Henry Chang - Red Jade

“ So much bullshit,” groused Jack. “And you buy that crap?”

“It’s just a delaying tactic. All the evidence will hang him,” Sing said confidently. “Once you testify about the murder weapon and the matching ballistics, and the stolen watches he was caught with, he’s done. The vic’s prints are on the watch bag.”

“The scheming little bastard,” cursed Jack.

“Yeah, he might get a few Chinese or Asians on the jury but that cuts both ways. We’ll nail him good, anyway. You did a great job.”

So why doesn’t it feel that way? thought Jack. Barely placated, he hissed, “So what’s the worse news?”

Sing took another breath, and avoided eye contact with Jack.

“The Johnny Wong deal. We’re going to accept a plea.” Sing glanced toward the captain. “Illegal possession of a weapon, and reckless endangerment.”

“You shitting me?” asked Jack incredulously.

Marino shook his gray-haired head, frowning.

“What’s he get for that?” challenged Jack.

“Time served.”

Jack grimaced, trying to contain his exasperation.

“I can’t put you on the stand, Jack,” Sing said apologetically. “I’m sorry. But you’d kill your own case. Plus, and I don’t know how Alexandra got involved in all this, but she’s a witness here as well. And you killed Littman’s assistant? Trying to prevent a kidnapping? Of a missing woman who might be pivotal to the case? Shelly will kill you on cross.”

Jack felt his heart sink, angry to hear the names Shelly and Alexandra in the same conversation.

“It’s not your fault, Jack,” offered Sing. “It’s just how it happened. Maybe it was destiny. This woman, she played you as good as she played Johnny the chump. Everything’s tainted. We have to cut our losses.”

He wondered again about how Bang Sing might be connected to Alex, and felt uncomfortable in the stuffy overheated room. The captain’s phone rang and Jack left the office without another word, never looking back.

He was cutting his losses.

He found Ah Por in the Senior Center, at a small card table with a group of other old women, gray wizened elders playing sup som jeung , thirteen-card Chinese poker.

Ah Por showed her hand and cackled victoriously.

Jack caught her eye, offered a slight bow and a small smile. He had the shuriken and the snapshot of the bionic hand ready, along with two folded five-dollar bills. In his pocket he cradled the curved fragment of the red jade bangle he’d extracted from the grasp of the fake hand.

Ah Por backed her chair to the wall and allowed another wrinkled old woman to take her place. She looked at Jack, seeing his father in the face of the son, a man now.

“Your father was a good man,” she said. “He was honorable.” Sure, thought Jack, but that wasn’t what he was hoping to hear.

“Your shoulder is hurt,” she said, eyes brightening as he recalled the bruise from the nunchakus. Ah Por always seemed to know about his wounds. “Your heart is heavy,” she added. “But you have brought justice to two evil men.”

Did she mean the two he’d shot dead? wondered Jack. Or did she mean Short Eddie or Paper Fan? He palmed one of the folded fives into her gnarled hand, carefully handed her the shuriken . She handled it gingerly, and looked at it closely for a few seconds.

“Sharp,” she observed, “but no longer deadly. It belongs to a Hip Ching.”

Not surprised, Jack exchanged the photo of the hand for the throwing star, palmed her the other five, and leaned in closer. She rubbed her fingers over the snapshot, taking several deep breaths.

“So much pain,” she whispered. “He has a dragon in his eye.” Jack felt like taking notes but knew to continue paying attention.

“Who?” he asked.

“A black snake,” she answered quickly, glad to be returning the photo.

He gave her the broken red bangle.

Ah Por ran her fingers over it, caressing it, then pressed the red jade piece between her palms, putting heat into the precious stone. She put her head down and closed her eyes.

“Aaya,” Jack heard her moan. “So much pain.” Again, Jack thought, perhaps she was confused, repeating herself. He knew better, and let her proceed.

“So much suffering,” Ah Por continued. “Merciful Buddha, forgiveness and love survives all.” She paused to catch her breath. Jack quickly gave her another five.

“What happened to the owner?” he asked.

What appeared to be a wrinkled smile, or a grimace, crossed her face.

“She has gone,” she answered, “to a choy gee lo. ”

Choy gee lo? pondered Jack, Cantonese for “a rich man.” Another of her seemingly unfathomable clues.

Ah Por looked off into the middle distance, held the jade against her heart.

“Chicken-blood jade,” she murmured. “Especially lucky. Red jade represents courage and will, but…” She seemed bewildered.

“Did you find this on a say see? ” she asked. On a dead person?

Jack hesitated before answering, “No.”

“Lucky, then.” Ah Por concluded. “Forgiveness, and mercy always,” she said, “survives all.” She looked toward the other old women, and Jack took back the broken bangle, knowing he’d been dismissed. He left her at the card table, smiling and wealthier, anticipating the rest of her winter day.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in Sunset Park napping off his jet lag. He lay in bed and listened to the rain pelt the rooftops, doing a tap dance on his window air conditioner. He occasionally heard a chorus of car horns from Eighth Avenue, or the sirens of cop cars and ambulances.

In the darkness behind the drawn shades, he had a series of disassociated dreams. The one he vaguely remembered was the one about Ah Por, pointing to a location on a map, like she was at the head of a class.

Jack couldn’t see the map clearly but when recalling her clue, choy gee lo , a “rich man,” he thought of how “rich man” sounded like “richman” sounded like Richmond.

As in Richmond, a Chinese suburb of Vancouver.

The connection stunned him. But fatigue betrayed him again, as his dream broke up into a thousand jagged pieces, chasing him back into unconsciousness.

It was only dinnertime but the Golden Star was already half full, a mixed-bag clientele of Chinese, black, and Puerto Ricans driven in by the cold. They were mostly spread out along the oval bar, bopping and drinking under the dim blue light. Candy Dulfer’s saxophone wailed out of the jukebox setup and most of the booths were empty, but Jack spotted Billy by the green-felt pool table in the back.

Billy was watching two Latinas shooting money ball, his apparently upbeat mood encouraged by shots of scotch and the display of cleavage leaning across the spread of colored balls.

Jack caught Billy’s attention with bottles of beer, and they moved to the end of the bar where Jack could watch the front door. They traded palms and Billy started right in, grinning like a fool.

“Caught the motherfucker in a poolroom, ha?” He laughed. “What the fuck did I say? Street always runs to street, right?”

They clanged bottles and Billy chased hot scotch with cold beer.

“And the boy tried to run?” He shook his head. “Shit, if I was the OTB shooter I’d run, too!” He drained the beer, ordered another.

“Whoa,” Jack advised. “Slow down, brother. Night’s young.”

Billy was deaf to the warning.

“You did good, brother! I knew you would.” He went on, “Another medal on your chest, kid! What kinda badge you get next? Platinum? ”