I looked at her. Her skin looked smooth and her eyes bright. She'd put her hair up and it suited her. Even still, we got some looks from other diners. I knew she noticed but ignored it. I wasn't that forgiving.
“Maybe it's a form of protection, Evelyn.”
She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair.
“Okay. Men don't talk feelings. It's just not a manly thing and I do think we want to protect the people we care about. There are certain jobs that you just don't want to talk about because it means reliving something you want to forget.”
“And is that how it is for you, Mo? You just want to forget?”
“Yeah. A lot of the time. Why do you think I'm not married?”
Evelyn picked up her wine glass. “Well, maybe you haven't met the right girl.”
I grinned at her. “Maybe you're right.”
We clinked and drank a little more.
We just finished the main course when she came in. She didn't see me. The maitre'd seated her across the large dining room at a table in the corner shielded by a pillar. But I saw her and her ankles flash by and the smooth looking white man she came with. I ought to have recognized him. Alison Lawson's husband, Reginald. I have to admit, my first reaction came steeped in jealousy. Then boiling rage. I must have stared for too long. I willed myself to believe there must be some simple explanation.
“You know that woman, Mo?” Evelyn asked sharply.
I jerked my head back to her. “No,” I lied. “Him, actually. He's married and that's not his wife.” It sounded unconvincing, even to me. What were they doing together?
Evelyn took another look. “Why is that a surprise?” And then I saw the look of contempt on her face. “I think I know her.”
“Oh?”
“Seen her in church,” she murmured. “Only once or twice. She was with an older lady. The older one's a regular. I see her every Sunday.”
Neither of us ordered dessert and Evelyn stayed silent in the car all the way back to her place. When I pulled up to the curb, I'd made a decision.
“You were right,” I said.
Evelyn looked at me expectantly. “About what, exactly?”
“I do know her. The old lady you've seen her with in church is my client. The old lady's name is Aida Turner and we're looking for her son, Henry. He disappeared about eight years ago. The looker is named Adele, Adele Rosewell. She's the niece, Henry's cousin.”
“Adele?”
“Yeah, Adele.”
“That Adele?”
I pondered this turn of phrase. “She's the only one I know, Evelyn. And you're the only Evelyn I know too.”
“What about the man she was with. That slick looking white guy?”
“The husband of Aida Turner's employer, a woman by the name of Alison Lawson.” I shook my head.
“What?” she asked.
“Well, this Alison Lawson is a real looker, so….?”
“You're wondering why her husband is playing the field?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Evelyn gave me a direct look. “Well, don't you know, honey? We're forbidden fruit…”
“Evelyn…”
“Some white men get their kicks having sex with a black woman…they like that black pussy…then they're ashamed and want to be punished by their mamas just like little boys.”
“You think that's me? I mean, I like having sex with you, of course, but it's more than that…” I floundered and she let me hang myself. “Maybe that didn't come out right….”
“I don't want you to mention her name to me again.”
I was going to point out to her that I had been at pains to avoid mentioning anything about her but I gave in.
“Sure. I won't mention her again.”
“Especially not in your sleep.”
“Not even in my sleep.”
“'Cause if you do, I'm gonna sock you one and I don't care if you're awake or not, you hear?”
“Yeah, I hear.”
“Okay,” she said sweetly and leaned across and gave me a lingering kiss. “You coming up, baby?”
“I've got til midnight.”
“That's all right, I'm a working girl. Need my beauty rest.”
I waited by the door as the sister, Hortense, gathered her things. I wished her a goodnight as polite as could be and only got a prolonged “harrumph” for my consideration. I could see that Evelyn's daughter took after her auntie. After she left, Evelyn and I got undressed and thrashed around in her bed praising the lord for our good fortune.
32
I picked Birdie up in front of the office. I kept the windows of the Chevy rolled down. If we intended to search the gin joints and opium dens of Chinatown, and we did, then any fresh air would be welcome. I parked right on Spadina opposite John Fat Gai's place. Although late, the joint hopped. You'd almost think John had a legit business going. With the kind of trade he did, it made me wonder how much more he socked away illegally. Must have been a bonanza.
Our first stop–the alleyway where we'd found Ying's body. You could always find a lively game of craps taking place in back of Mr. Ling's Grocery. We edged around John's restaurant sticking to the shadows at the opposite side of the street. I could hear them before we saw them as we turned into the alleyway. About 50 feet in, half a dozen guys sat on upturned box crates, smoking, drinking and rolling dice. They were parked just about on the spot where Ying died. I could hear the clink of the glass as the die hit its sides and the clackety-clack as they rolled on the pavement. That and the yells and groans of the players marking the winners and the losers.
A pair of look-outs took the watch–as custom dictated. We didn't hide ourselves as we strolled into the alleyway and the watchers melted out of the shadows. They knew we hadn't come to play craps.
“What you want, fella?” one of them said, a wizened fellow in a pair of blood-stained overalls. A rusty machete lay against his thigh. Some chickens had died tonight.
I kept my hands clear. “Nothing. Just looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Doesn't matter,” I said. “He's not here.”
“Big man,” the other one said. “Dark face, like the devil…” The Chinese were nothing if not superstitious. I hoped Birdie didn't take offence. A burst of Mandarin followed this acute observation along with a surfeit of spitting. The players stopped the game and watched us suspiciously. We backed out of the alleyway. I'd seen what I needed and there was no one of interest. We kept walking along Dundas Street, Birdie's size 17 brogues clopping on the cracked pavement. After a moment, we heard quick steps behind us. One of the players. Once we'd turned, he pulled up keeping his distance.
“Who you looking for?” he said in unaccented English.
“Danny Chow. You know him?”
He was hatless and wore a dark jacket over a dirty white shirt and a pair of trousers that didn't match. He wore different shoes too. They were odd but looked about the right size for each foot.
“I can take you to where he is.”
“Okay.”
“Five dollars,” he said.
“Sure.”
I handed over the half sawbuck and it disappeared into the folds of his jacket. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and the guy tensed.
“Relax,” I said. “Just want to show you a photo.”
I pulled out the picture of the girl and handed it to him. He held it up to the streetlamp to get a look. “Know her?”
The guy shook his head once and handed back the photo.
“This way,” he said and jerked his head in the opposite direction.
“You better be on the level,” I said. “Or you'll be wearing a hole where your head used to be.”
“Don't worry,” said our new guide.
Looking for a Chinaman among other Chinamen made the rest of us stand out like a sore thumb. Tough way to work the shadows if you wanted to be discreet. We crossed Spadina heading west. Near the corner of Portland, our guide pulled up befo
re a storefront. Chen's Hardware.
“Wait here,” he said and disappeared down the walk and around the back.
I glanced at Birdie who shrugged. It was gone one in the morning now and I felt it a little. The night air remained balmy and the smell of garbage didn't make you gag at this end once you moved away from the small markets, the restaurants and the alleys where they dumped the trash fresh every night for the morning pick-up.
I heard some light footsteps and spotted Danny Chow's slight figure round the back of the building. He paused to light fire to a cigarette drawing on it like it was a long lost friend before plodding down the walk to greet us.
“Looking for me?” he asked.
“Nice to see you, Danny. Been a while.”
“What you want, Mo?” His dead eyes flicked at Birdie then back at me.
“You look a little rough, Danny. Things been tough for you?”
Danny barked a short laugh. “You might say that but then they've never really been good, have they?”
“I guess not.” I reached into my pocket and took out the girl's photo. I handed it over. “We're looking for her.”
Danny didn't reach for it or look at it. “I know you are and I can't help you.”
“You didn't even take a look.”
“I don't have to. Looking for her can get you killed. I don't want to have nothing to do with it.”
“What have you heard, Danny?”
“That she don't want to be found, okay? Is that good enough for you?”
“Not really. Not when we need to find her. I'm looking for fresh ideas.”
“Then you're out of luck,” Danny snorted. “For once, it's you and not me.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know, Mo. I'm not your stoolie anymore. If I had something I could give you I would. But I don't. I'm not touching this one with a barge pole. And if you were smart, you'd do the same,” Danny said, then spat a thick wad of phlegm at his feet. “I gotta go. Don't come looking for me again, Mo, or things could get, difficult.”
“How much you want?”
I could see he was hurting. He kept licking his lips, had a case of dry mouth and even though it cooled off now he sweated like a pig and his hands shook. Something told me he'd jump into the bottom of the barrel along with a needle if he could get his hands on some gear.
He shook his head, trying to control the shaking in his hands.
“I ain't got much of a life but at least what I got, is mine.” Danny started to back away. “Don't come looking for me again, Mo. I mean it….”
I heard the quick scuffling of shoes. Danny had stepped out of the pool of light thrown by the streetlamp. They came out of the shadows, half a dozen of them, guns drawn. Birdie and I stood back to back in a defensive posture while the gunmen surrounded us like Indians circling the wagons on the old two-reelers I used to watch. They found their spot and went still. The wise guy from before, the one who wanted to teach me a lesson, pushed through the pack, still grinning. He seemed abundantly happy at the moment. Really pleased to see me.
“Good evening,” he said. “Pleasant evening.”
“Sure it is,” I replied. Birdie snorted his answer.
“Now, maybe, we have a little fun,” the wise guy said.
“What kind of fun?”
“You find out.” I thought his face would crack open he smiled so much.
I glanced at my watch. “It's a little late and it's been a long day. Maybe some other time.”
The smile disappeared. “He want to see you, now. You come with us.”
“What if we don't want to?”
“Then you make a big mistake.”
I shrugged. “Your party.”
The gunmen closed ranks around us and we quick-stepped back the way we came and crossed Spadina against the traffic, to John's restaurant. Now it stood empty. The fearless leader of our little expedition rapped sharply on the front door rattling the glass. One of John's flunkies opened it and stepped aside. We shuffled through.
John gave us a cold welcome beckoning from his usual table at the back. More of his men occupied two tables and stared silently and hostilely at us through the thick cigarette smoke that hung in the air. This time no food came on offer. Not even a complimentary cup of green tea. The guy with the happy face poked me in the back. For a second, I thought about putting an elbow in his jaw but Birdie gave me a cautionary look. I suppose the two dozen or more henchmen giving us hard looks could be interpreted as some sort of deterrent. If so, it seemed to work.
“John,” I said. “Nice to see you. We should get together like this more often, us and your friends.”
John Fat Gai sighed. His thin face looked strained and I noticed a nervous tic in his right cheek. As usual, the eight cards lay spread out before him. He played with the ring of jade coins. “Always the joker, Mo. I'm not amused, as you can see.”
“Okay.”
“What progress have you made in finding my missing money?”
“Not a lot,” I admitted.
“You're looking for the sister?”
“That's right.”
“Why haven't you found her? It can't be that difficult to find one woman with a young baby, now can it?”
I shrugged. “Someone has hidden her well.”
“I don't have a lot of patience. You should know that by now.”
“Well it is a virtue, so they say.”
“So is forgiveness,” Birdie boomed and took stock of the room ensuring he made eye contact with each and every gunsel standing. Most wouldn't have understood him anyway. I doubted if they spoke much, if any, English.
John smiled thinly. “Spare me the platitudes. I hear your attention has been, diverted.”
“Oh?”
John went on. “Yes, apparently, you are looking for some fellow who went missing eight years ago. His mother has hired you to find him. Is this true?”
“I never talk about one client to another John. We keep things confidential. It's our stock in trade.”
That remark caused a guttural response from John's good friend who took the opportunity to whack me in the back of the head with the heel of his palm, a blow that brought me to my knees. It felt like being hit with a cement bag with the cement still in it. Birdie caught the Chinaman's hand and twisted viciously. Suddenly, everyone in the room went for their guns and the tension notched up a few degrees. I stood up shakily rubbing the back of my head. My knees felt a little loose and the room took on a different perspective, like that of Alice after she swallowed the pill.
I picked my hat up off the floor. Everyone hung there suspended for a few moments while a slow clock ticked off in my head. Then John spat out a command and reluctantly, the guns went back into their holsters. It had been a bit unnerving looking down the muzzles of a dozen .45 caliber pistols.
“We're not your flunkies, John,” I said quietly trying to control my anger.
“I'm sure this incident has been distressing for all of us,” John said. He spoke again in Mandarin and turned to Birdie. “You may release him now. I have something for you.”
I could see that Birdie had twisted the guy's hand to the point of breaking his wrist. One small turn and it would shatter. I looked at him and nodded. He released John's henchman. The guy rubbed his wrist with his good hand and kept on smiling but now everything except malice drained his expression.
“Like what?” I asked.
John reached into the side pocket of his suit jacket and tossed a snapshot on the table. “Take a look,” he said and smirked. All of his gunsels smirked too.
I picked up the snap—a Polaroid. I saw my brother, Eli, tied to a chair, his face bruised and bloodied, staring up at the camera. I flipped the snap over and read the date. Taken yesterday. Rage washed over me but I bit it back.
“Where is he?”
“In a safe place,” John replied. “Perhaps this will act as an incentive for you to look harder for the girl.”
“She's not hiding anywhere in Chinatown. If she were we would know about it and would have found her by now,” I said.
“I urge you to find her and find her quickly and recover what is mine,” John replied. “For your brother's sake.”
“Then he can go free?”
John cleared his throat and took a sip of tea, then adjusted his tie. “I don't care what happens to him assuming my property is returned.” His answer offered no reassurance.
“We'll keep looking,” I said.
“Make sure you do that. I'll give you three days.” John waved his hand in dismissal and the small army of gunmen parted to make way for us. He rolled the jade coins in his left hand and fingered the jade dragon pendant with his right nervously.
I pocketed the Polaroid but didn't move. I stared John in the eye. I spoke calmly but forcefully.
“If anything happens to him, John, we will come and burn your house down. I will rain fire and destruction on your head. You will burn in hell. Your soul will wander forever. You have my personal guarantee.” I flicked over the eight of spades and it fluttered to the floor. I held up four fingers. He stared at me through yellowed eyes and the tic worsened. Slowly, we took our leave careful not to make any sudden moves.
Outside, I took a deep breath. “That could have got ugly.”
“I can do ugly,” Birdie replied.
“Stupid idiot,” I cursed. “I told him to get lost. I gave him 300 bucks.”
“Your brother never did have much sense.”
“You're being too kind. After all is said and done, I'll kill him myself,” I said. “This is the last time I bail him out of a jam.”
“Helluva jam,” Birdie said. 'I'm ready. Are you?”
Ever since we'd spoken to Rochelle Dodson and he'd seen how O'Rourke treated her, Birdie had been itching to lash out at someone. He'd become a powder keg waiting for a lit fuse.
We walked back to the car. “You know what this means?” Birdie said.
I looked up at him and nodded. It meant paying a visit to Jake at the Don Jail. He dropped a loud hint at my uncle's funeral that he had some information about Liu Chen. It meant I had to go to him. Just what he wanted, the putz.
Looking for Henry Turner Page 18
