EVEN THOUGH Melba kept steering him in the right direction, Samuel took his own time to start his investigation into the death of Reginald Rockwood. She was right, he decided. Those tuxes were too expensive. He must have gotten a lot of money from somewhere. But where? As he pondered the problem and weighed his options, he concluded that a broke ad salesman didn’t have many.
Then he remembered Charles Perkins. He’d gone to Stanford with him before Samuel dropped out when he parents were murdered. Perkins was a fellow Midwesterner who now worked at the U.S. attorney’s office as a lawyer prosecuting federal crimes. Samuel helped him through a couple of very difficult literature courses in their second year, and he was sure Charles would remember the debt even after so many years.
He made an appointment and went to the lawyer’s office in the Federal Building on Seventh Street.
Charles met him at the door. He had yellowish skin and a head of limp hair the color of straw. He parted it on one side, but he always had a greasy clump in his eyes. His chiseled face gave the impression of amiability, but Samuel knew him well and knew that he had a petty soul. He was a nervous person with abrupt gestures and was incapable of being still. He had the bad habit of acting like a schoolteacher, pointing his index finger at everything and everybody. This mania always put Samuel on the defensive. Charles was surrounded by paper. Piles of it cluttered all the surfaces in his office, and it was almost impossible to find any vacant space anywhere in the room.
When Samuel saw him, he was reminded of what a critical and boring person he was in college. His immediate sense was that Charles hadn’t changed much. He had the same air of being an unkempt, petulant adolescent.
“What’s up, Sam? You look like you’ve had a rough night,” Charles commented.
Samuel was surprised. Though he was his sloppy self, wearing his wrinkled outfit, he’d slept well the night before and felt fresh and focused. “I’m investigating the death of a socialite. It’s a strange case,” he admitted. “The dead guy owned five tuxedos but he lived in a closet at Engel’s, the engravers, where he did janitorial work. His death’s been called a suicide, but I’m not so sure it was.”
“You want the U.S. government to look into this?” asked Charles.
“Yeah. I think he had money hidden away,” said Samuel.
“Yeah, sure, that’s why he lived in a closet,” Charles laughed.
“No, no. Listen, I think he lived that way in an attempt to be inconspicuous,” said Samuel, wondering if he really wanted to subject himself to the grilling he was going to get from his pompous friend just to get him to look at some records.
“What kind of proof do you have for that?” asked Charles.
“He had expensive taste. Those tuxes cost a lot of money and his were of the best quality. If he could afford clothes like that, why would he live in a closet?”
“Maybe he was crazy.”
“I knew him well, and I can assure you he wasn’t crazy. “So your idea is he was getting his money illegally? Like he was blackmailing someone? Why would the federal government be interested in that?” asked Charles.
“I don’t know yet. But you’re the only person I know who has the power to look into this guy’s finances. If we find something and the feds aren’t involved, you can turn the whole case over to the district attorney, and you’ll look like a hero,” said Samuel.
“That’s a pretty slim thread, ol’ buddy. But I tell you what, I’m willing to give two days of my valuable time to this matter. Meet me here tomorrow at ten o’clock. Make sure you have a list of banks or other establishments where you think he could have hidden the money. I’ll help you trace it with the subpoena power of the federal government.”
* * *
Samuel went to Camelot later that afternoon to consult with Melba. He explained how he was going to meet his friend at the U. S. attorney’s the next day and he wanted guidance.
She laughed. “In B movies of the ’40s, it was always ‘look for the dame’,” she said, smiling slightly.
Excalibur trotted up, limping, to investigate, and Samuel made a face of displeasure.
“This dog will end up chasing your clients away.”
“On the contrary, they all spoil him. Do you know he has the nose of a bloodhound? He can follow any scent.”
“Very useful,” said Samuel.
“Of course it’s useful. Be patient, he’ll get used to you and end up being your best friend. Have you noticed that he doesn’t growl at you anymore?”
“Stay alert. That’s a sign of interest. Come here, ferocious warrior; sit by Mama,” she called softly. Excalibur plopped down beside her chair.
“Have you gone over this guy’s possessions, looking for where he could’ve hid the money?” she asked, taking a sip of her beer.
“What do you mean?” asked Samuel.
“Where’s his stuff?” asked Melba.
“So far as I know, it’s at the engraving shop. All except the clothes he had on when he died. They’re still at the medical examiner’s,” responded Samuel.
“If he had money hidden away, there has to be some kind of receipt somewhere. It may be unconventional. It could be a checking account, but I doubt it would be in his name. More than likely, he had it stashed away in cash,” she said. “If I were you, I’d start in those two places. Look for a clue. It may be something totally innocuous.”
Samuel had a couple more drinks while he pondered what she said, exploring with her the details of the avenues she opened for him. There was no trace of Blanche, but he didn’t have the courage to ask about her. When he got up to leave, Excalibur followed him with his nose almost stuck to his pant leg.
“He’s learning your smell,” she said. “Go home, you look tired.”
But Samuel went to Chop Suey Louie’s, sat in front of the aquarium at the counter, and ordered a bowl of noodles. He watched the colorful tropical fish, especially the gold ones, swim slowly around the large tank. They brought luck to the establishment, according to Louie. His bowl arrived steaming hot. The smell was inviting, and he was suddenly ravenous, remembering that he hadn’t eaten in several hours, and his mouth was sour from the Scotch. He dug in, but he couldn’t catch a single noodle. Louie approached him with a fork.
“One of these days you’ll get it,” smiled Louie.
“Yeah, one of these days.”
* * *
The next morning Samuel arrived at the U.S. attorney’s office in the Federal Building at Seventh and Mission at ten o’clock. In order to get there, he took the Powell Street cable car from near his flat to Market Street, and walked up to Seventh.
His friend Charles Perkins was dressed in the same suit. Samuel noticed that one sleeve was an inch shorter than the other, so Charles’s gold-plated cuff link stuck out against his white shirt.
“Where do you want to start this investigation, Samuel?” he asked.
“We should go to the medical examiner’s first, and see if there’s anything I missed. Then we should go to Rockwell’s employer. I remember seeing a whole box of engraved invitations there, and some of them had notes on ’em,” said Samuel.
Charles stuffed a number of blank federal subpoena forms in his tattered brown leather briefcase with the Justice Department insignia on it. He threw on his gray overcoat and wrapped a blue wool scarf around his neck, then motioned with a finger for Samuel to follow him out of the office.
They walked out of the Federal Building and hailed a cab right on Seventh Street. It was a cold, cloudy day in December and the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers walking toward downtown. That year Jacqueline Kennedy made popular felt hats shaped like candy boxes, but most of the women in San Francisco seemed to be ignoring her fashion tip . Wearing their own fashionable hats and coats, they mixed with the grubby winos coming up from South of Mission and the out-of-towners and weary travelers pouring out of the Greyhound station directly across the street.
Charles told the taxi driver where they wanted to go, and they soon found themselves in front of the office of the medical examiner, a one-story gray stone building. When they arrived, Samuel said hello to the emaciated clerk who had received him the time before and explained they needed to see his boss, because the feds had a subpoena and wanted to examine their files on Rockwood.
The clerk took the document that the attorney had filled out by hand and disappeared behind a frosted-glass door. Within a minute the door reopened and the examiner appeared in his white coat with the nameplate attached to it. “An investigation, huh? What in particular are you looking for?”
Charles Perkins puffed up. “You know I can’t discuss particulars with you, sir. I just need to look at everything you have on Rockwood. Can you hang these somewhere?” he asked, handing him his coat and scarf.
“Be my guest,” said the examiner, pointing to the coat rack next to the front entrance. He scratched the thinning gray hair on his head and squinted, curious to know what the attorney was after. “Samuel, can you be of any help?” he asked, directly.
“I’ll do the talking. He’s with me,” Charles interrupted.
Samuel and the examiner exchanged glances. From the looks of it, he thought, he’d have to put up with this peacock.
“Very well,” said the examiner, who by now realized he was being left out of whatever was going on.
He gave instructions to the clerk. “Bring out all of Mr. Rockwood’s personal belongings and his autopsy file and put them in that room over there. I’ll answer any questions these gentlemen have.”
“I’m sure you have other things to do,” said Charles, who preferred to work without vigilance.
“It’s protocol,” answered the examiner. “It has to do with the chain of evidence.” If he’d wanted to, he could have left them alone with the belongings; but he didn’t like Charles, so he wouldn’t budge.
“Very well,” said Charles. “I assume we can take photos of anything we want?”
“Yes, of course, as long as no original leaves the premises. You understand, chain of evidence.”
“Yeah, yeah, you already told me,” murmured Charles.
The examiner accompanied them to the same room where Samuel had been on his first visit. They spread Rockwood’s belonging on the wood table and started going through the contents of the dead man’s pockets. Samuel wasn’t moved this time when he saw the small pile that represented all that was left of Rockwell. He was now convinced that he knew nothing about him, and that he wasn’t really his friend. There was a half pack of Philip Morris cigarettes, which yielded nothing, and the Zippo lighter, which Charles stroked with his thumb. It worked. The seventeen dollars cash was still there, as was the engraved invitation. His wallet contained the same social security card and the photograph of Rockwood in army officer’s attire. Charles pulled out a flash camera and took pictures of the items, one at a time, throwing the used bulbs into the wastebasket in the corner.
“Is this his social security number?” asked Charles.
“It checked out,” said the examiner, “and he really was in the army.”
“Interesting, there were no keys on him,” said Charles.
“Not necessarily,” said the examiner. “This was a suicide. You may find he left his keys at his place of employment, where I understand he lived. If you find out anything new, I know you’ll report back to me. Right, Samuel?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Samuel, giving him a sly look.
Charles Perkins, ignoring the examiner, and still irked he wouldn’t be allowed to borrow any evidence, turned his focus to the invitation. “You say this came from Engel’s? How do you know that, Samuel?”
“You see that trademark in the middle of the lower part of the document? If you look real close, you’ll see it has their name on it. That’s how I knew where to go.”
“What about the RSVP number?” asked Charles.
“I called and they never heard of him,” answered Samuel.
They searched the tuxedo and at first found nothing. Then Samuel slipped his hand deep into the inside pocket where Rockwood would have kept his wallet. He pulled out what looked like half a claim check with red Chinese characters on it. “Look at this!” he exclaimed. “It looks like a receipt for something.” He asked both men searchingly, “Do either of you read Chinese?”
“What do you think, Mac?” said the examiner, laughing. “Does this Irish face look like it speaks Chinese?”
Charles, ignoring their conversation, took a close-up photo of the claim check and tried to duplicate the Chinese characters on a piece of paper. After three attempts he shrugged and said, “This will have to do until we get the pictures back.” He and Samuel then put everything back in its place.
“You’re acting like you know something you’re not telling me,” said the examiner. “Do you want me to ask for an inquest?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Charles. “We’re just starting our investigation. Let’s see where it leads, and then you can decide.”
On their way out, Charles whispered to Samuel, “We really pissed the old man off,” and he smiled with a self-congratulatory smirk. “Now let’s see what we can find out from his employer, Mr. Engel.”
They walked around to the front of the new Hall of Justice on Bryant Street and got in another cab.
“Engle’s on Sacramento Street,” said Samuel, “right near Front.”
“This is pretty fancy,” said Samuel, impressed anew with the elegance of Engel’s waiting room. “The owner has good taste. Those are real Piranesi drawings.”
“And who the hell is Piranesi?” asked Charles, examining a couple of them without interest.
The receptionist remembered Samuel. “You’re here to see Mr. Engel again about the janitor, aren’t you?” she asked. “Just a second.” She dialed the phone and called Mr. Engel. He appeared quickly from the hallway by the reception desk.
“Hello again, Mr. Hamilton. I see you didn’t waste any time in coming back.”
“I’m glad you recognized me,” said Samuel. “This is Charles Perkins from the U.S. attorney’s office. He’d like to see Mr. Rockwood’s stuff and the closet where he lived. He has a subpoena to make it all legal.”
“You’ll have to give me a few moments. We put everything in boxes. We wanted to get rid of it, but thought someone might claim it.”
They followed him to the rear of the building, where he unlocked a storage room. The tuxes were hanging in four plastic bags from an overhead water pipe, and two boxes with the Engel company name on the outside were stacked next to them. They were crammed full and heavy. As Samuel lifted them, Charles talked to the owner.
“Can we use this work table here?” he asked, pointing to one that was directly outside the room.
“Of course,” said Mr. Engel. “If you need anything else, let me know.” He tipped his hand, as if removing a bowler, and wandered toward the front of his establishment.
Samuel lifted the two boxes onto the table and began to remove several shoeboxes from inside. Charles began taking invitations out of the boxes. They were all in alphabetical order. He examined and looked at the notes on some of them, but he trusted what Samuel had already told him, so he didn’t want to waste time on ground his friend had already covered, especially if it didn’t produce anything of significance.
“Tell me if you find any plane tickets to Morocco,” said Samuel.
“What are you looking for?” asked a surprised Charles.
“Never mind. I’ll know if you find ’em.”
Samuel searched the pockets of the hanging tuxes, but found nothing. He returned to the boxes they’d started to empty. In the bottom of one he found a set of keys, which he jiggled as he pulled them out to catch Charles’s attention.
“Those may be our most important find,” said Charles.
“I hope so,” said Samuel. He placed them on the table and went on looking for the other piece of the claim check. He found another piece of stiff paper with red Chinese characters tucked in the pocket of a notebook that had “Daily Reminder” written on the front, but was filled with blank pages. Samuel smoothed out the torn piece of paper and placed it right next to the page Perkins had copied at the medical examiner’s office. It looked as though they’d found what they were after.
The attorney took photos of the two papers, and then yelled for the owner, “Excuse me, Mr. Engel, can you come back here for a moment?”
Engel didn’t respond, so Samuel went to fetch him and brought him to the table.
“Do you know where this piece of claim check is from?” Charles asked the owner.
“I’m afraid I don’t. And no one here reads Chinese,” he said.
“Did Mr. Rockwood ever mention any Chinese friends?’ Samuel asked.
“No, he didn’t. I can ask the other employees, but I doubt they know anything,” he said. “The janitor was friendly and efficient but he didn’t mix with the other employees. I’m afraid he didn’t make any friends here.”
“Tell us about these keys,” said the attorney.
“I recognize this one; it opens the front door. And this one, the back door. The third one, I believe, is the key to the broom closet where we discovered he lived. The one next to that one opens the storeroom. But I’ve no idea about the other two,” said the owner. “They’ve nothing to do with our business.”
Charles separated the two keys from the rest and took photos of them. “Do you know if Mr. Rockwood had a bank account?”
“Yes, at the local Bank of America. At least that’s where he deposited his checks. It’s right around the corner.”
“Can I see his paychecks?” asked Charles. “Frankly, I’m trying to find out where he kept his money, in his own account or in someone else’s.”
The owner brought the checks pertaining to Rockwood and placed them on the now crowded table. They were typical payroll checks with the name and address of the company in the upper left-hand corner. “I separated all of his checks, thinking someone might make an inquiry,” he said, waiting for the next question.
Charles went through them methodically. They were all endorsed the same way, Reginald Rockwood III, all written out legibly, as if the signer took great pride in his name. Underneath the signature was an account number and the words, “For Deposit Only,” in the same meticulous handwriting.
Charles took photographs of a few of the checks with Reginald Rockwood’s name on the face of them and his signature on the back. He had Samuel write down the account number in his notebook so they wouldn’t have to wait for the negatives to be developed. He then picked up the keys. “Can we keep these two?” he asked.
“I’d prefer to make you copies. There’s a place right near here. I can have them for you in a few minutes,” said Engel. He called an employee and sent him off to get the job done.
“Do you have any information on this guy’s private life?” asked Charles.
“None whatsoever. Mr. Hamilton can tell you we were quite surprised to learn he was living in our broom closet.”
“Referring to this Chinese claim check, or whatever it is, do you have any idea where this place might be?” asked Charles.
“Absolutely none,” said the owner.
“We appreciate the help you’ve given us today, Mr. Engel. Hopefully, we won’t have to bother you again, but we do need to take this claim check with the Chinese writing on it. You understand, don’t you? This is official business. I’ll send you a photo of it, and here’s a receipt.” He’d already written it out and handed it to Engel.
“I understand. How long do you want me to keep the rest of this stuff?” he asked.
“Until you hear from me,” Charles instructed him.
The employee came back with copies of the two keys. It was now three o’clock. Engle excused himself, and Charles and Samuel put everything back in the boxes, then returned them to the storeroom. They stared at half of the claim check with the red Chinese writing on it.
“Do you think you can find out what this is for and where the place is located?” asked Charles, handing the torn part with the Chinese writing on it to Samuel, together with what he had written at the medical examiner’s office. “In any event, come to my office tomorrow at ten o’clock, and we’ll at least go to the bank and see what kind of money this guy salted away.”
* * *
Samuel knew just where to go. He said goodbye to his friend and thanked Mr. Engel, then he boarded the Sacramento Street bus. He got off at Powell and walked the few blocks to Chop Suey Louie’s. His friend Louie motioned for him to sit at his usual counter seat. Samuel shook his head and pointed to one of the tables in a corner, indicating he wanted the smiling man to join him.
“How’s things, Samuel?” asked Louie.
“Good, Louie. We can have one more bet on the Forty-Niners. How much will it be?”
“You’re not a good gambler, Samuel. You always lose,” said Louie.
Samuel laughed and pulled out the piece of the torn claim check and the characters the attorney had tried to copy on the notebook paper.
“Can you tell me what this says, Louie?” asked Samuel.
The man looked at the two pieces of paper for a long time with a frown on his face, trying to decipher the attorney’s attempt to write in Chinese. Finally, he smiled, “This is a receipt for medium-sized jar at a Chinese herb shop,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” asked Samuel
“This means you own the contents of an herb jar at a very important Chinese healer’s place of business. The problem is you only have one half. You won’t get anything without the whole receipt.”
“Why do people own herb jars?” asked Samuel.
The proprietor laughed. “Go and find out.”
Samuel, puzzled, lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke into the empty seat across the table as he glanced at Goldie, his favorite fish, darting about the colorful aquarium. He felt tired. He’d eaten badly for days and had slept fitfully the night before. He shifted in his chair, wondering what kind of herbs Rockwood would have in a jar and whatever for.
“Do you know where this place is?” asked Samuel.
“Pacific, between Grant and Kearny. Everyone knows the famous Mr. Song, the owner of the shop. He holds all the secrets of Chinatown.”
“Does this place have a name?” asked Samuel.
“Right here.” He ran his finger over the red characters, “MR. SONG’S MANY CHINESE HERBS. You have the last part that says CHINESE HERBS in red letters. I’ve guessed a little about the first part from your friend’s writing, but I think it’s close enough.”
“That was written by a friend of mine who doesn’t know Chinese.”
“That obvious,” he said and laughed.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help, Louie,” said Samuel. “Say goodbye to your mother for me. Why won’t she ever say hello? She at least acknowledges your other customers.”
“It’s because you have red hair. She thinks you’re the devil.”
“Shit, you learn something every day. Okay, Louie, don’t forget, I’m betting on the Forty-Niners this weekend.”
“Goldie brings good luck to my customers, but not to you,” said Louie, laughing.
Samuel was too tired to go to Camelot and tell Melba what’d happened. So he went to the corner grocery store and bought a roll and an apple and went home. After he ate, he went to bed and fantasized about having sex with Blanche, until he fell asleep.
* * *
“I know where Reginald stored things away,” Samuel informed Charles.
“We’ll get to that. Come and look at the photos. I had them developed last night.”
He followed Charles over to the small table next to his desk where the photographs were laid out. Samuel took the picture of the first half of the claim check, number 85, and set it alongside the other half they had taken from Engel’s. The edges fit exactly.
“I think this will be important today,” he said, “and I know where to go. I’ve found Mr. Song’s,” he said, smiling, expecting a pat on the back.
“Yeah,” was all Perkins said.
“Didn’t you hear me? I know the significance of the claim check. It’s for a jar.”
“Not so fast. I think we should start at the bank, since that’s the place where people usually put money,” interrupted Charles, pointing his finger in Samuel’s face.
“I don’t think so,” said Samuel, backing up to avoid getting poked in the eye by the finger. “I tell you we should start with Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs. Rockwood hid something there. It could be the clue we’re looking for. We have the claim check,” and he shook half of it in the air.
“You’ve heard of delayed gratification, haven’t you?” asked Charles. “Let’s do the perfunctory things first, then we’ll go for the goodies.”
“Okay,” said Samuel, reluctantly. The smile left his face and his shoulders sagged a bit further. Charles was in control; he had the subpoenas.
They again walked out of the Federal Building and this time went up the block to Market, where they hailed a cab. Charles instructed the driver, “Straight down to Front Street.” There were decorated Christmas trees in most of the windows; the ubiquitous Salvation Army men—dressed in their dark blue uniforms with the red bands around the caps and their infernal jingling bells stood out in front inviting the public to put some money in their donation pots. The Emporium, at Fifth and Market, had just opened its doors, and people were still filing in.
They exited the cab at Front Street and were directly facing the Ferry Building over the Embarcadero Freeway. They crossed Market Street, walked a couple of blocks to Sacramento, and entered the bank. Just as Engel had said, Rockwood had his account there. Charles served the subpoena and the manager brought them the records. There were weekly deposits of Rockwood’s paychecks, plus a monthly deposit of a check for $150. There were no checks written on the account. Each time it reached $3,000, there was a cash withdrawal and the process would start all over again. They examined the records for the four previous years and the pattern was the same.
“This doesn’t help us much,” said Charles. “The guy lived a pretty dull life with no surprises.”
“What about the $150 a month? What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have the bank check out where it came from, and they’ll report back to me.”
“I wonder what he did with the cash?” asked Samuel.
“We may never know. How do we find the herb shop?”
“I’ll show you. We can walk there,” said Samuel. “It’s right around the corner. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”
Thanks to Samuel’s work the previous evening, there was no delay in finding it, and soon they were in front of a shop with a sign that had the same Chinese characters in red that Samuel knew meant Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs. Garlands of dried herbs in the windows framed the view of the interior.
As they entered the front door, a small bell attached to the top of it tingled announcing their arrival. In the dimness of the interior were dozens of medium-sized, earth-colored containers eighteen inches high and six inches at their widest point in the middle. They were stacked on shelves from the floor to the top of the eighteen-foot ceiling on two of the four walls. On a six-foot portion of the east wall were shelves of even larger jars, also from floor to ceiling. Each had a top secured by an iron band around it with two padlocks, which Samuel thought must be a precaution against earthquakes and robbers. And each had Chinese characters in black, apparently some kind of number code. On at least twenty wires near the top of the high ceiling hung more bundles of dried herbs of every sort imaginable. Samuel and Charles were almost overcome by the mixture of pungent smells.
About twenty-five feet into the shop, and visible from outside the store, was a shiny black lacquer counter with Chinese scenes painted on the front panels. Behind the counter were hundreds of small boxes, each four inches square, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Every one had a latch that was secured with a padlock, and each had Chinese markings. They saw a ladder pushed up against the boxes in the corner, which was undoubtedly used to access the jars. The lighting was bad so they couldn’t tell if the place was dusty or if everything was just in dull earth colors.
From behind a beaded curtain, which separated the front of the store from the living quarters and more storage, stepped such a strange looking man that Samuel and Charles were startled. He was a Chinese albino. He observed the two men with his pink eyes from underneath his bushy eyebrows, while he stroked his wispy white mustache and goatee. His skin was abnormally pale and smooth. His facial features were transparent and looked as though they’d been painted on with a brush. It was impossible to guess his age—he could have been anywhere from fifty to a thousand years old. He was wearing a gray Chinese jacket with an understated design of bamboo in black thread and wide sleeves that covered his hands. He nodded slightly, greeting them.
“We’ve come to ask you some questions about this,” said Charles, when he got over the surprise.
The old man squinted at the photo and the piece of claim check Charles was showing him and then he made a gesture that he couldn’t help them because he didn’t understand.
“I don’t think he speaks English,” said Samuel.
A short man, slightly hunched over, wearing blue trousers and a matching blue collarless top, entered the room. He was obviously some kind of assistant to Mr. Song, but it was soon clear that he didn’t speak English, either. The albino said a few words in Chinese to the assistant, who then hobbled out the door, leaving the bell tingling in his aftermath.
“Do you recognize the claim in this photo?” asked Charles, pointing to the torn piece of the claim check and the photo of the other half that he’d laid on the counter top.
The albino wouldn’t even dignify either of them with a look. He’d already indicated that they should wait, and nothing irked him more than the white man’s impatience and lack of courtesy.
“I think...,” said Samuel, but he started coughing heavily a few times and took out his handkerchief to clear the phlegm from his throat. Charles gave him a dirty look but the herbalist turned and watched him with interest.
In a few minutes, the bell tingled and a young, fresh-looking Chinese girl entered the herb shop followed by the short old man. She was dressed in a Gordon plaid skirt with the hem just below the knees and a starched white blouse with an emblem on the left pocket. In the center of it was a pagoda. The letters surrounding it read: “Chinese Baptist School, San Francisco, California.” Her most notable feature was her buckteeth, which made her look like a beaver. She saluted the albino with great respect and became deeply engaged with him for a while in a language that Samuel, having lived so long in Chinatown, recognized as a Southern Chinese dialect. She then turned to Samuel and Charles. “Mr. Song asked me to come and help him find out what you want.”
Charles moved in front of Samuel, who was about to speak, and pointed his finger in an authoritative way. “Tell him I’m an attorney with the federal government. We’re investigating the death of Reginald Rockwood. We have reason to believe he has something of value deposited here.”
The girl translated for Mr. Song, who didn’t seem in the least impressed by Charles’s wagging finger.
“This is an herb shop. We sell herbs to people who are looking for cures for all sorts of ailments,” Song answered through her. He spoke in an almost inaudible monotone.
“Can you tell us if this claim check is for something that you hold here for Mr. Rockwood?” asked Charles.
“I only see half a claim check. It is torn in the middle,” said the girl for Mr. Song, as he raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Tell him the photo on the counter shows the other half,” said Charles.
“He says that is not enough. In Chinatown, there is a famous saying, ‘No ticky, no laundry’.” The girl couldn’t control herself, laughing as if she’d heard the funniest joke in the world. The albino brought her back to earth by pinching her.
Charles turned red. But Samuel had gotten the contagion from the hilarity of the girl’s reaction and could barely control his own laughter. He liked the idea that Mr. Song was making fun of the presumptuous Charles Perkins.
“You tell Mr. Song that we represent the United States government, and if he refuses to honor our subpoena, I can have him thrown in jail!” Charles threatened.
This frightened the girl, who translated what Charles said, gesturing hysterically, but Mr. Song answered, unmoved, his arms folded across his chest with his hands inside his sleeves.
“He says the same thing. ‘No ticky, no laundry’. He doesn’t care if you represent the president of the United States.”
Samuel tugged at Charles’s sleeve and whispered to him. “Don’t antagonize him. Don’t you see this is some kind of private depository? Look at all those double padlocks on the jars and boxes. He is just protecting his clients. We can get the medical examiner to come up here with the other half of the claim check. That way the word won’t get out that he caved in.”
“At least tell me this, Mr. Song,” Charles demanded, showing him the two keys they had gotten from Engel’s. “Does one of these keys here open something that belongs to Mr. Rockwood?”
Mr. Song picked up half of the claim check and shook it in Charles’s face.
“All right, Mister. We’ll go and get the other half. Just make sure you don’t do anything with whatever belongs to Mr. Rockwood. We’ll be back tomorrow,” said Charles, fuming.
Charles stuffed the subpoena back in his briefcase and dragged Samuel toward the exit. Just as they were walking out, the girl called out to Samuel. She was smiling. “My honorable uncle, Mr. Song, says that you have a bad cigarette cough. If you will take this Chinese medicine three times a week for a month, you’ll get better. But, he says if you don’t stop smoking you’ll die young.” She handed him a half-pint bottle with Chinese writing on it. Samuel nodded in appreciation and took out his wallet in an attempt to pay, but the albino waved him off.
“Ask Mr. Song if he wants to buy an advertisement in my newspaper,” said Samuel.
The girl translated. “No Chinese person reads your newspaper, and an ad wouldn’t help his business. If his clients read such an advertisement in the press, they’d think that his business was bad, and they’d stop coming. That’s not very convenient.”
“That’s too bad,” sighed Samuel, putting the bottle of medicine in his jacket pocket.
Once outside, they stood talking on the sidewalk. Charles was clearly unhappy, but Samuel convinced him they were making progress.
“I’ll subpoena that examiner bastard up here tomorrow morning, and he’ll have to bring the claim check with him,” said Charles. “Then we’ll see if this asshole still thinks he can make fun of me.” And he turned and walked off down Pacific toward Montgomery.
* * *
When Samuel arrived at Mr. Song’s herb shop the next day, he couldn’t believe what he saw. There, on the sidewalk, was Charles, dressed in the same clothes he had had on the day before, unshaven, with two federal marshals next to him. An upset-looking medical examiner was pacing back and forth, trying to argue with him. A Chinese gentleman dressed in a Brooks Brothers three-piece suit leaned against the shop storefront with one leg bent and the heel of that foot resting against the low sill that held the plate-glass window with Mr. Song’s sign on it. He seemed to be the only one who wasn’t in a hurry.
“You didn’t have to do it this way!” exclaimed the examiner, red in the face and breathing heavily.
“You wouldn’t cooperate,” said Charles. “That’s why I had to stay up all night and prepare the lengthy affidavit I took to the magistrate. So now I have a search warrant.”
“Did you have to serve me at six in the morning?” asked the examiner, glaring again at Charles.
“I need the claim check, I can’t keep wasting time. If you’d given it to me when I asked for it, we’d both have been able to sleep in,” said Charles.
“But you didn’t need me!” exclaimed the examiner.
“I’m sure you remember the chain of evidence argument,” Charles teased.
At ten o’clock sharp, Mr. Song’s assistant unbolted at least five locks from the inside, and the small man stepped aside as Charles, the medical examiner, the two marshals, the elegant Chinese man, and Samuel entered the establishment. The bell on the door tingled wildly, welcoming the procession.
Once they were all inside, the assistant hobbled through the blue beaded curtain and, within a couple of minutes, Mr. Song appeared carrying a cup of steaming tea with a top on it; he opened the top from time to time to breath in the aroma and take a sip. His black suit with a Mandarin collar emphasized his whiteness. He had on his head what looked like a black Chinese skullcap. He bowed slightly and mumbled something in his language.
“He says good morning, and he hopes you have many male children and live long lives,” said the Chinese man in the suit, who introduced himself as an official federal government interpreter.
“Tell him we are here to examine the contents of the jar. We have both halves of the claim check,” said Charles.
“You must put them here so he can see them,” said the interpreter.
Charles summoned the examiner to the counter, and they both put down their respective half ’s of the claim check. Mr. Song pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses out of his sleeve and put them on over his pink eyes. This had the eerie effect of enlarging them, making him look like an ostrich. Mr. Song stared at the two pieces for a long time, while the others tried to control their impatience. “This is claim check number 85. Now you need the key,” he said, through the interpreter.
“Shit!” exclaimed Charles.
“I think we have the key. It’s one of those Mr. Engel copied for us,” said Samuel, fishing around in the manila envelope from Charles’s briefcase and pulling out two keys.
The assistant pulled the ladder over to the middle of the stack of clay jars on the eastern wall. Mr. Song pointed with a long bony finger to number 85.
“He says to climb up and see if one of the keys opens the top. It’s the second from the last one up there, a little to the left.”
They looked at each other and, since no one volunteered, Samuel scurried up the wooden ladder that creaked with each step. He started inserting keys into the band that held the top fast on the jar, not an easy task because the ladder moved and his hands shook. He also didn’t like heights. At first none worked, but as he calmed down and was more careful, he found one that did. He then started inserting keys into the band that held the container against the wall. A scream from Mr. Song stopped him. The albino was gesturing like a madman with both his arms in front of his face as he talked to the interpreter.
“No, no,” said the interpreter, “Mr. Song says he will take care of the rest.”
“Why didn’t you bring it down in the first place?’ asked Charles.
“If you didn’t have the key to open the jar, no need to bring it down because it wouldn’t have belonged to you,” said Mr. Song through the interpreter.
Samuel came down quickly, while the assistant brought a huge key ring from behind the beaded curtain. Mr. Song sorted through the keys and chose one, which he gave to the assistant. With startling agility, given his age, he went up the creaking ladder, unfastened the band that held the jar to the wall, brought it down, and placed it on the counter. Mr. Song checked to make sure it was the right number and then stepped back.
“He says you are welcome to examine it, the contents belong to you,” said the interpreter.
“No, no,” said Charles, “we want him to open it. It might be booby trapped or something.”
This interchange produced a hilarious moment between the interpreter and the assistant. Mr. Song joined by smiling slightly, which consisted of his showing a row of pointed teeth for an instant. Finally, the small man removed the top, tipped it over until it was lying lengthwise on the counter, and started removing the contents. The first to come out was a vegetable material. There was a lot of it, and it had a strange musty odor.
“What’s this?” asked Charles warily. “Is it a narcotic?” He picked up a small amount and smelled it, suspiciously.
“Mr. Song says it is a Chinese herb called Chai Hu used to treat liver problems,” said the interpreter. “In English it is called Bupleurum.”
The assistant then took out several packages. One was wrapped in white tissue paper and held fast with string. There were also five small bundles of hundred dollar bills, each held by rubber bands, some so old they were on the verge of disintegrating.
Samuel watched intently to see if any plane tickets were hidden in the jar, but there were none.
The examiner, who had been sulking in the corner, with his turtle’s head slumped between his shoulders, perked up when he heard about the herb that was a treatment for hepatic problems. Rockwood’s pathology slides showed that his liver was in its last stages. The herbs reinforced his opinion as to the cause of death. But from the looks of the situation, it was more complicated than one supposed, which meant that he’d have to hold on to the cadaver.
“I’ll examine the material, if you like,” he said.
“Be my guest,” said Charles. He went on to the package wrapped in white tissue paper. He carefully unwrapped it and found a velvet box. It had three gleaming green stones in it, one the size of a bean and two smaller ones.
Charles whistled, “Emeralds! And they look to be of good quality. They must be worth thousands of dollars. How did they come to be in the hands of a janitor, I ask? How much cash is there?”
The examiner counted out the hundred dollar bills in each packet. “Ten thousand.”
“And a like amount in these stones,” added Charles. “How much is the medicine worth?”
“Mr. Song says it’s worth about thirty dollars,” said the interpreter.
“Thirty dollars for some grass. What times we live in!” exclaimed Charles.
“Just a minute,” said Samuel. “You see that piece of paper holding one of the packets of bills? It has some printing on it. It looks like part of an address. It has the number 838 and nothing else.” He took his notepad out and wrote down the number.
“It doesn’t mean much,” said the examiner. “It was just used to hold the bills together.”
“You never know,” said Samuel.
Charles puffed up as much as his tired frame allowed. “We’re going to take possession of this evidence in the name of the people of the United States of America. This document allows us to do that.”
He showed the search warrant to the interpreter, who in turn showed it to Mr. Song.
“You are welcome to the entire contents of the jar,” said Mr. Song, through the interpreter, “because you presented the claim check. But the jar belongs to the shop, so you can’t take it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Song, we must take it,” said Charles. “We’ll hold the evidence in it until we decide if a federal crime has been committed. If there is no reason to hold onto it, we’ll return it to you.”
“The material in the jar is not mine, it is yours,” responded Mr. Song through the interpreter. “But the jar belongs to Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs, and it will not leave here.”
“We can pay you for it,” suggested Samuel.
“It’s not for sale,” replied Mr. Song, who by now had lost the proverbial patience of his race and was furrowing his brow.
“I’ll give you a receipt for the jar from the United States government,” said Charles. He took a sheet of Justice Department stationary from his briefcase and wrote a detailed list of all the items he was taking from the shop. The interpreter read them off to Mr. Song.
“Is this white man deaf or demented?” Mr. Song asked.
But the interpreter thought better than to translate it. Instead he explained, “Mr. Song is desolate because if the people on the street see you leave with his jar they will spread the word, and he will lose his good reputation. How could the people confide in him if he allowed just any white man to leave his establishment with one of his jars underneath his arm?”
“Listen, Mr. Song,” interrupted Charles. “Here’s the receipt for everything. You keep it until the case is over. Then, everything of yours will be returned to you,” and he slammed the paper down on the countertop.
Exhausted, Charles motioned to the examiner, the two marshals, and the interpreter that they should follow him out of the shop while at the same time he was cursing the albino, his assistant, and the infernal bells above the door that wouldn’t stop tingling.
“Call me tomorrow, Samuel. I can’t think straight right now,” he said.