevant key on his huge key ring and instructed his assistant to access jar number 120. The man climbed the ladder, unlocked the outer band, and brought the jar down, then carried it to a small curtained area behind the blue beaded curtain. Fu Fung Fat went in, unlocked the jar, and opened the box he’d brought from the apartment. He stuffed its cash contents into the jar, closed and locked the band, and announced that he was finished. He picked up the empty box and took back the claim check from Mr. Song. He watched as Mr. Song’s assistant climbed the ladder and locked the jar in place; he then put the key and claim check in his pocket, put the empty box in his travel bag, paid his respects, and walked out the noisy door.
9
The Missing Page
ON A SUNDAY afternoon in early January 1961, Samuel sat at the round table at Camelot talking with Melba. Excalibur, under the table, had not only stopped growling at him but now followed him around. Currently, he was gnawing on one of his shoelaces. Samuel pulled it away.
“I can’t believe this fucking dog. First he wants to attack me, and now he wants to slobber all over me. Can’t you keep him under control?”
“I assume that you didn’t come here to discuss my dog’s etiquette,” said Melba.
There was an accordion file on the table next to Samuel. Its contents spilled out onto the oak tabletop, covering the stains of the liquor spills that had been absorbed over the decades.
Samuel had a one-page police report in his hand. “You see, Melba, this is perplexing.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I mean, it doesn’t end, it just stops, almost like it was cut off.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe someone deep-sixed the rest of it,” she said.
“They couldn’t do that. It’s an official document.”
Melba smirked. “You’re a cherry, Samuel. There’s all sorts of shit that goes on in this town. It just depends on what kind of influence people have. It’s always been that way.”
“You know as well as I do that Rockwood didn’t have that kind of influence. I’ve shown you that he lived in a closet, for chrissake,” said Samuel, as he finished pulling his shoestring out of Excalibur’s reach. He took a cocktail napkin from the table and wiped the slobber off the slimy lace, then tied his shoe.
“I’m not talking about Rockwood. He’s dead! Besides, he wouldn’t be the one trying to cover it up, would he? It’d be the person who did him in. I bet if you do a bit more snooping, you’ll find out there’s more to this,” she suggested.
“Listen to this description of the accident,” said Samuel.
“What accident?” asked Melba.
“You remember, he was killed by a trolley bus. It hit him in the street out by General Hospital.”
“I remember that. Go ahead, read it to me.” She put her cigarette in the ashtray, which had several butts already in it, and blew the last puff of smoke out her nose. She then took a sip of beer from her glass.
“’The victim and two others appeared directly in front of me. It was dark, and they came out of nowhere. I applied my brakes but couldn’t stop. I hit the victim. The other two got out of the way.’ That’s it,” said Samuel.
“Who said that?” asked Melba.
“It must have been the bus driver, but it’s not signed by anyone.”
“Is his name on the report?” asked Melba.
“Yeah, it’s right here at the top,” said Samuel.
“Well, genius, take the report to him and go over it.”
“I’d already thought of that, but I like to talk things over with you first, is all,” said Samuel. He started stuffing the pile of papers back into the accordion folder and, in turn, put it into his bulging briefcase. He said his goodbyes to Melba and a few of the patrons while looking in vain toward the back of the bar, hoping to catch a glimpse of Blanche, whom he hadn’t seen around there for several days. To him it seemed like decades.
He hopped on a cable car and rode it down to Market, set his watch by the clock in the Ferry Building, and jumped on a number 5 McAllister trolley bus, rode it past city hall and the plaza in front of it with its grove of bare trees, all the way up to the imposing Saint Ignatius Church on top of the hill. From there he walked down by the University of San Francisco Law School to Grove Street, where he found the address he was looking for on the south side of the street. It was a typical duplex of flats with bay windows on both the lower and upper floors. He rang the doorbell several times until an attractive Negro woman in her mid-thirties answered the door of the upper flat. She was holding a baby in her arms.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” said Samuel. “I’m looking for Mr. Butler. Is he home?”
“Who are you?”
“Samuel Hamilton from the local newspaper.”
She turned and yelled up the stairs, “Jim, there’s a man down here lookin’ to talk to you.”
“Who wanna talk to me?” came a voice from deep inside the flat.
“A man from the newspaper,” she said, and the baby started crying from all the commotion.
“What he want?” asked the voice, loudly.
“You gotta come deal with this, Jim. The baby’s crying. Hurry up!” and she went back upstairs, leaving Samuel at the door.
“All right, all right.” A huge Negro man, wearing a red Pendleton shirt and suspenders holding up his loose denim trousers, appeared at the top of the stairs. “What you want?’ he said loudly from his perch, as he looked suspiciously down at Samuel framed in the doorway with his wrinkled khaki sports coat and his battered bulging brown briefcase.
“I’d like to talk with you about the statement you gave the police concerning an accident near General Hospital,” said Samuel.
“You represent the guy who got killed?” asked Jim Butler, gruffly, “’Cause ifin you do, you gotta talk to the Muni Railway investigator or the city attorney. I ain’t ’posed to talk to no one ’bout that accident without their okay.”
“No, no, I don’t represent anyone. I was just looking at the police report and wanted to show it to you,” said Samuel, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through all the red tape that seemed to be developing.
“How I know you ain’t from some attorney’s office whose trying to trick me into saying the wrong thing?” Jim bellowed from above.
“Here, I’ll give you my card. Can I come up just for a minute?” Samuel asked.
Jim Butler studied him for a long minute and decided Samuel didn’t look dangerous enough to bullshit anyone out of anything. “You stay there. I’m coming down,” and he started heavily down the stairs, his 250 pounds vibrating on each step. When he reached the bottom, his six-foot-four frame towered over Samuel. He took the page and looked at it carefully. “That me on the top. I guess that’s how you found me.”
“That’s right,” said Samuel. “But this statement’s kinda short and I was hoping there was more.”
“You right about that,” said Jim Butler. “What’s your name?”
“Samuel Hamilton.”
“Well, Samuel, this is only half a what I had to say. Don’t need no Muni guy to tell me not to say that. There’s a page missing!”
“Do you have it?” asked Samuel, surprised.
“Nope, but I kin tell you what it says,” announced Jim Butler. “There was three guys comin’ ’cross the street. Jumped right out a f
ront of me. I barely had time to brake. Only hit the white guy, the one in the tuxedo. The other two were Chinese. They wouldn’t let go of him, but they got out of the way just in time. It looked ta me like they held the guy in the tux right until the last second.”
“Do you think they were trying to hold him there?”
“That I don’t know. They also could a pushed him. I didn’t see that part. That’s what I told the cop.”
“Did you tell this to anyone else?” asked Samuel, thinking of the finger marks on Rockwood’s arms he’d seen at the morgue.
“Sure did. I ain’t done nothing else but talk about this. Ya kin imagine the fright it gave me. I recorded a statement for the Muni investigator that night. They typed it up and I signed it the next day,” said Jim Butler.
“So there’s a written declaration as well as a police report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the cop named at the bottom of the report the one that took your initial statement?” asked Samuel, showing him the one-page document again.
Jim Butler looked at the document closely. Samuel noted that he didn’t use glasses and assumed he had good eyesight. “Yeah, sir, Brian Foley, badge number 2038, that’s him.”
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Butler. I’ll be in touch,” said Samuel.
“No, no. If you want more, you can get me through the Muni,” said Jim Butler.
* * *
Samuel was quiet on the ride back downtown, wondering if he should contact Charles Perkins or go directly to Officer Foley and find out what he knew about the missing page. Instead, he went to Chop Suey Louie’s for dinner. Louie greeted him at the door with his usual smile, while Louie’s mother stared at him with disgust.
“Hi Samuel, we have a great special tonight, Chinese fried rice with shrimp. Go and say hello to Goldie, she been asking for you. She wants to know why you don’t pay attention to her, like before.”
“That fish doesn’t bring me good luck.”
“In love or in work?”
The Chinese Jars Page 9
