Henry Chang - Red Jade

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.

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 yang s two yin s, 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.