Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

On that terrible day when most of the Chinese in Seattle had been rounded up and forced down to the docks in preparation for deportation, Chin’s family had been among them. It was a testament to the amount of respect he commanded among Seattle’s old guard that he had been able to talk his way into both staying and keeping his family in town. No question, Chin Gee Hee had pull, and not just with City Hall, but within the Chinese community as well. Rumor had it that he was also the eyes and ears of the Chinese Consulate down in San Francisco.

If you were Chinese and you wanted to work, Chin was the man to see. If you were white and wanted to hire Chinese labor, Chin was also the man to see.

He ran his business out of a brand-new building on the southwest corner of Washington Street and Second Avenue. Jewell found him there, seated at a roll-top desk pressed into a cramped spot along the back wall of the single-room structure. It took some doing to arrange to speak to Chin, because the place was alive with Chinese; customers and tradesmen, Chin’s employees and white contractors seeking labor.

In his mid-forties and a bit above average height for a Chinaman, Chin had thinning hair, a ready smile, and was dressed in rough Western work clothes, complete with squaretoed, heavy-soled boots. No braid, no shaven head, no silk clothing. With a battered broad-brimmed hat perched on the back of his head, he looked the part of the prosperous Western businessman he was.

“Always happy to help honored Treasury Man,” he said with a disarming grin after reading the note of introduction that Porter had scribbled for Jewell. They shook hands, and Chin offered the younger man a seat.

Chin’s open face clouded when Jewell mentioned his quest for information regarding a laundry owner named Louie Chong. “Louie Chong not good man,” he said. “Hock tell me when I first come here, ‘Stay clear Louie Chong.’ Not easy to do. Louie Chong bad man, but good customer.”

Jewell asked how to spell the name, and as he wrote it down, asked who Hock was.

“Business partner, Chin Chun Hock. We come from same village in Gwongdong.”

Porter had mentioned nothing about a business partner. “Oh, I was under the impression that you owned this place,” Jewell waved his hand to take in the entire building, “outright.”

“I do. Hock old business partner. I once own twenty-five percent of his company, Wa Chong. He buy me out last year.”

“May I ask why?”

“Many reason. Final and most important on his part, he no want to stay in employment business after riot in ’86.”

“And you?”

“Opium,” Chin murmured. “Not write that down, not report that. Hock want to sell opium here. I want no part of that. We dissolve partnership; I start up Quong Tuck Company last year.”

“And Hock knows Louie Chong well?”

“Better than me. Louie Chong come from our village too, but he older, I do not know him there. Those two know each other long time, though. Why you ask?”

Jewell told him about the body found washed up on Mercer Island, the laundry mark on the man’s tunic, and his attempts to track the mark in Chinatown’s laundries. He showed Chin the sketch he’d made of it.

The man’s eyes widened. “Triad mark,” he whispered.

“What is a triad?”

Chin placed a hand on Jewell’s arm, looking around the shop, motioning for him to keep his voice down. “Criminals. Smuggle opium, girls, whatever you like. That mark the sign of the Red Dragon of Macau, very powerful triad.”

“Why would anyone use such a symbol as a laundry mark?”

“No Chinaman who see that going to mess up order on shirt.” Chin cracked a lopsided grin at his own wry joke. “Louie Chong work with them.”

“He’s a member?”

“No. He work with them, though. Louie Chong smuggle for them. Long time ago. No more. Now run laundry.”

“Did you hear that he has gone to Gwongdong?”

Chin shrugged. “Porter tell you I know everything happen in Chinatown, eh? I do not. No hear about any trip for Louie Chong. Who tell you that?”

“His son.”

“Son? Louie Chong have no son.”

Jewell blinked, then recovered and said, “The boy who works in his shop. Calls himself Louie Gon.”

“Ah. Louie Gon not son. Louie Gon mui tsai .”

“What is… ‘mooey jooey’?”

“ Mui tsai .”

“Mooey jai?”

Chin shook his head, smiled again, and said, “Louie Gon paper son. Son on paper. Only Chinese merchant and their son can go back and forth between Gold Mountain and China, so many merchant sell paper to other people they not know, saying, This my son, represent me , and that get new Chinamen into Gold Mountain.”

Jewell frowned. “Well, he didn’t want me to see the ledger where his boss kept track of laundry marks. Is it possible that the boy’s killed him and gone into business for himself?”

Chin laughed. “Louie Gon? Oh, no. Louie special case. No kill anyone.”

“He put up a pretty good fight with me when I asked to see that ledger.”

Chin laughed again. “He get away from you?”

“Someone fetched me a pretty rough blow on the back of the head while we struggled. Dazed me for a bit. When I came to my senses, I was alone in the place. Mr. Porter suggested I see you about it.”

Chin removed his hat and absently stroked the thinning hair on top of his head.

“Is Louie Chong a habitual user of opium?”

Chin nodded.

“So was our dead man. Had the stained fingertips and nails to prove it.”

Chin considered that for a moment. Then he said, “All ten fingers stained?”

Jewell shook his head. “He was missing his right pinkie finger.”

Chin nodded decisively and said, “You go home now.”

“What? Surely you don’t mean that. I have-”

“I see to this problem. I fix for you.”

“What is your interest?”

“No more excuse for riot here,” he said. “Seattle good city. My neighbor good neighbor. No talk of triad or mui tsai , Chinese murders done in local newspaper. I handle it. You let me. I bring you solution.” Chin looked from Jewell to an ancient grandfather clock against the wall behind him. “After 5 now. You go home. I bring you everything tomorrow.”

And just like that, the interview was over.

A game of whist with the other boarders at his rooming house hadn’t helped the evening go by any more quickly for James Robbins Jewell. He’d passed a sleepless night in the unseasonable heat waiting for dawn and an answer to the question of whether or not Chin would keep his word.

The walk to the office the next morning was uneventful, as was the morning routine of unlocking the backdoor, then the front, drawing the blinds, and looking over his desk for any pressing correspondence or other sort of paperwork in need of his immediate attention. It was only when Jewell sat down and happened to glance in the direction of the cell that took up one corner of the large room that he realized he was not alone.

An unkempt, bearded white man, black-haired and dull-eyed, half-sat, half-slumped against the opposite wall. He looked neither right, nor left, and took no notice of Jewell, not even when he attempted to speak to him. He was dressed in a ragged Chinese silk tunic and corduroy workmen’s trousers, with Chinese slippers on his feet. His fingernails bore the telltale signs of frequent opium use.

“Who are you?” Jewell asked.

The man ignored him.

“Why are you in the cage?”

The man kept silent, his blank stare unchanging.

A double-folded and sealed note with the word Porter typewritten on it lay on the floor in front of the cell. As Jewell stooped to pick it up, he muttered, “If this is from Chin, why is it addressed to my boss, not to me?” It was 8:30. Over the next half hour Jewell considered breaking the seal at least once per minute.