by Henry Chang
Water over water, whispered the charm. Have faith, journey forth through sacrifice.
As if the steam, the bubbling whirlpool, could purge the poisons inside her, poisons more spiritual than physical, as if heat could melt away her painful memories.
The spa was a form of exorcism and Buddhist salvation, the steamy rise of mercy and goodness from the depths inside her. Forgiveness releasing the anger, hate, bitterness. Like a devotee she rubbed steam off the hot charm of her mother’s soul, dangling from her bracelet, dripping its secrets.
Water over Mountain. She took a shallow swallow of steam.
Beware troubles from the Northeast.
It came as no surprise, but she hadn’t expected the warning so soon.
Time, she believed, was still on her side.
Prayers
As Mona became more familiar with King Street, Wong Daai gaai, on her trips through Chinatown, she discovered a Buddhist temple, a humble storefront location that was unlike the grand temples and monasteries she’d visited in Hong Kong but which attracted a faithful following nonetheless.
The Lantern Festival, Yuen Siu, had already passed, but the temple had posted an announcement of ceremonies for the Spring Blessing Festival, and upcoming celebrations of Kwoon Yum’s birthday, the coming of the Goddess of Mercy.
Inside, the monks and sisters wore burgundy-colored robes, led by a sifu, master, who wore a colorful dragon vest over the robe. The big room was hazy from the burning sticks of incense, and crowded, with a chanting drone that filled the air.
At the altar, Mona placed offerings of gladioli and fruits she’d bought in Chinatown, then touched fire to incense, which she stuck into an urn of packed ashes. She got on her knees before the large Buddha figurines and bowed her head into the cushions on the floor, picturing her deceased mother behind closed eyes. She mouthed a series of silent prayers in her mother’s memory.
Afterward, as a further expression of love, she gave a generous donation to the monk sister, who appeared mildly surprised.
“Please remember my mother in your prayers,” Mona requested.
“What is her name?” asked the sister. “We can post it at the altar.”
“Please just pray for all mothers,” Mona said, “during ching ming, memorial observances, and on Mother’s Day.”
The monk sister nodded acknowledgement, placed her hands together pointed toward Heaven, and bowed.
Mona returned the bow, then left the temple, with a heart less burdened by the weight of everlasting sorrow, with the droning nom mor nom mor nom mor or may tor fut trailing behind her.
Peace.
Siu Lam Sandal
Of average height and slight build, Tsai had been a student of Shaolin Hung–style boxing, and had honed his knife-combat skills. From his appearance, no one could suspect he was an experienced fighter, better at hand-to-hand than most of the number 49-rank thugs, but the martial arts above all had taught him the lesson of patience.
For three months now he had fielded reports from the ranks of fellow Grass Sandals in other American Chinatowns where the Red Circle had members or triad affiliates. Their leads had not panned out in Washington, Boston, Philadelphia, Miami, Chicago, Detroit, or Columbus. He hadn’t expected much from those communities but had been hopeful that something would turn up in Houston, Dallas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Sacramento, Fremont, or Monterey Park. Even Anchorage, or Honolulu.
Tsai knew that Paper Fan would not be pleased, but the bok ji sin was a patient man as well, and had faith in his many subordinates. Time, the 415 leader knew, was a continuum that governed all things, and patience was part of that balance.
None of the discreet inquiries at Chinese jewelry stores had proven fruitful, yet he was sure the stolen items would turn up. No luck during the Lantern Festivals, either. Tsai knew that most of the Buddhist temples would have an established membership of true believers who worshipped regularly, but the monks would welcome visitors and new members, recording their donations in a sign-in log. Greeting visitors with shaved heads bowed, the monks would thank new worshippers for their offerings, and include them in their evening prayers. The monks also taught that patience was a virtue, and that justice, like vengeance, traveled in a circle. What goes around, mused Tsai, comes around.
He continued to advise vigilance, maintaining focus on the diamonds, or the gold, but not forgetting religion, or the myriad Chinatowns.
As per Paper Fan, of course.
Pawns
Jack had left the motel early, taking a car service north to Pioneer Square. He’d planned to check out the pawnshops there first, before working his way back down to the locations he’d listed inside the big five-mile circle he’d drawn around the International District. Along the way he’d hoped to grab a dim sum snack in Chinatown while keeping a daylight eye out for ma lo Eddie.
Jack also thought he’d drop by the West Precinct again.
As the car cut through the brittle Seattle morning, Jack reflected. Pawnshops were businesses where desperate people, down on their luck, went to trade in valued pieces of their lives for lesser sums of money. These shops were also places where the thrifty-minded sought good bargains, and where thieves often went to fence their stolen goods.
The pawnshops on Jack’s list went by different types of names, which were clues to the class of clientele they catered to. PIONEER GOLD EXCHANGE. CAPITOL CASH. USA PAWN. ELLIOTTBAY BROKERS. JOHNNY’S JEWELRY. BRIDGE BROTHER’S TRADING.FAMILY CAPITAL. SEATTLE GOLD AND SILVER. There were a dozen places where Jack hoped to pull a lucky hit on stolen Rado watches. What was Eddie going to do, eat them?
The first three places around Pioneer Square were clearly directed at the tourist trade, with big picture windows offering an array of glittering jewelry and fancy cameras. The watches were European style: Franck Mullers, Piagets, Breitlings and Tag Heuers. None of the store managers had done business with any Chinese lately, and they were always wary of Hong Kong knockoffs anyway. Jack canvassed those stores in less than an hour, and left the area just as the tourists started rolling in.
Two shops farther south in the I.D. carried plenty of gold jewelry and coins from Chinese customers, but no watches. Nearby, he came upon the Jade Pagoda café and the Golden Wok. He grabbed a quick cup of nai cha tea at the Pagoda, washing down two plates of ha gow, shrimp dumplings, and lor bok go, radish cakes, as he watched the main drag wake to the morning. Many Chinese people passed by, but none short enough to match Eddie’s low profile.
Jack rode a bus south, past the Kingdome and toward the next cluster of pawnbrokers. When he passed a stretch of railroad yards his cell phone buzzed out a number he didn’t recognize. The voice identified himself as Detective Nicoll of the Seattle Headquarters Squad.
“Thanks for calling—,” Jack began.
“Well, I’ve been up for twenty-eight hours but let me understand this right,” Nicoll said. “You’re looking for a four and a half foot tall Chinaman? Not a suspect? Not a fugitive? ”
Jack bit his tongue on Chinaman and answered, “He’s a person of interest, actually.”
“And your name?” Nicoll continued. “Yoo, was it? What’s that, Korean?”
“Chinese,” Jack answered sharply.
There was a pregnant pause.
“You realize we’re on a red ball here?” asked Nicoll.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “It’s all over the news.”
“Yeah, so tell you what,” Nicoll said with a sigh. “I’ll notify Patrol again, see if they run across anything. He’s a shorty, right?”
“Correct. And I appreciate the lookout,” Jack added.
“Try me after the red ball,” Nicoll said wearily before hanging up.
Chinaman still rang in Jack’s brain. He could already imagine the jokes coming out of Patrol ranks: No shit. A short Chinaman? That’s the entire male population of Chinatown! Or, Whaddya kidding me? Midget Chinaman? A dinky chinky? A short slant?
Jack didn’t like getting the brush-of
f even though he understood SPD had their hands full with the double homicide, and were under political pressure as well. Cop-world was full of that setup.
At the end of the railroad yards, Jack found Johnny’s Jewelry on a street of old storefronts beneath the highway. Johnny, a grizzled old man, looked at Eddie’s juvie photo and said, “Nah. We get mostly Mexicans here. And a few of the brothers, occasionally. Besides, you guys all look alike anyways.” He flashed a yellowed gap-toothed grin. “Know what I’m saying?”
Jack sighed as Johnny offered, “You try Chinatown?”
It started to rain again.
Three blocks away was Family Capital, where the proprietor was a cheerful middle-aged white woman who greeted Jack like he was the first customer of the day. Jack badged her and explained the scenario involving high-end watches. He didn’t want to show Eddie’s dated ten-year-old juvie poster because it had already confused people.
The shop had a glass display counter with shelves of watches, but no Rados.
“We got a ladies’ black-face Movado recently,” she offered.
Jack became alert. “From a Chinese?” he asked. “A short man?”
“No, from a Mexican,” she said with a pause. “But there was a Chinese with him. Well, Asian anyway.”
“Short?” Jack repeated.
“Oh yes,” she recalled. “I thought he was a kid at first. Because of his height. But it was the Mexican, Latino, who offered the watch.” She removed it from the counter.
It was a ladies’ gold watch featuring a black dial with gold hands and the trademark concave dot. It came fixed onto a gold bangle bracelet that had a locking clasp. The styling was elegant, sophisticated. The back of the watchcase bore the Movado logo SINCE 1881 laser-printed across the top. In the center was a line of eight numbers and letters, indicating the style; beneath which ran the serial number, consisting of seven digits. Across the bottom were the words SAPPHIRE CRYSTAL.
Jack jotted down the numbers. “What did he look like?” he asked.
“The Mexican?”
“No, the Chinese, Asian, first.”
“Well, he wore glasses. Like a student, that’s what I thought. He looked around at the camera counter. Never said a word.”
Eyeglasses, noted Jack suspiciously, realizing the ruse. White people didn’t focus much attention on Chinese anyway, other than, “They all look alike, know what I’m saying?” If Eddie donned a pair of nerdy drugstore eyeglasses, he’d really be invisible. Except for his height. Eddie couldn’t disguise that.
“The Mexican man, he was a little older, in his thirties, I guess,” the woman continued. “He had a thin mustache, I think. He said he bought the watch down in L.A. for his girlfriend. But then they broke up. He said he needed the money for rent, so he was pawning it.” She wiped the watch with a soft cloth, admiring it. “Amorosa,” she said, referring to the watch series. “He said that his girlfriend was named Rosa. And he had picked this one because it meant ‘love Rosa.’ I felt bad for him. I gave him my top offer.”
“How much did he get?” Jack asked.
“About a hundred fifty,” she said. “That model retails for about six hundred. We’ll resell for three hundred, thereabouts.”
“A hundred fifty, that’s all he got?” Jack asked skeptically.
“That’s it. We do have a mark-up policy.”
Jack took a photo of the Movado, using his plastic disposable camera, and recopied the serial numbers. “Can I see the transaction information?” Jack asked.
“Will I take a loss?” she asked warily. “If the watch turns out to be stolen?”
“I’m not after the watches,” Jack assured her. “I promise, no loss.”
She produced a ledger, from which he copied the name “Carlos Lima,” and the address “44 South Andover.” There was no telephone number.
“Thanks,” Jack smiled. “I’ll be in touch if anything turns up.”
“And you have a nice day,” she replied, as he went back out into the rain.
There were more pawnshops on the list, and he felt the chess game was just beginning.
The first pawnshop on South Spokane was another small storefront with racks of rings and necklaces in the front window. Jack could see that the young white man inside was on the phone, occasionally glancing out at the street. There was a counter of assorted folding knives.
Jack noticed a wall display of watches as the man buzzed him in. “Look around,” the man said. “Let me know if you need help.”
Jack smiled and said okay as the man ended his phone conversation in a language Jack didn’t recognize. Slavic. Polish, Eastern European. He scanned over the array of watches, and saw it right away. On the middle shelf, the ladies’ Movado with the black-face dial.
“That one,” said Jack. “Can I see it?”
“Certainly,” the man said, placing the tray on the counter between them. Jack turned the watch over and checked the serial number. It was eight digits off from the Movado previously pawned at Family Capital. Two identical watches eight numbers apart? At the end of a series of seven numbers? Same batch, he figured.
The watch had a $400 tag on it.
Jack decided to badge the man, assuring him he wasn’t after the watch.
“When did you acquire this?” Jack asked. “And from whom?”
“It was one of the Chicanos,” he said. “Three or four weeks ago.”
“He was alone?”
“Yes, he sold the watch.”
Jack gave him a puzzled look.
“There was a Japanese man, Chinese man, whatever, with him,” the man said. “But he waited outside.”
“Outside the door?” Jack asked. “Was it raining then?”
“It rains all the time here.” The man smirked. “I don’t remember about then. He walked up and down the street. I only glimpsed him for a few moments.”
“What makes you think they were together?” Jack asked.
“Not me. My nephew, Vlady, returning from his lunch break. He saw them way down the street. The Chicano man was giving the cash to the short Chinese man, he said.”
Short, Jack noted. “I need the name.”
The man produced a notebook, thumbed it until he got to the entry: MOVADO, LADY, WATCH. $125 JORGE VILLA. The next entry: 44 S. ANDOVER. The same crib as Carlos Lima.
“This Chicano,” Jack asked, “did he say where he’s from?”
“Los Angeles. He bought the watch for his girlfriend. But they broke up.” He shrugged like it was an old story. “He needed the money for rent.”
“Did he say what the girlfriend’s name was?” asked Jack.
The man paused, his eyes narrowing. “Rosita. Rosa something. It was the Amorosa series; he said it sounded like her name.”
“Thanks,” Jack said, knowing he needed to check one more shop on Spokane before heading toward South Andover. At the very least, he thought, it was a good lead to pass on to Seattle PD.
Closer to Highway 99, he came upon an old warehouse building that had a run-down storefront on the street. Above its dingy picture window was an American flag and a red, white, and blue sign that announced USA TRADERS GOLD, GUNS, GUITARS.
A small surveillance camera was perched above the doorway.
Looking beyond the trays of jewelry and the pair of lacquered Stratocasters featured in the window, Jack could see a display of weapons and more guitars in the background.
He pressed the button on the door, heard laughter from inside, and waited a long time before he was buzzed in. The man nearest the door had a high-and-tight military haircut; he watched Jack with narrow blue eyes, displaying a crooked smile. He wore a Guns N’ Roses wifebeater shirt and a black leather wristband. Farther in, another man stood behind a long counter perusing a Motorcycle magazine. He wore his dark grungy hair long, folded his hairy arms across his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. There was a gun in the holster on his hip.
“You have watches?” Jack asked.
The man nodded toward the far corner, an
d Jack passed a display counter of Magnum revolvers but there were no small-caliber pieces. A selection of semiautomatic pistols reminded Jack of the guns used at Lucky’s OTB shoot-out. On the wall was a shelf of assault rifles, and a display of swords and knives. The far wall featured a half dozen electric guitars, an Easy Rider movie poster, and a blow-up concert picture of Kurt Cobain. There was another counter of Las Vegas–type jewelry: gaudy gold-and-diamond-encrusted rings and bracelets, platinum medallions in the shape of dollar signs, lucky horseshoes, and dice.
Then he saw the display case of wristwatches.
“Can I see this one?” Jack asked.
The biker man took his time coming over, lazily sliding the watch tray onto the glass countertop. Jack saw the same Movado Amorosa model with a $375 tag on it. Checking the back of the watch, Jack saw that the serial number followed the one supplied by “Carlos Lima” exactly. Beyond coincidence, Jack knew.
“It’s real all right,” the man said. “No need to check.”
“Did you get this from an Asian person?” Jack asked.
“Say what?” the man responded through a frown. Jack badged him, and explained that he wasn’t after the watch, but the person who sold it.
“Why didn’t you identify yourself sooner?” the man complained.
“Wouldn’t have been necessary,” Jack said bluntly, “if you didn’t have this watch.”
The man shook his head disdainfully and said, “It wasn’t no Asian. It was a beaner. A Mexicano.”
“There was a little Jap with him,” the other man interjected. Jack glanced at him, saw the grin on his face. “Yeah,” the man continued, “they came in together. The little Jap, or Chink, whatever.” He was trying to get a rise out of Jack. “He went looking at the gun wall. I told him, ‘Don’t bother, you need to be eighteen for guns.’”
Jack played it cool. “He was short, so you thought he was a kid?”
“A Mongolian runt, right.” He grinned.
