Pearls of Asia: A Love Story

by Lee Geiger

  “Well Mr. Osher, can you help me out here? We’re trying to understand the large deposits and daily cash withdrawals associated with your bank account.” Mac pulled out bank statements with numerous transactions highlighted in yellow. “Can you tell us what’s going on here?”

  Osher put on his reading glasses and looked over the statements. He handed them over to Lawyer Woodson. “You have a subpoena from a judge to get these from the bank, I assume?” asked Woodson in a futile attempt to justify his thousand-dollar an hour fee.

  “Of course we did,” replied Mayes. “Do you think Wells Fargo would have handed them over without one?”

  Lawyer Woodson glanced at them, nodded, and handed them back to Osher. “You don’t have to answer any questions about this, Paul. This isn’t a court of law and you’re not under oath.”

  “I’m fine with this,” said Osher. He took a draw on his forty-dollar cigar. “The truth is, I always like to carry cash on me. I use it as walking-around money for tips, wagers, cab fares, that kind of stuff. I’m also a very generous man, Inspector. I’m sure I have the highest paid shoe shine guy in San Francisco.”

  Mayes presented credit card receipts and asked about the frequent trips in and out of the country. Osher glanced at Lawyer Woodson, who nodded his head. “My job requires me to travel, and taking side trips to Vegas or Mexico helps me to relax. You guys got something against laying in the sun and playing a little golf?”

  Lawyer Woodson had heard enough. “Okay gentlemen, he’s answered your questions. This interview is over. Unless you have any evidence that Mr. Osher was involved in his wife’s murder, then I suggest you come back with a grand jury indictment. I can assure you that Mr. Osher was not involved, and that he will help you in any way he can once you identify a suspect.”

  Mac and Mayes said their goodbyes, but not before Mac noticed a picture on a wall of Osher swinging a golf club. He had just teed off on the 18th hole at Pebble Beach, one of the most famous golf holes in the world. Mac had been fortunate to play the famous oceanside course once in his life, and he could still remember every shot he hit on every hole.

  “That’s the 18th hole at Pebble Beach, isn’t it Mr. Osher?” asked Mac.

  “Why, yes it is. That picture was taken at last year’s AT&T Pro-Am tournament. The gentleman watching the flight of my ball is the other amateur in our foursome, Maury Povich, the famous talk show host. He’s a great guy and an outstanding golfer. Have you played there?”

  “Yes I have. Once. I can’t help but notice that you’re aiming at the sand trap to the right of the tree in the middle of the fairway. Weren’t you afraid your ball was going to fly that bunker and land out-of-bounds in some mega-millionaire’s backyard?”

  “Not at all,” said Osher, sounding like he was about to give Mac a golf lesson. “Look at where my hands are when I finish my swing. You can tell I play a strong fade off the tee.”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Osher. How foolish of me.” The detectives thanked Osher and Lawyer Woodson for their time and departed.

  The elevator doors closed. Mac and Mayes stood in silence, alone in their thoughts. As the elevator approached the parking garage, Mayes, who had never picked up a golf club in his life, asked Mac what the last conversation was all about.

  “Sorry Mayes. I forgot you’re too manly to play golf. Anyway, a ‘strong fade’ is another way of saying he slices the ball.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “It means he sucks at golf.”

  “So what does that mean?” repeated Mayes, his patience falling faster than the elevator.

  “It means he hits the ball from right to left.”

  “Am I going to have to beat the answer out of you, because you know I can? I’m going to ask you one more time, Mac. What the hell does it mean and what does it have to do with the case?”

  “It means he’s left-handed.”

  The elevators doors opened to the garage. “Damn, you’re good,” said Mayes.

  “Of course I am.”

  MAC DROPPED MAYS OFF at his home located at the corner of Moraga and 28th street, across from the Sunset Recreation Center tennis courts where Mayes liked to work on his backhand. Buddy and Holly sprinted out the front door and wrapped their tiny bodies around their super-sized father. Pamela walked outside, welcomed her husband home, and waved to Mac as he drove away.

  Partnering with Mayes was a hundred and eighty degrees from working with Larry Kelso. Mac and Larry were like two college fraternity brothers. They worked hard when they had to, and played even harder when they didn’t. Forty-eight hour shifts were not uncommon, and neither were spontaneous trips to Reno. Kelso had been more than just Mac’s partner. He was also his best friend. And he still was.

  Mac peered into The Sub’s rear view mirror. Mayes looked like Gulliver fighting off the Lilliputians. The rambunctious kids had their gargantuan dad pinned to the ground and were tickling him while Pamela caught the frolicking action on a video camera. Daddy’s suit was getting dirty, and no one cared.

  Mac never had a brother or sister. Despite being told often by his mother that he was a bundle of joy and the love of her life, Mac grew up blaming himself for the lack of a sibling. Maybe he was such a difficult child his parents couldn’t bear the thought of having another. Why else, he figured, would his father abandon his five-year old son for a life with Miss Lap Dance?

  The way Mac saw it, as a child, he was a failure.

  SHEYLA NEVER CALLED MAC as promised. He tried calling again several times, none of them successful. So he decided to take another shot at finding her at work. After guiding The Sub back to Pearls of Asia, Mac flashed his police badge at Mr. Ponytail, who then ushered him past the throng of table seekers.

  Mac been there for an hour nursing a Pellegrino, and there still was no sign of Sheyla. A waitress on the floor appeared to be in charge, so he decided to ask her about Sheyla Samonte’s whereabouts. “Excuse me, Miss, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, I’ll go home with you tonight,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

  “That wasn’t going to be my question.”

  “Okay, my name is Reyna, and my phone number is…”

  Reyna was tall like the other girls, but a bit stockier, and a touch older. She was wearing a black dress and a heavy dose of makeup that failed to hide a nasty scar above her left eye. Mac was more likely to share a foxhole with her than a bed.

  “Not that either,” laughed Mac. “I was wondering if you could help me. Do you know someone who works here named Sheyla Samonte?”

  “Yes, but when she’s here she’s better known as Jasmine, Sheyla’s evil twin sister. Jasmine’s our most popular girl. The customers call her human Viagra.”

  “And she’s a ‘gender illusionist’ like yourself?”

  “Of course she is, silly,” she answered while at the same time getting her picture taken. “All the ladies who work here are transsexuals. We’re Women 2.0; special girls with special equipment. That’s what makes us, as well as this place, so unique.”

  “Trust me, I get it. Is she working tonight?”

  The restaurant was packed, and Reyna was being bumped and shoved in the tight aisle like a pinball. A hand reached out from the crowd and grabbed onto her breast. She didn’t seem to mind. “No. Sheyla doesn’t work on Fridays, but she’ll be here tomorrow night.”

  “Damn,” said Mac, his face doing a poor job of hiding his disappointment. “Do you know where I can find her? It’s important that I talk to her.”

  “It’s not my turn to watch her,” replied Reyna. “But I’d be more than happy to sleep with…I mean…talk to you. What would you like to know?”

  “How well do you know Sheyla?”

  Reyna had no idea who Mac was, but this was a woman who never passed on the opportunity to chat up a handsome man. She described how Sheyla, whom she had known while growing up in the Philippines, showed up at the doorstep of her small Mission District home ten years ago aft
er moving to San Francisco from Thailand. Out of money and out of work, Reyna let Sheyla stay with her. She even helped Sheyla get a job selling makeup at Macy’s. They were good roommates and each other’s best friend, but Reyna had asked Sheyla to move out of her house two years ago after Reyna and her boyfriend decided to live together. “A gal’s got to have her priorities,” she said.

  Mac asked Reyna what she did for a living when she wasn’t slinging cocktails and flirting with strange men. Or women. “I oversee the Transgender Advocacy Program at a local health clinic. Our budget is over a million dollars. I may not be as pretty as some of these young pop tarts running around here in their underwear, but I’ve got three things they don’t have: a good job, a home that I own, and a wonderfully supportive boyfriend who wakes up with me every morning. Otherwise, I’ll beat the crap out of him.”

  Mac was suitably impressed. “It sounds like you’re a big deal in this town.”

  “I am. I have the mayor’s private number on my speed dial.”

  “For business or pleasure?”

  “Depends if his wife’s around. Anyway, last year he appointed me to a special commission on transgender rights. The way I see it, one of my job descriptions is to be a role model. Too many girls in the trans community ‘think they’re all that’ and measure themselves by what kind of shoes they wear, or which designer purse they carry. And whenever they meet a quality guy, they use them to pay their bills or promote themselves. I feel it’s my responsibility to make these girls wake up and realize there’s more to life than makeup and men. Although I’m not sure what.”

  Mac took an immediate liking to Reyna. Her plus-size personality made it easy to forget her plus-size body. A passerby shoved Reyna in the back, and she used it as an opportunity to wedge herself between Mac’s legs. “You know,” she whispered into his ear, “if you take real good care of me, I can get you Sheyla’s phone number.”

  Mac fought the urge to tell Reyna he already had that information. Plus he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’m sort of out of my comfort zone here.”

  “Honey, you have no idea what you’re missing,” she demurred. “Men who start dating TS’s rarely go back to GG’s. Just ask my boyfriend.”

  “Are we talking about women or movie ratings?”

  “I love first-timers,” declared Reyna, speaking louder so those around her could hear. “Now pay attention because we’re going to have a quiz later. A ‘TS’ means someone who is a transsexual. ‘GG’ stands for ‘genetic girl,’ also known as one of those nasty bitches you straight guys chase around the Marina.”

  “Okay, Reyna, you hooked me. What is so special about dating a TS?”

  “I’d love to show you,” she said, peering over his shoulder, “but there’s a line to the bathroom.”

  A bar manager called for Reyna’s attention. “Well Mr. Whoever You Are, nothing would make me happier than to climb onto your lap and chat some more with you, but I need to get ready for the Blowout Show. I do want to tell you one last thing that I like to say to all of my customers; a GG is good, a TS is better, but a PG is the best!’”

  “Now I’m confused. What is a ‘PG?’”

  “A PG is a Pearl Girl. You see, there are a lot of TS’s in San Francisco, but just like the movies, only the best girls ever get a PG rating.”

  Mac shook his head in mock confusion. “How about a ‘TMFA?’” he asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “Too Many Fucking Acronyms.”

  NO STRANGER TO A microphone, Reyna stepped onto the stage. “Okay people,” she announced, “Everyone should order another round and get ready for the Blowout Show. It’s time to fill up those nooks and crannies, and remember to tip the cooks and trannies.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, three girls stepped onstage and entertained the audience with a feast of sky-high heels, almost-there outfits, and provocative dance moves. At the end of each number, tables of customers feeling buzzed and brave would shout out the names of their sexy servers: Diamond, Nadia, and Ashley.

  Reyna stood on the middle of the runway and spotlighted diners who were celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, and for tonight at least, divorces. She asked tourists where they were from, then followed up by saying, “Thank you for coming to San Francisco, where men are men, and so are the women.”

  Reyna singled out the waitresses, each of whom stood on stage in the slinkiest of attire. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure to introduce to you the very special ‘Pearls of Asia.’”

  She led off with Diamond, who had more curves than Lombard Street. “You see before you this alluring and irresistible young lady. Her name is Diamond, because she shines brighter than anyone else. Most of you must be wondering ‘is she or isn’t she?’ Well, let me assure you, she is not a vegetarian.” The room erupted in laughter.

  Next up was Nadia, a skinny brunette who had the best legs of the bunch. “A lot of you wonder what we do when we’re not trying to seduce you. Well, this very special lady is a software engineer by day and a sexy vixen by night. Her specialty is turning your software… into hardware. For a small consultation fee, of course.” The revelers whistled and screamed.

  Last was Ashley, the newbie who danced the night before. “This statuesque blonde just turned twenty one, and she’s new to our horny harem. We like to call her ‘gifted,’ if you know what I mean. Her dancing is amazing, but you know what’s even more amazing? Her Jimmy Choos are a size twelve.” The crowd went nuts, and Ashley received the loudest applause of the night.

  Reyna had one more announcement to make. “Ladies and Gentlemen, not only does Pearls of Asia offer a feast for your eyes and well as your tummies, there is also a dance club downstairs, where the room gets hot, the women get hotter, and the drinks are as stiff as a wedding night prick.”

  The lights came back up, but Mac had seen enough. It had been a very long day.

  As he headed out a side door that lead onto Howard Street, he saw Nadia and Ashley outside sharing a cigarette. “Have a good night, ladies,” he said as he strolled toward Eighth Street.

  “I would if you’d take me home with you,” suggested Ashley.

  Mac turned and smiled. The ladies from Pearls of Asia must have been on their school’s varsity flirt team. And they weren’t shy about speaking in Tagalog around him. “Dyos ko day hihimudin ko ang buong katawan nyan. (I’ll lick his whole body.) “At ang puwit… winner!” (Now that’s what I call a great ass!)

  “You like the suit?” Mac asked, clueless.

  “The suit looks good on you, babe,” said Nadia, taking a long drag from the cigarette, “but I’d rather see you naked and hand-cuffed to my bed. If I didn’t have to do a web cam show tonight, I’d put a leash on you and put you in the back seat of my car.”

  “Of course you would.”

  Ashley and Nadia waved as Mac drove south on Howard Street toward Ninth. It was a very cute scene, two attractive women, one a tall blonde and the other a skinny brunette, running into the street to say goodnight.

  A tall blonde. A skinny brunette.

  “No way.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saturday, September 13, 2008 - 7:30 am

  “Michelle Osher’s body was discovered by the couple’s live-in maid, Maria Madrigal. An anonymous tipster has informed the Examiner that, according to immigration records, Miss Madrigal entered the United States from Mexico seven years ago on a work visa. U.S. law requires her to annually renew her visa, but she failed to do so. Efforts to reach Ms. Madrigal have been unsuccessful, and she is rumored to have left the country.”

  The San Francisco Examiner

  “THEY’LL CRUCIFY THE guy,” deplored Mac. His feet propped on his desk, Mac was speculating with Mayes on the media’s reaction upon learning the true identity of Paul Osher’s alleged mistress. “Whether he killed his wife or not, there’ll be nothing left of him but a few scraps of decomposed arrogance.”

  “I don’t
know why you’re so surprised,” said Mayes, already on his third cup of coffee. “It’s not like the world hasn’t seen this kind of relationship before. Ever hear of a play called ‘M. Butterfly?’”

  Mac picked up a Rubik’s Cube on his desk and tried to solve it for the millionth time in his life. He had yet to be successful. “Who hasn’t, Mr. Magna Cum Laude. Didn’t the 49ers use that play to score the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl?”

  “At least those guys are scoring instead of living at home with their mother,” quipped Mayes. “M. Butterfly is a Broadway play, inspired by the opera ‘Madame Butterfly’ by Giaccomo Puccini in 1904. The modern update is based on a true story, and the main character, a French diplomat, falls in love with a beautiful Chinese opera singer who is a man masquerading as a woman. At first he doesn’t know it, and then it doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t care, and he’s happy with her forever after. It’s a wonderful love story. You should see it if you ever get the chance. I think you’d like it, and you might even learn something.”

  Mac was intelligent, but rare was the opportunity when he could teach his cerebral partner a thing or two. “Speaking of learning something, smart guy, I’ve been doing some homework this morning. Do you know why they call the place where Sheyla Samonte works Pearls of Asia?”

  “Not a clue,” replied Mayes, relishing the moment. “Do tell.”

  Mac put down the Rubik’s Cube, which looked more unsolved than when he had picked it up. “You see, the girls who work there are like pearls. Very early in their lives they have the sense they’re not who they should be. It’s like they’re trapped in a shell. Over the course of time they get braver and braver, and the shell starts to crack open. Then one day the shell opens up, exposing a pearl. Then the real self comes out and the pearl gets polished to a beautiful radiance. Since most of the girls who work there are Asian, they call the place Pearls of Asia.”