Henry Chang - Red Jade

Eddie grunted, smirked.

“What happened?” Jack needled. “You had a beef? Something over stolen watches? Come on, stop gassing me. It’s not like you’re going anywhere except to lockup. Right now, you’re good for the possession of the firearm, for the possession of stolen goods. Probably good for Murder One as well.”

“What the fuck is it to you anyway?” Eddie snapped. “The jerk-off scumbag had it coming.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure,” agreed Jack. “But it’s not only that you shot this Koo guy in the back. And robbed him. Or even the big Ghost gorilla you took out.”

“What then?” was Eddie’s pained question.

“You also put two.22s into the head of a guy I used to know,” Jack said coldly. “It’s Yin-Yang , punk, and yours has come full circle.”

Jack turned to the patrol cop, asking, “How’d you make him?”

“We got the heads-up at roll call, for a Chinese,” the cop smiled sheepishly. “ Exceptionally short , right? The update said he liked to shoot pool.”

“Good work,” Jack commended him, privately noting Detective Nicoll’s assistance.

“But if he hadn’t run,” the cop added, “we probably wouldn’t have had reason to hold him.”

“Thanks,” Jack offered. “I owe you guys big time. Pick the bar, the tab’s on me.” He clutched the two bags of evidence he knew he’d have to voucher with SPD, and realized he’d also have to advise his New York precincts of his actions.

By the time Jack was done at Seattle Police Headquarters, it was eleven thirty, with much of the International District already shut down. His adrenaline carried him until he remembered Alex and her events at the Westin. He felt like celebrating, wanting to tell her about the day’s investigations, the strenuous, dogged police work, then the collar. But he was too professional for that.

However, hooking up with her for drinks would be a treat, capping off a “mission accomplished” with a twist of jing deng , destiny.

He called Alex’s room at the hotel, and was surprised to hear a man’s voice. One of the CADS? Strangely, ADA Sing came to his mind. Music in the background. Caught offguard, he quickly hung up, going back into his jacket to confirm her room number.

When he called again, the phone rang until he got the hotel voice-mail message. Hadn’t Alex been rooming with Joann somebody? He decided not to leave a message, feeling conflicted, wanting to consider it just an innocent miscommunication.

After all, it wasn’t like they’d agreed to meet. He tried to downplay it. She was probably out with the ladies, the staffers. The uncertainty irked him and he didn’t know why, but he felt the fatigue of the long day setting in, and decided to return to the motel. He knew Alex still had one more day of the convention, and he hoped to see her at the gala finale.

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.

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.

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.