Текст книги "Red Jade "

Автор книги: Henry Chang

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Back at the motel room he sucked down four of the little bottles of vodka from the minibar, sitting at the window watching the night rain splatter against the glass. He thought about the fancy watches and the nine-shot revolver and the cold-blooded little man who’d shown no signs of remorse.

He thought about Alex, and all the rain checks, until the alcohol reached his brain and closed his mind.

Change

The Phoenix Garden Beauty Salon occupied the second floor of an office building on a Chinatown side street. The local spa spot offered the usual haircuts and facials, manicures and pedicures. Three massage tables were neatly hidden in the rear rooms.

The big front room was all chrome and mirrors, filled by the roar of blow-dryers and buzzing clippers, and a chemical smell of baking electrifying the air. Hong Kong pop music played in the background intermittently, a jittery cacophony. Six hair stations lined the walls and each was occupied, their operators busy brushing shorn locks into piles beneath the sleek new-wave barber chairs. The male cutters were young Chinese with short and spiky gel haircuts, wearing hipster T-shirts and rip-torn jeans. The female stylists were also young and Chinese, with red or yellow highlights in their chopped hair, their slim bodies wrapped in little denim miniskirts and stretch tank tops that exposed their bellies. Each wore a variation of a wing-style tattoo over her lower back. The colored wings pointed into the crack of their buttocks.

Mona closed her eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, gauging the musty metallic odors, her thumbs nervously working the jade charm in her palm beneath the plastic sheet.

She flipped the coin over, feeling for the symbols on the reverse side.

The women hair stylists had reminded Mona of the siu jeer, “young ladies,” with whom she’d worked the nightclubs of Hong Kong, and Tsim Sha Tsui. China City. Volvo Party. Charlie’s Club.

The memories always found their way back to her at the most unexpected moments, the disorienting jolt of seeing herself on her back in the seedy Hong Kong whorehouse, naked, holding back her tears as evil men took turns at her, taking payment in flesh and innocence for the gambling debts her father had owed.

A month like that.

She had been fourteen.

The triad’s black-hearted snakes later killed her father anyway. Her mother, a Buddhist, stayed away from the funeral, cursing her lo gung, husband, before suffering a fatal heart attack herself.

At fourteen, Mona had found herself alone in the world, and soon discovered how to wield her beauty and her body like Fa Mulan’s sword in her hatred of men.

Men were dogs, and she would use that knowledge to her own advantage.

On the reverse of the charm the symbols read Heaven over Earth. Evil men block the path of progress. Events turn out badly. Be strong, patient. Gain control.

The stylist lowered the heat dome, announcing, “Sup fun jung, ten minutes,” as Mona opened her eyes, watching the stylist’s tattoo as she sashayed away.

Chameleon

In the mirror, Mona saw the natural beauty of her own face, striking even without a trace of makeup. On the streets, men still stared at her—perfection—inspired by her big deep eyes, her full lips, delicate nose. A look of innocent sorrow to break everyone’s heart.

In a Cantonese opera, she would have been the fox, the mesmerizing siren. Classically beautiful, like a young Joan Chen, the actress. Her perfect eyebrows had been tattooed in, and she’d frame her hair around them for a variety of different looks.

A chameleon.

Now Mona was affecting an older face, an older sister, dai ga jeer. Fortyish. As a mature businesswoman, she’d be able to sell off the gold and diamonds and all the jewelry she’d acquired.

In the background of the mirror she saw that it continued to rain outside, drops dashing against the street-side windows. It had rained all this week, and most of the last.

Over the passing months, her hair had grown out until it was now shoulder length. When she was in Hawaii, the sun had bleached it, and the last of the highlights had faded to a salt-air brown. Now, she’d brought her hair back to a natural black, the tone of fot choy and mok, the shade of black moss threads and Chinese ink.

She closed her eyes again, shaking the charm around inside her palm as a Taiwanese ballad faded in over the stereo setup. The music brought her thoughts back to New York City, and Chinatown, and to an old man she’d thought was her ticket out, but who turned out to be a monster in disguise. A Chinatown big shot who’d beat her and raped her.

Her mind drifted to a karaoke bar somewhere far away. At first, all had gone well with the old man whom she’d met first in Kowloon, where hundreds of siu jeer sold themselves, trolling for overseas Chinese with the promise of green cards and escape. She’d followed him to New York City, astonished by the energy and madness all around her. She knew her role, overstayed her visa, and disappeared; gone underground.

The old man was thirty years her senior and was married, but he’d provided for her, as his mistress, with a co-op apartment and money for clothes and personal expenses. In return she accompanied him at night, a decoration on his arm that he showed off in the gambling houses and karaoke nightclubs. Men ogled her wherever they went but Uncle Four gave big face to the club owners and didn’t bring trouble to their places.

As time went by, he began to accuse Mona of coy and flirtatious behavior in the presence of younger men, causing him loss of face, mo sai meen. To an elder man of respect, this was unacceptable. He became abusive and violent, threatening her with deportation, even death, if she ever tried to leave him. As leader of the Hip Chings, his people were everywhere, and she feared she’d never escape.

Jing deng, she cried. It was destiny. Her fate.

He’d beaten and raped her at the slightest whim, loosing an old man’s rage against imagined disloyalty and dishonor.

The heating coils hummed along the rim of the dryer dome over the top of her head, baking in the fot choy, the blackness.

But she had escaped her destiny, had returned the old bastard’s violence with some of her own.

Evil men block the path … be strong.

And now she was free.

All regrets are gone. Go forward.

She was ready to move on, take the next step.

Follow the way ….

Her hair, clothes, eyes changing. Different tones on her face, lips.

Chameleon.

Safe Deposit

Overseas banks around Chinatown were offering the usual incentives to attract Chinese money. The Far East United Bank rewarded new accounts with a clock radio, preset to receive local Chinese broadcasts. The Regal International Bank countered with an electric rice cooker. Branches of the HKSC presented an array of gift certificates. The China Global Bank boasted a Taiwanese microwave.

Of all the banks in Seattle she’d visited, Mona chose the AAE Bank, situated at the base of a gleaming commercial office tower, halfway between her home and the waterfront. The Asia America Europe bank on Marion, Ma leon gaai, offered exactly what she’d needed: a reserved safety deposit box, one of up to five thousand the bank was promoting. The larger the account, the larger the box. With the increase in home-invasions crime, the Chinese bank manager had correctly deduced that there would be a growing demand for secure places to store important documents and valuable items.

For opening an eight-thousand-dollar account, Mona was guaranteed one of the largest units, a green metal container that was twice the size of a shoebox. She’d opened the account over the telephone, through customer service, and now needed only to present the agreed-upon identification and to sign several forms to be assigned the deposit box. She didn’t want to spend too much time in the bank, just long enough to access the safety deposit box. She knew she’d turn up on one of the many high-tech surveillance cameras, and desired as low a profile as possible. She understood the value of secrecy.

Just as important, she thought, was that the bank operated branches across three continents, providing safe haven from Asia to Europe, convenient and invaluable for transferring the assets in her account.

The exterior of the Asia America Europe Bank was modern, brass and glass, with huge red block letters AAE mounted above the tall picture windows. Inside, high-tech track lights beamed down from a twenty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall mural depicting an old-time Chinatown montage of street scenes. The business floor was white marble tile, anchoring a corporate presentation that resembled a luxury hotel lobby, with young Chinese in uniform black vests behind a long black stone counter of teller stations. The walls were panels of blond wood, and customer-service agents sat behind matching wood desks in black business suits bearing name tags. Sleek computer stations angled across the desktops.

Mona observed a long queue of customers, heard Asian Muzak floating in the air. The setting felt familiar, comfortable. Welcoming.

She’d worn a conservative black coat over a simple black frock and plain pumps, and a cheap wristwatch just to keep her focused, a prop. The blood-red bangle dangled elegantly off one wrist, her jade charm from a bracelet on the other. She wore no other jewelry except for a plain gold wedding band, another prop, to fend off the men.

Seated at one of the desks, she peered through school-marmish non-prescription glasses, worn for effect, part of the disguise, jouh hay. She seemed to be yet another businesswoman, lo baan leung, “entrepreneur,” boss lady, and yet she appeared elegant in an understated way.

She’d expected, anticipated, the intrusive questions from the managers and the account representatives.

“And in what type of business is Madam invested?”

Marketing and design was her answer.

“Will this be a corporate account? Or a proprietorship?”

Business proprietorship.

“Are you involved with the fashion industry?”

Sometimes.

“The movie industry?”

Sometimes.

She answered the questions in a quiet voice with a small smile, and the young male service agents regarded her with respect, as if she were a dai ga jeer, big sister, rather than just a businesswoman.

A clerk brought over some documents for her to sign.

Mona accepted the attention but felt strange knowing her presence was being recorded by the camera system covering the big floor space. She calmed herself, pressing the jade charm inside the soft flesh of her palm.

Again she began with a smile, splaying the identification items onto the blond wood desktop: the Social Security card, the non-driver’s license. The young service manager ran his fingers through his gelled-up hair and checked the documents for her signature: Jing Su Tong.

Presented with her documents, she saw that she’d acquired deposit box number 3388, a lucky fung shui number, two yangs two yins, perfectly balanced to grow and succeed. Her account number was 6818, another auspicious series of numbers: Confident, Wealthy.

Her journey through darkness was turning to light.

The manager moved her along.

Her eyes swept across the bank lobby. No one else seemed to be paying her any unusual attention. Finally, she put away the identification cards, glanced at her watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed.

She was escorted to a secure area where there were private cubicles behind accordion folding doors. She signed for the red cardboard envelope of keys they presented her with.

The big bo yim seong, deposit box, was more than large enough to hold her assorted jewelry, the bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills, the cache of one-ounce gold Panda coins, and the bag of fiery-cut diamonds she would transfer from their hiding place inside the heavy burlap sack of rice. Almost a quarter million dollars’ worth of freedom that she’d be entrusting to the care of the AAE Bank. Not for too long, she hoped, before she’d be moving on.

She graciously thanked the manager while returning the empty box, then quickly departed the bank with her keys.

Outside, she felt the weight of the security cameras lift, and she went down a back street knowing she’d return another day soon, in a different guise, to make the deposits that would aid her escape.

The bank account would allow her to transfer cash internationally. As for the gold and diamonds, those she could transport across on a senior citizens’ tour bus. North. To Won Kor Wah. Vancouver.

Pausing at the street corner, she took a deep breath of the cool morning air, and noted that there were few people around. She still checked to make sure she wasn’t being followed, remembering being stalked by homeless men as she passed through Chinatown’s adjacent neighborhoods. She didn’t see anyone suspicious-looking but she’d felt uneasy for weeks. She wondered if she hadn’t been imagining things.

She crossed back to the main street.

The man at the Chinatown market.

She hustled through Pioneer Square, made a quick left on James. Outside the Buddhist Temple, the woman with the man? There seemed to be even fewer people out in the cloudy morning. Something about one of the customers at the bank? The way he’d looked at her? At her brisk pace, she’d soon be home. Was he a black snake? Or just another old horn dog, hom sup lo?

I must be losing my mind, she thought, even as she turned for home, to the little basement apartment that held all her hopes.

Changes

Jack awoke to the gray light of the Sea-Tac afternoon, feeling hungry enough to cab up to Chinatown for congee and jow gwai.

When he checked in at West Precinct Holding Facility, they’d moved Eddie to the Segregation Unit; he’d taken a beatdown and had been terrorized by other prisoners; he was moved for his own protection.

Jack stared at Eddie’s swollen black eye and busted lip, and the lumps on the sides of his head. Body bruises no one could see under his clothes. He spoke like he had a wad of cotton in his mouth.

“Those baldy skinhead motherfuckers.” Eddie spat out the words. “Fuckin’ gwailo Nazi cocksuckers!”

“Yeah, they got a lot of that out here,” Jack commiserated. “Too bad you still got a few days here before you go back into general population.”

“No way!” Eddie cursed. “I’m not going back in there.”

“They can only hold you in Protective for so long, Eddie,” said Jack coolly.

“No fuckin’ way,” said Eddie as he ran his scraped fingers over his busted eye.

Jack offered quietly, “The only way is if I get a written statement from you. To expedite extradition.”

“Extradition?” Eddie winced.

Jack leaned back. “Otherwise, take a seat and get beat. You’re just another slab of meat.”

“A written statement?”

“Right. A signed confession.” Jack rapped his knuckles on the dented metal table. “I take you back to New York. You get a Chinese lawyer, take your chances with a minority jury.” Jack saw the light of hope in Eddie’s eyes and shoved a pen and pad his way.

“Tell your story as you write it,” Jack instructed, “And don’t leave out the part where you shoot Koo Jai in the back.”

“I get back to New York’s Chinatown?” Eddie grimaced.

“Yeah, something like that,” Jack answered. “If you cop to the shooting, I can get you out of here, back to New York. Where you’ll deal with big-city justice. See?”

There was a pause and Eddie fingered the pen nervously.

“Otherwise,” Jack said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, “you go through Seattle due process, back into general population, and let some white-power prison skinheads fuck you in the ass for two weeks, before you come back to me anyway once the lab matches up the bullet with the gun I found. You know, that gun with your prints all over it? Once we pull your prints off the bag of watches? Along with the vics?”

He could see that Eddie was wavering.

“Come on,” Jack pressed, “Your dailo said it was you. You and Koo Jai ducked into the alley. Koo had his pockets ripped off and you’re the only one who came out of that alley alive. You shot him in the back, then robbed him while he was dying.”

Jack took a breath, scowled, and pounded the legal pad.

“That’s twenty-five to life, son,” he hissed. “So, start talking. Don’t waste my time. There’s some white boys waiting for your yellow ass back in general.”

Eddie, with a look of hate on his mangled face, shook his head and cursed before spitting out clots of words. “We stole these fuckin’ watches. The stuff came into some On Yee guy and Koo Jai found out about it. We got into the store, whatever, took the whole shipment. Right out the little window. It was mostly me. But it was Koo’s hit. He set it up. He got the best watches. Just like he got the best pussy. Me and the Jung brothers, we knew he didn’t want us in the clubhouse. It got in the way of his screwing the sluts up there. Then there was a big stink about the watches. Even the dailo came out and made a play. We didn’t let on about the watches, but later, Koo gave it up, and we were all fucked. Koo thought if we gave back what was left, it would clear things up. Cool out the loss of face. The stupid ass. The dailo scheduled a sit-down but when we hooked up, the big guy started with the shotgun. Then everything got crazy. Fuck!”

He took a deep breath and sat quietly a long time before he finally started writing.

He’d taken a discount Greyhound Coach deal, a series of buses westward to Seattle, the cheapest ticket out of town. Two days felt like four but he knew they wouldn’t check for weapons so long as he wasn’t crossing any national borders.

He’d carried sixty grand’s worth of watches plus what was left of the nine thousand he’d ripped out of Koo’s pockets. Fuckin’ Koo Jai, pretty-boy faggot dailo-wannabe, who’d stepped on his tail once too often.

Deducting for transportation, food, and lodging, life on the lam had left him less than five thousand cash. Trying to get settled, he began selling off the low-end Movados through his amigos, Carlos and Jorge. He tried looking for any kind of job he could disappear into but was already tiring of the bad weather.

He’d felt he needed the gun for protection on the road, the only reason he kept it.

He’d shot Koo in self-defense, he insisted, while admitting he’d shot him in the back as Koo was running away in front of him …

He blamed everything, the fuck-up with the watches, the OTB shoot-out, on Koo.

The afternoon had brightened by the time the paperwork and the pictures were done. Jack felt a quiet elation. He considered rescheduling his return flight, but realized he would have to forward documents to the NYPD, and to the Tombs, the detention facility outside of Chinatown in New York. Meanwhile, he finally had some time to catch his breath before returning to the motel.

Pike’s Market was nearby and he went for black coffee and a snack, and to watch the daylight play over the waters of Elliott Bay. He could see clear across to Harbor Island, past freighters and tugboats and ocean liners. Closer, there were different types of pleasure craft, Sea Rays, and smaller boats. The scene reminded him a little of Sunset Park, where birds and boats docked at the terminal piers. It brought a sense of serenity, the impression that things were going somewhere, had a destination.

Gradually, his thoughts came around to the ORCA Gala, and to Alex. Alexandra. He was anticipating the first and only real opportunity he would have to see her during the entire weekend they’d been in Seattle.

He returned to the motel to press his jacket and pants.

Syuhn Ferry

She’d always liked being near water, her element, and her frequent walks to the bay familiarized her with the piers and the boats plying their way in different directions.

The Chinatown travel agency had been very helpful; she’d booked a ferry excursion with an overnight stay to tour the northern city of Victoria, but more important, to spend a few hours in the Chinese communities there. She was reminded of the Queen Victoria landmarks she’d seen in Hong Kong.

The ferry would depart in the early morning, and meals were not included. She’d gone to Mon Chang Supermarket the night before and purchased a plastic container of cha siew, roast pork, and bags of rice crackers and chun pui mui, preserved plums.

The voyage would be a three-hour cruise each way, through Puget Sound and the northern straits. The weather was cool, foggy, and she layered her clothing under a black rain jacket, carrying only the big red plastic bag with the Mon Chang logo.

The other Asians aboard were Japanese and Korean tourist families out for a day trip.

The ferry boat had several decks and Mona had gone to the top, pausing at the rail to watch the boat leave the dock. As the boat churned into the bay a sudden gust of wind snatched the Mon Chang Supermarket’s plastic bag from her grasp, carrying it toward the water. She could only watch as the wind dashed the red bag of snacks into the riptides.

In her distress, she clutched the charm in her fist, and swallowed a breath. The red jade bangle turned cold on her wrist, its chill like a warning.

Follow the flow, the charm advised, test the waters.

She dragged her thumbnail across its jade surface again.

Faith avoids disaster.

As the ferry cut its way into Puget Sound, she kept her focus on the red plastic bag, watching it swirl and bob, the weight inside of the cha siew, roast pork, and the chun pui mui keeping it in the water, while the sealed bag of rice crackers kept it afloat.

The flow washed the red bag onto the shore near a park and a pier leading to a group of big red umbrellas she recognized as part of the sundeck of the Spa Garden.

The ferry gained speed, signaling with a blast of its horn.

She took a breath and sat on a bench by the rail, watching the red bag disappear into the distance, along with the big red umbrellas and the small patch of beachfront park. How blessed, she mused, the wind and water giving me direction.

Her view slowly encompassed mountains crowned by a blue haze, and bald eagles swooping past old forts and lighthouses. She’d lost her appetite and decided to eat after they reached Victoria. Chinese food, she figured, in Chinatown. There were no whales to be seen but the scenic landscapes soothed her.

When they arrived at the Inner Harbor, the weather had cleared considerably. The beautiful bay was sparkling, and she checked into the nearby James Bay Inn. Shortly after, she toured the streets en route to Chinatown, and passed under a Gate of Harmonious Interest. She felt another layer of dread lift. This Chinatown was old, but not very far from the ones she’d visited in Vancouver.

The ferry would return her to Say nga touh, Seattle, the next afternoon.