* * *
Mathew was in the hospital for several weeks before he regained any semblance of mental coherence, numbed as he was by drugs, and hovering between life and death. Then, there was still the question of whether he would lose his leg. Grime from the pulverized cinderblocks contaminated his wounds, and there was severe vascular damage due to the comminuted fractures. But the medical staff at San Francisco General Hospital prison ward, where he was taken, included a woman doctor of Japanese descent who considered his case a personal challenge. She wanted to prove to her colleagues that she was as good as the best of them. During the war she had spent four of her teenage years in an internment camp for Japanese-American citizens. When everything else failed, she came up with the idea of using maggots to combat the gangrene that had set in, and then leaches to get rid of the stagnant blood.
They had fixed the fractures internally with steel plates and screws, but they couldn’t close the wound because there was no live tissue surrounding it. While the other doctors were talking amputation she insisted on a graft technique to avoid osteomyelitis.
After three weeks, the orthopedist in charge was able to perform a cross-leg flap operation by taking Mathew’s good leg, opening it up with a scalpel at the calf, and attaching it surgically to the injured area of his broken one. He hoped that after six weeks or so, the tissue of the legs would grow together. Then he would again operate to separate them, cutting off the part of the calf that had grown onto the injured site, literally transplanting it. Then only skin grafts would be required.
At that point in the treatment, Charles Perkins and Samuel Hamilton came to see Mathew. An armed U.S. marshal escorted them into his room that had bars on the windows on the sixth floor. Mathew had both his legs elevated by a pulley system, the right one crossed on top of the left shin where the legs were sutured together, all covered by bandages. When the visitors entered, a nurse was massaging both of his legs and feet, in an attempt to stimulate circulation.
“Gentlemen,” saluted Mathew.
“Mr. O’Hara,” responded Samuel and Charles at the same time.
“I bet you thought you’d never see me alive, eh?” said Mathew with visible effort.
Samuel knew him only slightly from the bar, but he noticed that the man had lost a lot of weight; his cheeks were sunken, his skin sallow, and his hair was growing out of the jailhouse buzz cut, like an unmowed lawn. Very little was left of the handsome and confident man that he’d been.
“I’m Samuel Hamilton, a patron of your bar, although now I drink mostly soda,” was how he introduced himself.
“Melba talked to me about you.”
The nurse adjusted the pillows to prop him up, then left the room.
“Mr. Hamilton is with me. He’s helping me coordinate the investigation. He gives it an outsider’s view,” explained Charles.
“I see.”
“You can speak openly in front of him with our usual understanding that everything you say is off the record,” added Charles.
“Very well. But first you should tell me why I was almost killed at San Quentin.”
“We have information that it was a Chinese operative, but we’re not sure yet about the circumstances,” admitted Charles. “As you probably know already, the explosion was caused by a man who shot a bazooka from one of the towers. He didn’t act on his own; he was part of a well thought-out plan. But you know how difficult it is to get prisoners to talk. The man who we think threw the knife was found strangled the next day in one of the bathrooms.”
“What knife? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know that Rafael Garcia, your former janitor, was killed by a knife that someone threw from the crowd of prisoners while he was protecting you?” asked Samuel.
“That’s not what they told me! I thought there was a fight between the inmates. You say that he saved my life?”
“First he pulled you out of the rubble and stopped the bleeding in your leg. Then he stood between you and the knife.”
“Oh, my God. He did that for me?” murmured Mathew, deeply moved.
Charles, anxious to get information, continued. “Someone, we don’t know who yet, bribed a prison guard to allow an inmate access to the West Tower. From there he fired the weapon at the wall when you were behind it. We know this because the foolish guard put the money in his own bank account. Unfortunately, that by itself doesn’t mean much because it was all cash. We’re checking for serial numbers, and maybe fingerprints. The only thing the guard has been able to tell us is that a Chinese man with a badly scarred face, whom we think is Dong Wong, gave him the money and the instructions. He identified him from mug shots but couldn’t tell us where to find him.”
“That guard is fucked, he’s an accomplice to murder,” Samuel added.
“He’s already told us everything he knows. These criminals had pretty good information of how the prison is run, and who the guards were and when they came on. They knew whom to bribe,” said Charles.
“I know of the Chinese man with the scarred face. He’s the one who told me they had eliminated Reginald for blackmailing Xsing Ching,” said Mathew.
“I’m glad you brought that up,” said Samuel. “I visited Rafael just a couple of weeks before he died, and he told me that he delivered some liquor to your apartment on Grant Avenue last year and saw Reginald there at a party for this person Xsing Ching. It looked to him like you and Reginald were old buddies.”
“It’s true that Reginald was at that party, now that I think about it,” admitted Mathew. “But I’m not sure how he got there, unless I mentioned it to him one night at the bar. You know he spent a lot of time at Camelot, and I would buy him a drink occasionally,” said Mathew.
“Rafael also said he was chummy with a good-looking woman at the party,” Samuel insisted.
“You mean Virginia. She worked for me.”
“The real question is what was the relationship between you, Reginald, and the Virginia woman.”
“I told you, Virginia worked for me,” repeated a weary Mathew. “And as far as I know, there was no relationship between Reginald and her. I don’t remember them even talking at that party or at any other time.”
“There’s something we didn’t understand before. Your connection with Xsing Ching went back quite a ways, didn’t it?” asked Charles. “You two knew each other for a long time.”
“Long enough,” replied Mathew. “I worked on him for a while to get that artwork. Look, I’m pretty tired. Can we continue this tomorrow?”
Charles couldn’t tell if Mathew was hiding something or if he was so drugged up that he was losing it. It didn’t seem to make much sense to hammer at him, so he decided to call it quits for the time being.
“Okay,” said Charles, “just a couple more questions. Don’t you think Xsing Ching is pissed at you because he lost all that art to the federal government?”
“I’m sure he is,” said Mathew.
“Pissed enough to try and kill you for revenge?”
“In light of what I’ve learned about what was done to Reginald and all that has happened since, that’s a good probability. Honest, I can’t go on,” he added, slumping his head and shoulders back on the three pillows.
“We’ll see you in a few days. Get some rest,” said Charles, leading Samuel to the door.
17
Samuel Takes Charge
SAMUEL LAMENTED Rafael’s death as much as he had Reginald’s or Louie’s. He visited with Rafael’s family several times—his widowed wife and baby, his inconsolable mother, and his siblings—and realized how important Rafael had been in all their lives. The grieving of those people produced a sad feeling of impotence in him; he didn’t know how to help them. In addition, he felt guilty because he suspected that his intervention had provoked Rafael’s death. His curiosity had started a chain reaction. He connected the two Chinese thugs who tried to kill him and Charles with the Chinese prisoner who threw the knife at Rafael. It seemed obvious to him that th
ey all belonged to the same organization.
That evening, very downcast, he went to Camelot to tell his doubts to Melba. “I’m surrounded by dead people, Melba.”
“I suppose this brings back bad memories. I’m referring to your parents. Maybe you never got over their tragic death.”
“That could be.”
“You’ve had a tough time of it, son.”
“I learned something from Rafael about you, Melba, when I went to see him at San Quentin. He said you were helping his family.”
“That’s between you and me, buster, not for public consumption!” she ordered with her rough whisky voice.
“I only wanted to tell you that I’d like to help, too, but I’m always broke.”
“That family needs more than just money. Your friendship will help them a lot,” she said hoarsely.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m here to help, too,” he said.
She got up and went quickly toward the bathroom. Samuel thought he saw tears running down her cheeks, but he dismissed the idea as preposterous. The only thing that could make Melba cry was an onion.
He stared blankly out the window toward the bay while Excalibur edged over to his side. Samuel absentmindedly started scratching the dog’s head. When Melba returned several minutes later she realized where the dog was and called the mutt in her gravelly voice.
“Leave ’im be,” said Samuel. “I’m getting used to his fleas.”
“Time heals all wounds, son. Rafael was a great guy and we’ll miss him. Now’s the time to help his family.
“This has gone too far. Reginald was just the beginning. Then it was two innocents, Louie and Rafael, who had nothing to do with this mess. And it could have been Mathew O’Hara like it could have been Charles and I.”
“That’s quite a lineup,” admitted Melba. “It’s clear you haven’t found the central piece of the puzzle yet.”
“I’ve a hunch where to look for what’s missing. I’ve had some time to think about it. Truth is, I got fired. I was a lousy ad salesman.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“I always hated that damn job. Not working doesn’t help my depression; but, honestly, all I think about is this case.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna keep my eye on Mr. Song’s, that’s what I’m gonna do. I think that’s where we’ll find the clue that we’re looking for. Sooner or later, someone of interest is bound to show up there.”
Melba watched Samuel still petting the dog, who couldn’t have been happier. He was wagging his tailless bottom and blinking his eyes in ecstasy.
“Don’t worry about food. You can always eat here at cocktail time.
“Thanks a lot. I’ll try not to take advantage. Fortunately, my landlord is also a good guy. He’ll give me some leeway on the rent. I’ll be able to survive for a short while.”
“You can come and clean up in the evenings like Rafael used to do. It would mean some extra cash. And you’ll see more of Blanche,” Melba offered.
* * *
Losing his job was a relief, but he couldn’t help feeling that he was a loser. There wasn’t any reason why Blanche would ever care for him. Why had she embraced him that time in Melba’s office? The date at the vegetarian restaurant had been very nice, but it didn’t help advance his plan to win her over. He didn’t have a single drink, and Blanche noticed it but didn’t say anything.
He might not have been making much progress with Blanche, but his relationship with Excalibur was marvelous. The dog followed him around when he worked at the bar, and he learned to depend on that constant presence, like a shadow, behind him. The physical work of stocking liquor and the companionship of the mutt did wonders for his depression. He couldn’t believe it when he found himself explaining to the dog his existential worries and his ideas about the case. He could no longer call it “The Reginald Rockwood Case” because it now involved three dead people. It was sinister, as the Chinese albino herbalist had defined it.
He looked back at his life and realized that he had always been a loner, since his early days in Nebraska, all the way through his two years at Stanford and his boring, desperate job selling ads at the newspaper. He gradually realized that he didn’t like his isolation. That became evident to him as he spent time with Rafael’s family.
He started showing up at the bar, even when he wasn’t working, to pick up the dog and take him for walks in Chinatown. One day in a market, he discovered that the sight of live fish fascinated Excalibur, so he bought him a striped tropical fish in a bowl. The animal spent so many intense hours with his nose pressed up against the glass, watching the fish swim in circles, that the fish died of fright. After replacing it three times, Samuel decided Excalibur would have to stare at a carrot in the bowl or get some other avocation. The flea-bitten mutt, who resembled an Airedale, and the disheveled, failed newspaper ad salesman with the thinning red hair made quite a picturesque couple.
* * *
Samuel wasn’t just taking walks in Chinatown to satisfy Excalibur’s obsession with fish. He sized up the street where Mr. Song had his shop. He’d walked though the neighborhood using dark glasses as a disguise and Excalibur as a companion. He found several places where he could station himself to watch, among them a laundromat where he washed his sheets so many times while he was spying that they ended up threadbare. He also ate at a shabby Chinese restaurant called the Won Ton Café kitty-corner from Mr. Song’s.
The name of the establishment was painted on the inside of the flyspecked plate-glass window in red letters a foot high framed by a yellow border. Inside, above the name, were four faded pink Chinese lanterns made from cheap paper with lights burning in only two of them. Before entering, he looked through the window and saw three tables, any one of which gave him the view he wanted. He figured if he wasn’t too conspicuous and if he came in at different times of the day while Mr. Song’s was open, he could accomplish his objective of keeping an eye on those who came and went. Since the menu posted on the door was cheap, he could also afford the prices for the greasy fare. The first time he entered, he tripped on the door jam and the owner thought he was blind.
“You no can see?” he asked, fooled by the dog and the dark glasses.
It took Samuel a second to figure out that there was a certain advantage to this confusion.
“That’s it, I see very little, almost nothing, really. This is a seeing-eye dog,” he said, smiling sheepishly behind his dark glasses.
“Okay. Sit there,” and he directed Samuel by his elbow to a dark corner of the café.
“No, no, dog needs light,” said Samuel, pointing to one of the tables in front of the plate-glass window.
He thought he’d blown his cover because the man looked skeptical, but he led Samuel and the dog toward the window. He handed him a menu written in Chinese and gave a brief explanation of each dish in broken English. Samuel pretended he couldn’t see.
“We have Won Ton special,” the owner offered.
“Yeah, I’ll have the special and some green tea.”
In the days that followed, the Won Ton Café turned out to be perfect for what Samuel had in mind. Hidden behind his dark glasses, he ate lunch there every day, making the plate he ordered last as long as possible. The fat in the food congealed in a thick layer that was almost impossible to swallow. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. One afternoon around two o’clock, when he calculated he couldn’t extend the lunch any longer and was about to pay the bill, a Chinese man with one arm appeared as if out of nowhere in the middle of the Won Ton Café. Samuel was sure he hadn’t seen him come in. He supposed there was a back door with access to the kitchen. He noticed him immediately because he was sure he’d seen him before. At first he couldn’t place him, but then he remembered where: at Louie’s funeral. He’d seen him standing there on an orange crate and later when he mentioned it to Charles, he’d been told that the description fit Fu Fung Fat, Virgina Demitri’s servant, someone whom Charles
had questioned after Mathew’s arrest. The one-armed man made a gesture of hello to the owner, but he didn’t sit down to eat; he left immediately, crossed the street, and entered Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs shop.
Samuel was in the perfect place to accomplish what he wanted. He could see the man talking to Mr. Song, who was standing behind the black lacquer counter. The sun shed enough light on the interior of the shop to give him an idea of what was going on. He knew the routine. The servant handed Mr. Song something, no doubt a claim check. The albino looked on his huge key ring, and the assistant climbed up the ladder and returned with an earthen jar. The one-armed man took it behind the beaded curtain and came back with it in a few minutes. He talked briefly to Mr. Song, who placed the jar underneath the counter. Samuel assumed it was empty because on other occasions the patron waited until the jar was returned to its place in the wall and locked in by the assistant before leaving.
Fu Fung Fat left the shop, crossed the street with a bulging package that he could barely carry and, to Samuel’s surprise, came back into the Won Ton Café. But instead of sitting at a table, he went behind the blue oilcloth curtain in the back. Samuel assumed he had gone to the restroom, but when the man hadn’t returned after a half an hour, he realized the man wasn’t coming back. He called the owner.
“Want to pay?” the owner asked.
“Yes, but I need to use your bathroom first,” said Samuel, getting up with exaggerated clumsiness.
“Back there,” but he immediately remembered that his guest was almost blind so he took him by the arm and led him through the oilcloth curtain. Excalibur had learned to walk in front of the supposed blind man.
They found themselves in a long, poorly lit hallway with several closed doors, all painted a sickening parrot-green color. There was an accumulation of dirt around the knobs. The smell of grease and untidy restrooms was nauseating. Samuel swore that a couple of cockroaches ran in front of him but he couldn’t be sure. The man stopped in front of a door with a decal of a Chinese warrior on it. On the door next to it was one of a damsel from the imperial court, which was really out of place in that disgusting passageway.
The Chinese Jars Page 20
