Henry Chang - Red Jade

Carlos paused, taking a good look at Jack before he spoke. “ Chaparrito ,” he said, referring to the photo. “He say hees work for hees oncle, jewree. ” Carlos pointed to the Mexican ring on his finger, to the matching chain and medallion around his neck.

Jewelry store. Jack listened, knew it was Eddie running a story.

“He say beesnees no esta bueno, esta cerrado ,” Carlos continued. “Hees oncle pays him con los relojes. Entiende? ” He tapped his finger on the knockoff Cartier tank on his wrist. “ El chino bajo , he say we help him selling dem, then he geev us twenny dollar for one.”

“You get a twenty-dollar commission?” asked Jack.

“ Si. He make up story for los gringos . Me and Jorge, we no stealing nossing.”

Jack took a moment to piece it together in his mind. They had sold the Movados to the pawnshops near the railroad yards and on Spokane because those places were closest to their immigrant rooming house on South Andover. Or had bajo chaparrito -Eddie-planned to steer clear of the upscale tourist destinations? Instead keeping to the low-rent areas, and drawing less attention? A heavyset man wearing a polo shirt came out of a back room, saw Jack, and asked, “Si? Hay un problema?”

“ No problema ,” Jack answered. “You’re the owner?”

“ Si , and these are my best workers. And I know they never steal anything.”

“I’m not after them,” Jack insisted. “I’m only asking them about their Chinese amigo , who they said they met here.”

“Chinese?” he paused, puzzled, glancing from Jorge to Carlos. “You mean Koo Lung?”

Koo? thought Jack, recalling Koo Jai, Eddie’s victim in New York. “Who’s Koo Lung?” He showed the juvie photo, and asked, “He look something like this? Very short?”

“Chino chaparrito,” the man said, nodding. “He worked here for one week.”

“Why? What happened?” quizzed Jack.

“He saw the sign for dishwasher job in the window. But I also made him clean out the basement and paint the back room. And he didn’t like to make deliveries.”

Working him like a coolie, thought Jack.

“Too much work, he said. He wanted to be dishwasher only, so he quit.”

“Dishwasher only ?”

“We say dishwasher,” the man said with a chuckle, “but really it’s garbage worker . And includes fix-up work, dirty work. Carlos and Jorge are good cooks, best in Puebla. Six days on, one day off. They don’t have time for the dirty work. Or deliveries.”

“This Koo Lung,” Jack asked. “You have any paperwork on him?”

“Only the job application. It’s just a formality.”

“ Por favor ,” Jack said. “I need to see it.”

The job application form listed the applicant as KOO K.LEUNG. There was an address in Central Seattle with a telephone number. Attached was a copy of a membership card from ASIAN VIPs NYC; Jack guessed it was a hostess club. Eddie had ripped off his victim Koo Jai’s card and used it as ID.

“This the only identification you got?” asked Jack.

“ El chinito said he got robbed. Lost everything, except that. ”

Jack flashed him a look of disbelief.

“It was only a formality anyway.” The man shrugged. “Something for the labor inspectors.”

Jack called the telephone number and got a recording announcing service had been canceled. He copied the address off the application and called a car service to Central Seattle.

Carlos said, “ El chaparrito no esta bueno , no good. He shoot me pool, billar. He win me engañando. ”

“Billiards?” Jack asked. “He hustled you? Where?”

“Donde viven los filipinos.” He gave Jack a crumpled newsletter from his pocket. A community center in Filipinotown.

“Gracias,” Jack said, giving Carlos his NYPD PBA card. “Call me if he comes here looking for you.”

Carlos and Jorge nodded as Jack went to the cab that had pulled up outside.

The address that Eddie had submitted turned out to be an administrative office building not far from the University District, on Summit near East Madison, closer to the market. Give a university location, figured Jack, and people took you for a student, especially if you were Asian. Part of the disguise.

A bogus address, a dead end.

Jack caught another cab to Filipinotown.

The Villamor Community Center was closed by the time Jack arrived. A schedule posted on the main door noted that the center was closed on Sundays as well. Another dead end.

Jack wasn’t far from Chinatown and decided to calm the gnawing hunger in his gut.

Jade Garden was one of the restaurants he hadn’t visited, so he stopped in for a plate of beef and tomatoes over noodles. He peeped the kitchen, hoping to see someone very short. Again, no luck. While he waited, a news bulletin about the red ball homicides was broadcast from a television set above the cashier’s counter. They’d arrested two suspects. Teenagers. He called the West Precinct. Detective Nicoll was still out, and Jack wondered whether he was finally getting some sleep.

Devouring the dish of noodles, he recalled the details of his investigation into Nicoll’s voice mail: the watches and pawnshops, the Mexicans, the bogus information, and, adding to the end of the list, he likes to shoot pool.

Jack knew he had only one more day in Seattle, and wondered how much more ground he could cover.

Alex nursed a martini as the master of ceremonies took the stage and quieted the audience for the ORCA Silent Auction. The CADS were among the hundreds of people in attendance, ready to bid on items for charitable Asian causes.

The first item up for bidding was an antique Chinese fan, reminiscent of the Ming Dynasty era. The white paper fan was made of bamboo and parchment, and had two thick outer ribs, bracing the thirteen accordion paper folds inside.

Alex took a sip of her cocktail and checked her watch.

“The fat ribs of the fan once represented the capitals of Peking and Nanking under the first Ming emperor. There are poems on both sides of the fan, believed to have been written by Dr. Sun Yat-sen himself. A white peony appears on the front of the fan, a red peony on the back. Turning the fan meant overthrowing the Ching Dynasty, and was a gesture of many secret societies.” The master of ceremony paused to catch his breath.

Alex was curious about where Jack was, and wondered if he’d call after the auction. She knew that cop stuff ruled his world, and figured he’d gotten himself involved in more police trauma. She drained her drink as bidding for the fan commenced.

Back at the Sea-Tac Courtyard, Jack took a hot shower that steamed up the little room. It was almost 8 PM and he considered calling Alex. She’d said she’d be free after nine.

He changed into the fresh suit from the backpack, thinking he’d meet Alex at the Westin bar lounge after her Service Recognition Award Dinner ended. They could start with a couple of drinks while he tried to reel his mind away from the Eddie monkey chase.

His cell phone buzzed. Alex hooking up, he thought.

But the voice was pale male, law enforcement. “Detective Yu?”

“Yeah,” Jack answered. “Who’s this?”

“SPD Patrol, sir.” Professional.

“What have you got?” asked Jack, swallowing.

“We have in custody a person of interest to you,” the cop said. “Come to Manila Street and Walker. Just off the freeway.”

The cab service dropped Jack off a block away from where the SPD cruiser sat, its lights out on the desolate street. The area was north of the motel, with highway noise humming in the distance. Jack approached and badged the driver, noticing that someone was in the backseat. One of the uniformed officers got out of the squad car and walked Jack a short distance away before he said, confidentially, “He said his name was Carl Lim, but he didn’t have any ID. We saw him playing solo nine-ball when we rolled into Julio’s Place on Manila Street. The patrol update was for a very short male, may shoot pool.”