Murder in Vegas

by Connelly, Michael

  “Fragrant Hills. I know where it is. But you just got here. How come you know about it?”

  He smiled. “I will tell you when we get there.”

  Okay. He wanted to be mysterious.

  My mother had set two places at the breakfast table and left English muffins out on the counter, along with a bowl of fruit and a canister of tea. I turned on the kettle and reached into the fridge for milk and a carton of eggs. I thought I’d scramble some and toast the muffins. I told Uncle Ho what I had in mind.

  “I will have whatever you have, but only a small portion,” he said.

  He walked to the window then and looked outside, squinting. “The sun is very bright. It makes the sky look very big.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, but he was right. Nevada has big skies.

  Over breakfast I tried the same thing I did the night before, only this time I asked him about birds, not crickets.

  “When I was a small boy in Shanghai, I liked to go to the bird market with my grandfather. He kept his birds in the bamboo houses you saw upstairs. He was very old and I often went with him when he took them for a walk.”

  “What do you mean, took them for a walk?”

  Uncle Ho chuckled. “I will show you when we go outside.”

  Breakfast didn’t take long and we left the house by the side door. Uncle Ho had a birdcage in each hand, held by the rings at the top of their domes. He grinned at me and set out past the garage door for a stroll down the driveway and back, swinging the cages at his sides. “Birds like the air. It makes them think they are free.”

  We got into the Toyota then and I set out for the store named Fragrant Hills. I’d looked it up in the yellow pages to be sure it was still there. Small businesses in Vegas come and go.

  There were no customers in the shop when we arrived, but with all the twitters and birdcalls it was a lively place. All kinds of birds were flitting about in large and small cages, and in mini-aviaries suspended from the ceiling. Along one side there were shelves stacked with boxes of birdseed and whatever else people might want to buy for their birds.

  At the far end of the shop a woman was seated behind a counter. She reminded me of one of my older aunts, who had been a dancer, and wore her hair the same way, pulled back from her face into a knot high on the top of her head.

  The woman was bent over a ledger, a pen in her hand, but looked up when we entered. She stared at Uncle Ho uncertainly and then a look of disbelief moved like a wave across her face. Her hand flew to her mouth, suppressing a cry.

  Uncle Ho placed the birdcages on the counter and leaned toward her. She was transfixed as he began to speak. His voice was soft and tentative at first and then gathered speed in a waterfall of words. Her hands rose to her throat and a whisper of wonder passed her lips. “Ho,” I heard her say, again and again throughout their exchange, but I understood nothing else of what they said to each other. They spoke in a dialect that was strange to me.

  Uncle Ho moved one of the birdcages close to her and she reached for it, clasping it with both hands. Beginning at its dome, she ran her fingers over its intricate webbing, feeling her way, until she reached the base. There she paused and began to explore in detail. She seemed to find what she was looking for, and I saw her ease one small finger between two narrow bamboo struts. She looked up at Uncle Ho. He nodded. She pressed down hard. A drawer sprang open.

  A shallow cry escaped her and she bent her head to stare at the contents of the drawer. When she looked up, there was a mixture of wonder and fear in her eyes. Frantically, she pressed her finger down again. The drawer closed, hiding what was there. What I had seen looked like a collection of dried-up brown peas.

  I stepped aside to let her by as she ran from behind the counter, headed for the front door. She bolted it and pulled down the shade.

  I looked questioningly at Uncle Ho. A smile was playing at the corners of his eyes. “Madam Jia has put up a sign saying the shop is closed. Her home is behind that curtain. She has invited us to go there.”

  I followed them down a short corridor, lined with more shelves of bird supplies, to a door the woman unlocked with a key hidden in a jar. It opened onto a sitting room, bright with the light from a window that looked out onto a small garden. She motioned for us to sit down, and then looked toward Uncle Ho.

  “I have told Madam Jia that you are a member of my family and that I stayed at your home last night. Jia and I are friends from a long time ago. Our grandfathers knew each other. As children we played in the alleys of the bird market in Shanghai. We made plans to have a bird stall of our own some day. Although they did not have names then, Jia said we would call ours Fragrant Hills.”

  He smiled at the woman. “Our lives have taken different paths. I am glad you chose that name for your shop here in the United States, or I might not have found you.”

  Their glances held for a moment and then Madam Jia turned to me. “Forgive us for having spoken in the language of our childhood. We will not do that from now on. Ho has many things he wants us both to know.”

  “Actually there are not so many, it is just that they are complicated. You already know how I gained entry into the United States. I was invited by one of the big casinos. I am sure you are both wondering how that came about.” He smiled at each of us in turn.

  “Even after so many years there are those who still speak of my days as a Gambling Master. Time and repetition of the story have magnified the truth, but that is what is believed. When the casino agent approached me, he referred to that reputation and assumed I was a wealthy man. At first I thought I should tell him that had been a long time ago, but as I listened to him I realized that my old standing would enable me to get to this country, and so I said nothing to contradict him.”

  “So, it is true that you have come here to gamble?” Madam Jia was leaning forward, staring at Uncle Ho.

  “Life is a gamble,” Uncle Ho said with a soft laugh, and then nodded. “It is true, now that I am here, I am expected to gamble. I know very little about the kind of gambling that goes on inside the glittering palaces on the wide boulevard you call the Strip. The only gambling I know is the betting that takes place in cricket fights. I will not find a cricket fight here, I am sure. Casinos do not like winners, so they are hoping I will lose. That might not be very difficult.”

  I thought of the “whales” story again, and the big bucks the casinos expected their high rollers to play. It didn’t sound like Uncle Ho had that kind of money. It was scary to think what might happen if he reneged on his part of the bargain. The days of backstreet murders were gone, but there was still a lot of talk about those times, when a cheat could be found in an alley with his throat cut.

  Something else was bothering me. It was those brown peas. I’ve seen enough old movies set in Macao and Hong Kong and Shanghai, to know something about opium dens. If those little brown pellets had anything to do with the poppy, I was in big trouble.

  I set the opium thought aside for a minute and went back to my other worry. “Uncle Ho, do you have any money to gamble with?”

  “If by money, you mean American currency, I do not have that. All my wealth is there.” He nodded toward the birdcages.

  Madam Jia’s impatient voice startled me. “Ho! I cannot wait any longer. How did you manage to hide them all these years? You were in prison for so long, and then you were sent to the countryside. I thought you had died there.” Tears sprang into her eyes.

  “You must not be sad,” Uncle Ho said. “Those times are in the past. I am here. Did you ever think that would happen?”

  “Years ago I used to dream … .” Hastily she shook her head, chasing the memory away. “But enough of that. I am not the little girl you chased in the market alleyways. I have lived many years. You must tell me, now. Where did you hide them?”

  “I am surprised that you have not guessed.” A look of mischief sparkled in his eyes. It was clear Uncle Ho wasn’t about to be hurried. “Do you remember the caves?”

&nbs
p; “Of course, I remember the caves! How could I forget?”

  Uncle Ho turned to me. “In Shanghai there was a small mountain range near where I lived as a boy. I climbed there often with my friends. The paths were steep, with giant boulders and tall pine trees that gave off a fine fragrance when the wind blew. We were always looking for treasure. We found pinecones. It was a child’s game.

  “We wouldn’t let Jia come with us. She was too small, and she was a girl. But she was curious.”

  Madam Jia leaned back into her chair, a quiet smile lighting her face.

  “I should have known when I told Jia that we had found some caves, she would not be content to be left behind. Without our knowing, she trailed after us one day, but once she entered the caves she lost her way.

  “Jia did not come home to her family that night. No one knew where she was. The next morning her grandfather came to my house and spoke to my grandfather.”

  “Ho found me,” Madam Jia said, her eyes sparkling with the delight of memory. “He guessed what I had done, and he came for me. I was in a cave that had many niches carved into its sides. Before the light was gone, I counted them, from right to left and back again until I reached the top. There was one large niche all by itself. It seemed it was as high as the sky. I called it the moon niche. When Ho found me I told him that if we ever had any treasure to hide, that would be a good place.”

  Uncle Ho nodded, and their glances held for a moment, sharing an old memory. “It was many years later, when the country was under Mao’s grip, that I thought of those caves. The government had been watching me and I knew one day they would come to my door and I would be thrown in prison. It had happened to many of my friends.

  “I might die or I might live, but if I were to live I was determined to save my treasure for that day. I chose a dark night and made my way back to the hillside of my childhood and hid my winnings in the niche Jia had given the name of the moon.

  “It would be a long time before I would return to that place and to Shanghai. I hardly recognized the city of those early years. New and towering buildings were everywhere, old ones had been torn down, streets and alleyways I had known were gone. At the foot of the hillside that led to the caves, bulldozers and cranes were in place, waiting to level the land and collapse the caves.

  “I was dressed as a peasant, with a bamboo pole across my shoulder, the day that I climbed the steep hills for the last time. I found the cave I was looking for and came out on the other side, so that if someone were watching they would simply see an old man taking his birds for a walk, and not guess what treasure he had.”

  Madam Jia brought her hands together at the end of Uncle Ho’s story and rose from her chair.

  “The time has come for us to see your treasure. I will bring the water and the bowls you asked for.” She nodded toward a long table in front of the window. Sunlight splashed on its light blue cloth cover. “We will do our work there.”

  She asked me to come with her into the kitchen. She put a large basin in the sink and began filling it with hot water and gave me a stack of dishtowels and some soup bowls to take to the table. When the basin was full I carried it there. She followed with a large sieve.

  I thought about asking a few questions then, but it looked as though I’d have some answers soon. And besides, they were both having such a good time.

  I stood to the side as Uncle Ho sprang open the drawers in each of the birdcages. In small handfuls he dropped the brown pellets into the sieve which Madam Jia lowered into the water. It gradually turned muddy.

  “They must soak for a while,” she said.

  We changed the water several times, until it finally became clear and the pellets were no longer brown. Uncle Ho counted and separated them, and Madam Jia carefully spread them on the dishtowels to dry in the sun streaming in through the window.

  There were twenty-nine star sapphires, thirty-six rubies, and forty-seven emeralds, sparkling in the sun’s bright light.

  Uncle Ho was a rich man.

  “There were many men who did not have the money to pay their gambling debts,” Uncle Ho explained. “They paid me in gems. That gave me the idea to convert some of my other earnings into what you see here. I wrapped them in bird droppings so no one would know what they were.”

  He turned to Madam Jia then. “I think it is best to wrap them now, in soft cloth, and put them back in the birdcages. It has been a safe place for many years. I will take them with me to James’s house and think about what I should do next. But I must decide before tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Why tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.

  “I must be at the airport then to rejoin the group.”

  “Were you supposed to go with them to the Grand Canyon?”

  “Yes, but after we arrived in Los Angeles and passed through immigration, I slipped away. Since there were only six of us, it is certain that I was missed. When I join them, I will just say that I lost my way in the airport in Los Angeles. It is a confusing place.”

  Maybe they’d believe him, and maybe they wouldn’t, but what I wanted to know was what happened after that. “And just like that, you found someone to drive you here? How did you manage that?”

  Uncle Ho smiled. “I will tell you that at another time. We must go now.”

  I got up and said goodbye to Madam Jia and told Uncle Ho I’d wait in the car for him. Madam Jia let me out through the garden.

  It wasn’t long before the front door of the shop opened and Uncle Ho appeared with a birdcage in each hand. Madam Jia held the door for him. To anyone who might be watching she was just saying goodbye to a customer, not someone she had known a lifetime ago.

  It was well past lunchtime when we got home. Uncle Ho said he wasn’t hungry and wanted to rest for a while and think about what he should do next. I helped him upstairs with the birdcages, aware of how much wealth I held in one hand.

  I made myself a sandwich and thought about all that had happened since my parents had left for work that morning. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and went into the family room and turned on the TV. It was set to the local news channel. A bulletin came on, obviously a follow-up to a story they’d been monitoring all morning. One of the local anchors was reading an announcement.

  Two helicopters collided and crashed in the Grand Canyon shortly after dawn this morning in a surprise lightning storm. There are no survivors. The bodies of both pilots have been identified. The passengers were Chinese tourists, traveling in a group. Their final destination in the U.S. was Las Vegas. There is some question as to whether there were five or six passengers on board the flights. Only five bodies have been found.

  I sat there, staring at the screen, thinking I should probably call my parents, but I couldn’t imagine telling them all of this over the phone. I thought of Uncle Ho. I wasn’t ready for that either.

  Another bulletin came on.

  The families of the pilots have been notified of their deaths. Authorities have released the names of the six Chinese tourists who were scheduled to be aboard the two helicopters. As a special service to our viewers in the Chinese community, their names can be found on our Web site.

  I went up to my room and sat down at my computer. The Web site listed the names in Chinese with English transliterations beside them. There were six names. Ho was one of them. I went back downstairs and flipped on the TV.

  I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew my mother’s hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake. Dad was standing beside her. The TV was still on.

  I sat up and stared at them. For a minute I thought the whole thing had been a dream.

  “We heard the news as we were driving home,” my mother said. “It’s dreadful. I wonder if it’s the group Uncle Ho was traveling with.”

  “Where’s Uncle Ho?” I asked.

  “We just got home. I guess he’s in his room.”

  “I’ll go check.”

  I started up the stairs. All sorts of questions were chasing around in my head.
One thing was sure. The next time the relatives got together, I’d have an Uncle Ho story to top them all.

  HOUSE RULES

  LIBBY FISCHER HELLMANN

  If Marge Farley had known what was in store during her vacation to Las Vegas, she might have gone to the Wisconsin Dells instead. At the very least, she might not have taken the side trip into the desert. But she’d been craving something new and different, which was why they’d come to Vegas in the first place. And she’d surprised her husband Larry with a trip to Red Rock Canyon to cheer him up.

  But Larry ignored the petrified sand dunes, the waterfalls cascading into the canyons, and the red-tailed hawks soaring high above the Mojave. Polishing off both bottles of water, he stomped back to the car. He swiped beads of sweat off his forehead. Wet bands ringed the back of his shirt. “This isn’t fun. It’s too hot. And dusty. Let’s go back.”

  Marge tried to focus on the craggy rock formations in the distance. The desk clerk at the hotel concierge said this was the place to visit. And Dr. Phil said there were times you had to decide what was important in a relationship. Lord knows, she was trying. But Larry’d had what you might call a setback last night. A fifteen thousand—dollar setback.

  “It’s not fair.” He moaned when they’d stumbled out of the casino. “Why couldn’t we have Benny Morrison’s luck?”

  She’d heard the story a thousand times. How their friend Benny took his wife to Vegas and won fifty grand at the tables before they even unpacked. How he flew up to their room, grabbed their bags, and told Frances they were going home—that very minute—to build a swimming pool in their back yard. Larry still did a slow burn every time the Morrisons invited them over.

  But Larry had never had much luck. Marge pulled the visor of her cap down and contemplated a pink cactus flower not far away. So they’d skip the next vacation. Postpone the bathroom remodeling. Life wasn’t about money, anyway. It was a spiritual journey. Like they said on “Oxygen.” In fact, hadn’t some woman said something about mantras last week? How they made for peace and tranquility? She should share that with Larry. As she tried to remember exactly what the woman had said, something near the flowers glinted in the sun and broke her concentration. “Look at that!”