SAMUEL LAMENTED Rafael’s death as much as he had Reginald’s or Louie’s. He visited with Rafael’s family several times—his widowed wife and baby, his inconsolable mother, and his siblings—and realized how important Rafael had been in all their lives. The grieving of those people produced a sad feeling of impotence in him; he didn’t know how to help them. In addition, he felt guilty because he suspected that his intervention had provoked Rafael’s death. His curiosity had started a chain reaction. He connected the two Chinese thugs who tried to kill him and Charles with the Chinese prisoner who threw the knife at Rafael. It seemed obvious to him that they all belonged to the same organization.
That evening, very downcast, he went to Camelot to tell his doubts to Melba. “I’m surrounded by dead people, Melba.”
“I suppose this brings back bad memories. I’m referring to your parents. Maybe you never got over their tragic death.”
“That could be.”
“You’ve had a tough time of it, son.”
“I learned something from Rafael about you, Melba, when I went to see him at San Quentin. He said you were helping his family.”
“That’s between you and me, buster, not for public consumption!” she ordered with her rough whisky voice.
“I only wanted to tell you that I’d like to help, too, but I’m always broke.”
“That family needs more than just money. Your friendship will help them a lot,” she said hoarsely.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m here to help, too,” he said.
She got up and went quickly toward the bathroom. Samuel thought he saw tears running down her cheeks, but he dismissed the idea as preposterous. The only thing that could make Melba cry was an onion.
He stared blankly out the window toward the bay while Excalibur edged over to his side. Samuel absentmindedly started scratching the dog’s head. When Melba returned several minutes later she realized where the dog was and called the mutt in her gravelly voice.
“Leave ’im be,” said Samuel. “I’m getting used to his fleas.”
“Time heals all wounds, son. Rafael was a great guy and we’ll miss him. Now’s the time to help his family.
“This has gone too far. Reginald was just the beginning. Then it was two innocents, Louie and Rafael, who had nothing to do with this mess. And it could have been Mathew O’Hara like it could have been Charles and I.”
“That’s quite a lineup,” admitted Melba. “It’s clear you haven’t found the central piece of the puzzle yet.”
“I’ve a hunch where to look for what’s missing. I’ve had some time to think about it. Truth is, I got fired. I was a lousy ad salesman.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“I always hated that damn job. Not working doesn’t help my depression; but, honestly, all I think about is this case.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna keep my eye on Mr. Song’s, that’s what I’m gonna do. I think that’s where we’ll find the clue that we’re looking for. Sooner or later, someone of interest is bound to show up there.”
Melba watched Samuel still petting the dog, who couldn’t have been happier. He was wagging his tailless bottom and blinking his eyes in ecstasy.
“Don’t worry about food. You can always eat here at cocktail time.
“Thanks a lot. I’ll try not to take advantage. Fortunately, my landlord is also a good guy. He’ll give me some leeway on the rent. I’ll be able to survive for a short while.”
“You can come and clean up in the evenings like Rafael used to do. It would mean some extra cash. And you’ll see more of Blanche,” Melba offered.
* * *
Losing his job was a relief, but he couldn’t help feeling that he was a loser. There wasn’t any reason why Blanche would ever care for him. Why had she embraced him that time in Melba’s office? The date at the vegetarian restaurant had been very nice, but it didn’t help advance his plan to win her over. He didn’t have a single drink, and Blanche noticed it but didn’t say anything.
He might not have been making much progress with Blanche, but his relationship with Excalibur was marvelous. The dog followed him around when he worked at the bar, and he learned to depend on that constant presence, like a shadow, behind him. The physical work of stocking liquor and the companionship of the mutt did wonders for his depression. He couldn’t believe it when he found himself explaining to the dog his existential worries and his ideas about the case. He could no longer call it “The Reginald Rockwood Case” because it now involved three dead people. It was sinister, as the Chinese albino herbalist had defined it.
He looked back at his life and realized that he had always been a loner, since his early days in Nebraska, all the way through his two years at Stanford and his boring, desperate job selling ads at the newspaper. He gradually realized that he didn’t like his isolation. That became evident to him as he spent time with Rafael’s family.
He started showing up at the bar, even when he wasn’t working, to pick up the dog and take him for walks in Chinatown. One day in a market, he discovered that the sight of live fish fascinated Excalibur, so he bought him a striped tropical fish in a bowl. The animal spent so many intense hours with his nose pressed up against the glass, watching the fish swim in circles, that the fish died of fright. After replacing it three times, Samuel decided Excalibur would have to stare at a carrot in the bowl or get some other avocation. The flea-bitten mutt, who resembled an Airedale, and the disheveled, failed newspaper ad salesman with the thinning red hair made quite a picturesque couple.
* * *
Samuel wasn’t just taking walks in Chinatown to satisfy Excalibur’s obsession with fish. He sized up the street where Mr. Song had his shop. He’d walked though the neighborhood using dark glasses as a disguise and Excalibur as a companion. He found several places where he could station himself to watch, among them a laundromat where he washed his sheets so many times while he was spying that they ended up threadbare. He also ate at a shabby Chinese restaurant called the Won Ton Café kitty-corner from Mr. Song’s.
The name of the establishment was painted on the inside of the flyspecked plate-glass window in red letters a foot high framed by a yellow border. Inside, above the name, were four faded pink Chinese lanterns made from cheap paper with lights burning in only two of them. Before entering, he looked through the window and saw three tables, any one of which gave him the view he wanted. He figured if he wasn’t too conspicuous and if he came in at different times of the day while Mr. Song’s was open, he could accomplish his objective of keeping an eye on those who came and went. Since the menu posted on the door was cheap, he could also afford the prices for the greasy fare. The first time he entered, he tripped on the door jam and the owner thought he was blind.
“You no can see?” he asked, fooled by the dog and the dark glasses.
It took Samuel a second to figure out that there was a certain advantage to this confusion.
“That’s it, I see very little, almost nothing, really. This is a seeing-eye dog,” he said, smiling sheepishly behind his dark glasses.
“Okay. Sit there,” and he directed Samuel by his elbow to a dark corner of the café.
“No, no, dog needs light,” said Samuel, pointing to one of the tables in front of the plate-glass window.
He thought he’d blown his cover because the man looked skeptical, but he led Samuel and the dog toward the window. He handed him a menu written in Chinese and gave a brief explanation of each dish in broken English. Samuel pretended he couldn’t see.
“We have Won Ton special,” the owner offered.
“Yeah, I’ll have the special and some green tea.”
In the days that followed, the Won Ton Café turned out to be perfect for what Samuel had in mind. Hidden behind his dark glasses, he ate lunch there every day, making the plate he ordered last as long as possible. The fat in the food congealed in a thick layer that was almost impossible to swallow. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. One afternoon around two o’clock, when he calculated he couldn’t extend the lunch any longer and was about to pay the bill, a Chinese man with one arm appeared as if out of nowhere in the middle of the Won Ton Café. Samuel was sure he hadn’t seen him come in. He supposed there was a back door with access to the kitchen. He noticed him immediately because he was sure he’d seen him before. At first he couldn’t place him, but then he remembered where: at Louie’s funeral. He’d seen him standing there on an orange crate and later when he mentioned it to Charles, he’d been told that the description fit Fu Fung Fat, Virgina Demitri’s servant, someone whom Charles had questioned after Mathew’s arrest. The one-armed man made a gesture of hello to the owner, but he didn’t sit down to eat; he left immediately, crossed the street, and entered Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs shop.
Samuel was in the perfect place to accomplish what he wanted. He could see the man talking to Mr. Song, who was standing behind the black lacquer counter. The sun shed enough light on the interior of the shop to give him an idea of what was going on. He knew the routine. The servant handed Mr. Song something, no doubt a claim check. The albino looked on his huge key ring, and the assistant climbed up the ladder and returned with an earthen jar. The one-armed man took it behind the beaded curtain and came back with it in a few minutes. He talked briefly to Mr. Song, who placed the jar underneath the counter. Samuel assumed it was empty because on other occasions the patron waited until the jar was returned to its place in the wall and locked in by the assistant before leaving.
Fu Fung Fat left the shop, crossed the street with a bulging package that he could barely carry and, to Samuel’s surprise, came back into the Won Ton Café. But instead of sitting at a table, he went behind the blue oilcloth curtain in the back. Samuel assumed he had gone to the restroom, but when the man hadn’t returned after a half an hour, he realized the man wasn’t coming back. He called the owner.
“Want to pay?” the owner asked.
“Yes, but I need to use your bathroom first,” said Samuel, getting up with exaggerated clumsiness.
“Back there,” but he immediately remembered that his guest was almost blind so he took him by the arm and led him through the oilcloth curtain. Excalibur had learned to walk in front of the supposed blind man.
They found themselves in a long, poorly lit hallway with several closed doors, all painted a sickening parrot-green color. There was an accumulation of dirt around the knobs. The smell of grease and untidy restrooms was nauseating. Samuel swore that a couple of cockroaches ran in front of him but he couldn’t be sure. The man stopped in front of a door with a decal of a Chinese warrior on it. On the door next to it was one of a damsel from the imperial court, which was really out of place in that disgusting passageway.
“This is it,” he said, as he nudged Samuel toward the door.
Samuel pulled Excalibur into the small room and had to hold his nose because the smell almost knocked him over. Fortunately, he was alone. Excalibur showed no signs of being uncomfortable because of the stench. On the contrary, he sniffed in the corners with pleasure. After a short while, Samuel decided not to waste any more time. He walked out of the bathroom, pulling Excalibur by the leash, walked down the dark hallway, opened the oilcloth curtain, and summoned the owner with his dark glasses in hand.
The owner looked at him with more anger than surprise because he’d never totally believed the story of his being blind.
“You see?” he spit out.
“Yes, I can see,” said Samuel, “and I have a problem. A man with one arm went through that curtain and has disappeared. I need to know where he went.”
“I see no one,” said the owner.
“This is very important. If you won’t show me where he went, I’ll have to bring the police here. Do you understand?”
“Police no bother me. They my friend.”
Samuel’s face turned red with anger, “I don’t mean the local police. I mean the federal police. Get it?”
The owner’s casual sneer changed immediately into a worried expression.
“I know very well that you pay protection money to Maurice Sandovich, but he won’t be able to help you if I call the federal cops,” threatened Samuel.
The owner squinted and wiped his palms on his white apron. “What you want?’
“I want to know where the man went,” said Samuel. “I promise you, if you cooperate you won’t have problems with the authorities.”
“How I know you keep you word?”
“You just have to trust me. You don’t have a choice. If the federal police come, you’re through. We can fix this between the two of us without any problems. So what’s it going to be?” He put his hands on his hips and started tapping his foot, as he looked the owner in the eyes.
“Okay,” said the owner, frightened.
“It’s a deal,” replied Samuel.
The owner guided him down the hallway to the last door and knocked several times. The door opened a crack and when someone saw it was the owner of the Won Ton Café, the door opened. They entered a room whose size couldn’t be determined because there was so much cigarette smoke. Coughing, Samuel saw, through watery eyes and the smoky atmosphere, several round tables with felt covers, each with a single shaded light above. There wasn’t an empty seat around any of them. Chinese men were playing wagering games.
At one table there were five men playing poker. At another they were throwing craps and had placed an artificial backstop at one end of the table for the dice to bounce off. The noise was tremendous. As the money and chips flew, the voices and yells increased. They bet on card games, dice, and mahjong, and other games with chips and little sticks that Samuel couldn’t identify. Judging from the excitement of the clients, he figured large sums of money must be changing hands in that clandestine casino. Excalibur began pulling on the lease, desperate to escape the smoke.
“Where is he?” asked Samuel.
The owner summoned with his index finger, indicating that Samuel should follow him to the back of the room to yet another door. He unlocked and opened it, revealing a flight of stairs going down to some sort of a dark basement. Halfway down, he turned on the light—a single bare bulb. Samuel couldn’t see what was at the bottom, and he faced the owner with a questioning look.
“Way out,” said the man. “Clients gamble. When have to leave, go through door, down stairs.”
“Where does it lead?” asked Samuel.
“Chinatown.”
“Did you build this?”
The man shook his head. “No, no. Many Chinese. More than hundred years old. You go down, look for man. Remember, no tell police,” he said, as he muscled Samuel back to the landing at the top of the stairs. Excalibur, anxious to get away from the smoke, pulled on the leash, and both went down the stairs. The owner shut and locked the door behind them.
At the bottom they found themselves in a basement only dimly lit from the bulb in the stairwell. The floor was of stamped dirt and the walls were also made of uneven earth shored up by beams and bars like a mine tunnel. It smelled of humidity and excrement. Samuel trembled. What if the one-armed man hadn’t left, and the owner had just locked them in this hole? No one would hear his cries; they were in the bowels of Chinatown. He imagined people and traffic above him.
He remembered that he’d read in a novel that Chinatown was built in the eighteen hundreds at the time of the gold rush and that all the illegal activities, from prostitution to gambling and murders, all took place underground. Just as the owner of the Won Ton Café said, these passageways were at least a hundred years old, and they continued to serve the same purposes.
He quickly adjusted to the dim lighting and saw a metal switch on a post in the tunnel. He supposed it was a switch. He pulled it and immediately some lights went on, all very dim, but they allowed him to figure out where he was. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There were passageways leading in all directions. It was a real labyrinth. There were pieces of cardboard tacked on the walls, probably giving directions, but all the lettering was in Chinese. He couldn’t decide which way to go, although it wouldn’t have made any difference, because he didn’t have a clue where the one-armed man had gone.
But Excalibur didn’t have a language or a directional problem. He started pulling on the leash and ran in circles with his nose to the ground until he finally decided on one of the passages. He seemed to know whom they were following. Samuel followed him almost by feel in the semidarkness, careful not to fall into a hole or hit one of the pipes that crossed overhead.
Air seemed to be in short supply in that rancid atmosphere, and Samuel figured that the ventilation system, if that’s what it was, was pretty primitive.
There were doors, some metal and some wood, marked in Chinese or with numbers that were barely distinguishable. He was sorry he didn’t have matches or a lighter, which he always used to carry when he smoked. He saw a piece of cardboard with an arrow and supposed it was an exit, but Excalibur just kept following his nose, and Samuel thought it best to trust the dog’s instinct.
They finally came to a bend in the passageway, and the animal stopped in front of an iron ladder about six feet high, at the top of which was a door, also made of metal. He started sniffing frantically, whining and scratching the ground. Samuel tried to read what was written with splashes of white paint.
“I’ll be dammed!” he exclaimed. The number was 838.
He lifted the dog in one arm and scurried up the ladder with one hand. He tried the door and was relieved that it was open. He let Excalibur into the cement basement of a building. He saw the pipes in the ceiling and could hear the sound of machines, possibly boilers. There were rows of doors with numbers on them, locked with padlocks. They looked like storage rooms for the inhabitants. He didn’t have to search for an exit because the dog dragged him to some stairs. They climbed them and found themselves on a landing. He opened the only door and entered the lobby of 838 Grant Avenue.
The floor was black marble streaked with white, highly polished and reflecting the antique armoire that was up against one wall. A large mirror with a bamboo frame hung above it. There were expensive Chinese screens in two different locations, a sumptuous white sofa, and various plants to complete the decor. Next to an elevator was a glass case that held a list of tenants spelled out in brass letters. Samuel sighed, relieved there was no one at the guard desk, but he knew he didn’t have much time because in a building like that, someone was usually guarding the entrance.
He examined the directory and saw that Mathew O’Hara was still listed as occupying the fifth floor. He had no doubt that’s where Fu Fung Fat had ended up. Melba would be very proud when he told her of Excalibur’s prowess. He headed for the exit, pulling the dog, who skated across the black marble.
* * *
On his way back to Camelot, he went over what he’d learned and tried to figure out what to do next.
When he arrived, he handed Melba the leash and said, “I’ll tell you what’s going on in a minute. Right now I’ve got to make a phone call,” and rushed toward the booth at the back of the bar.
He closed the door and the smell of rancid tobacco caught his nose. This time he didn’t feel revulsion. As a matter of fact, he was dying for a cigarette. He dialed Charles’s office and got him on the line.
“I’ve just followed Virginia’s servant all the way from Mr. Song’s to 838 Grant Avenue. That’s O’Hara’s penthouse.”
“So what?” said Charles. “That’s where the little shit lives.”
“He got something at Mr. Song’s, and he took it back there by way of a secret passage,” said Samuel.
“A secret passage? What kind of secret passage?”
“One that goes under the streets of Chinatown,” said Samuel.
“You’re crazy,” said Charles.
“No man, I swear.”
“How did you discover it?” asked Charles, incredulous.
“I’ll tell you later. Do you think you can get another search warrant? Maybe we can find some important evidence if we get to the apartment quickly. So far, no one knows that I’ve made the discovery.”
“We searched every inch of that apartment already,” said Charles. “I assure you there’s nothing there that interests us.”
You’re a conceited asshole. I serve it up to you on a plate, and you don’t even pay attention, thought Samuel. “Look, if the guy took something from a jar, a big package, it could be part of O’Hara’s half million. It couldn’t be all of it; there must be another jar with the rest. For that there has to be a key or a claim check. You never looked for those when you searched the apartment, did you?”
“Well, not exactly. We didn’t know what we were looking for.”
“Don’t you think it’s worth a try?”
“I’ll get another warrant,” Charles decided.
* * *
The team of U.S. marshals and Customs agents was back at the Grant Avenue apartment with Charles at seven thirty the next morning. Samuel agreed to wait at a café down the street, though he was dying of curiosity.
The feds brought an interpreter with them because they wanted to get answers from Fu Fung Fat. They questioned him for three hours, but they got absolutely no new information.
They also confronted Virginia Dimitri in a separate room. She was still in bed when they got there. They gave her time to get dressed, and she took almost an hour. She finally appeared, recently bathed and very stylishly dressed: a loop skirt, red blouse, sandals, and her hair in a bun. She announced that she needed a cup of coffee to start the morning, wasting another twenty minutes.
“We know you’ve a claim check from Mr. Song’s, and this subpoena allows us to confiscate it. So hand it over.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no connection with this person you call Mr. Song,” she answered.
“How have you been supporting yourself since Mr. O’Hara was arrested?” asked Charles.
“I don’t think my finances are any of your business.”
Charles realized he wasn’t going to intimidate that woman, and he’d lost enough time, so he gave the order to search the place from top to bottom and to destroy it if necessary in order to find what they were looking for: money, and probably a claim check and a key.
Virginia sat in the kitchen painting her fingernails and drinking coffee, perfectly calm, while the men went through her apartment like a hurricane, emptying drawers, turning the furniture upside down, and emptying every container in the kitchen. The only thing they didn’t do was take a look behind the ceiling panels.
The Customs agent who was interrogating Fu Fung Fat was pulling his hair out with frustration by the end.
“We’re going to have to arrest this guy and threaten to deport him and his whole family back to Communist China, if he, in fact, has a family here. I’ve had a lot of them in my time, but he’s the toughest nut I’ve ever interrogated,” the agent told Charles.
Fu Fung Fat asked courteously if he could continue with his chores while they were destroying the apartment. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the garbage bag under the sink. It had already been examined, but one of the officer’s, thinking that the servant was trying to whisk something out of the apartment, dumped its contents on the floor and went through it again, piece by piece, while the one-armed man smiled slyly. They found nothing. Four hours later they gave up.
“We know you’re hiding something, Miss Dimitri,” said Charles.
“Prove it.”
“You can count on it. We’ll be back.”
“You’ll have to, in order to put everything in its place and clean my house, if you don’t want me to sue you for abuse of authority,” she answered calmly.
“Try it, and let’s see how far you get.”
* * *
Charles and the agents walked down the street to the place where Samuel had been waiting all morning. He’d already lost count of the number of cups of coffee he’d drunk.
“We didn’t find a damn thing,” announced Charles, in a bad mood.
“Clam down. We haven’t lost anything,” said Samuel.
“Nothing except my time!”
“You haven’t lost it. Dimitri and her servant are scared and they will act soon. You didn’t mention the passageway, right?”
“Of course not.”
“For sure that’s where she’ll go next,” smiled Samuel, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“How do we get access to that place?” asked Charles.
“I’ll show you,” said Samuel. “We have to sneak back into the building. Was the guard there when you left?”
“I think so. But that’s not a problem. He knows we searched the floor. Agent Reiss, go and distract the guard,” said Charles.
“How?” asked Reiss.
“However you please. Tell him you have to ask him some questions in private. Think of something, man, for chrissake.”
“Did you bring flashlights?” asked Samuel.
“Flashlights? Of course not. No one goes around with flashlights in broad daylight,” answered Charles.
“But I told you the passageways are dark!”
“You said there were light bulbs.”
“I turned them on with a switch when I was there yesterday, but I can’t guarantee there’s light today.
“I’ll go and buy flashlights,” one of the agent’s offered.
“No, I’d better go,” replied Samuel, thinking that a fed over six feet tall in a suit, dark glasses, and a hat buying a half a dozen flashlights wouldn’t go unnoticed.
While the rest waited, drinking coffee and smoking, he quickly went to one of the tourist stores in the area. In the middle of countless plastic dolls, reproductions of the Golden Gate Bridge, fans, erotic carvings in fake ivory, and suitcases, he found what he was looking for. Twenty minutes later he was back at the café.
Reiss left to deal with the guard while another man was stationed near the café to watch the front entrance to the building. Charles Perkins took a look outside to check if there were any strange goings-on, but Chinatown was involved in its own affairs, indifferent, as usual. Nobody gave a second look at the group of four men crossing the street as if they were marching off to war. Samuel hoped that Virginia and Fu Fung Fat were very busy and wouldn’t think of getting close to a window and looking out to see them arrive.
They entered the lobby at 838 and went straight to the basement, where Samuel found the door that led to the passageway. After closing the door, they climbed down the metal ladder into the bowels of Chinatown.
“This is a shitty place to wait for something to happen, and I hate to waste my valuable time. Cross your fingers that you’re right,” said Charles, threatening him by pointing his finger, while he shined his flashlight on the assortment of overhead pipes covered with cobwebs filled with dead insects and at the wet ground splashed with puddles.
“Mr. Perkins, this place has rats,” exclaimed one of the agents.
“What did you expect, flowers?” replied the attorney.
“We have to be patient. She feels trapped, and this is her avenue of escape. She’ll show up,” assured Samuel.
“Can we smoke?” asked one of the agents.
“I don’t see why not. Too bad we didn’t bring a picnic and sleeping bags,” the attorney joked.
“Let’s try and not draw anybody’s attention,” suggested Samuel.
“There’s not a soul around here,” exclaimed Charles.
“That’s what you think,” said Samuel.
* * *
They crouched near the ladder, where it was totally dark. A short distance away they could see the passageway very poorly lit by the bulbs that hung from the ceiling. A lone Chinese man trotted by in a hurry without seeing them. After that three others went by them, including a woman with a baby on her back; if the passersby saw them, they didn’t seem surprised. Samuel supposed that even a few Westerners used the labyrinth.
“This looks like the subterranean superhighway through Chinatown,” whispered Charles.
“I would imagine that a lot of skullduggery goes on because of these passageways,” answered Samuel, thinking of the gambling den in the back of the Won Ton Café and the dozens of others like it that no doubt existed all over the neighborhood.
Finally, more than an hour later, the basement door to 838 opened, and Fu Fung Fat came onto the platform at the top of the ladder and peered into the darkness, still holding the door open with his shoulder without an arm. The men hidden by the ladder froze. Fu Fung Fat, sure that no one saw or heard him, backed into the basement and closed the door.
“He’s testing the terrain. He’ll return soon,” whispered Samuel.
Charles gave him a pat on the back. “The plan is bearing fruit,” he said, obviously relieved. “At least there’s some action.”
Ten minutes later the door to the building opened again, and Fu Fung Fat reappeared dragging a large suitcase to the top of the landing. Behind him came Virginia Dimitri, dressed in black from head to toe, appropriate for discreet navigation of the underground highway, thought Samuel. She carried a suitcase, though it was half the size of the one her manservant was wrestling with.
Virginia tied a rope to the handle of the first suitcase, which seemed heavier, and she helped the servant let it down to the foot of the ladder, where it landed with a thud and stirred up dust. He then scurried down the ladder, with great agility considering he only had one arm. He untied the rope, and she pulled it up. She repeated the operation with the second suitcase, then they were both at the bottom with the baggage. They lingered a moment to let their eyes get accustomed to the darkness.
It was then that Charles made his presence known. “We’ve been expecting you, Miss Dimitri,” he said, turning his flashlight on and shining it directly in her face. “Our subpoena is still effective, and we’d like to examine the contents of your suitcases.”
Virginia was speechless. She stooped to set the small suitcase on the dirt floor, then straightened to her full height, folded her arms in front of her and confronting the attorney face-to-face. Her upper lip quivered slightly, but she seemed in perfect control of the situation.
“If you are going to invade my privacy, I have a right to an attorney. And get that light out of my eyes.”
“All in due course. First we’ll open the suitcases,” answered Charles.
Two Customs agents corralled the manservant and patted him down to make sure he didn’t have firearms.
“Let’s do this in a more comfortable setting. Is that all right with you?” asked Charles, making fun of her.
Without giving her a chance to reply, they made the two suspects climb the ladder and brought up the suitcases. Once in the basement of the building, which was adequately lit with fluorescent lights, the agents handcuffed Fu Fung Fat’s only wrist to a pipe. Virginia glanced fleetingly in all directions, as though she were looking for a place to run, but immediately realized the futility of such a course. She had a menacingly angry look in her eyes but didn’t resist when her hands were cuffed behind her back.
The big suitcase was opened first. It was more than half full of packages of one-hundred-dollar bills, and the other half contained several outfits for the fashionable female.
“Well!” exclaimed Charles. “Are these your savings, Miss?”
Next they searched the smaller suitcase. It was full to the brim with more packages of one-hundred-dollar bills.
“This is a lot of money, but we’re still missing about half of the half a million dollars we’re looking for, and then there’s the claim check and the key to the other jar at Mr. Song’s. She has to have them somewhere. Search her,” Samuel whispered to Charles, as he pulled him aside.
“It’s not that easy,” said Charles. “We have to have a reason.”
Samuel heated up. “What the shit are you talking about? We find this woman in a secret passageway under the streets of Chinatown with a ton of dough, and that’s not reason enough?”
By now, all the others were watching them.
“Okay, okay,” said Charles, “quiet down. I’m in charge here.” He adjusted his tie and straightened his shoulders. “Miss Dimitri, we know you have a claim check and a key for Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs in your possession, and we want you to turn them over to us now.”
“You searched my house and you found nothing. Why don’t you leave me in peace?” Virginia spit, livid with rage.
“You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble if you cooperate.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she said defiantly.
“We’ll have to search you. You leave us no option.”
“If you lay one finger on me, you’ll pay dearly. And if you don’t release me immediately, I’ll sue you and the government and I’ll make sure you and that little bastard with you lose your jobs. Let me remind you I have connections in this town, in case you haven’t figured that out already.”
Samuel no longer had a job, so he considered the threat humorous.
“Well, then, Miss Dimitri, we’ll take you into custody and we’ll search your person. It won’t be agreeable for you, I’ll make sure of that,” smirked Charles.
He called one of the Customs agents over and gave him instructions. “Take Miss Dimitri to the federal marshal’s office and have her searched and then book her.”
“What’s the charge, Chief?” asked the Customs agent.
“Transporting stolen money,” he said off the cuff.
Virginia laughed out loud. “You’ll never make that stick, you son of a bitch. I’ll be out in an hour and you’ll pay the consequences.”
“Not if I find what I’m looking for, you won’t,” said Charles. He gave the order that the manservant and the suitcases also be taken.
“Are there charges?”
“The same. Transporting stolen money,” he answered. “This time we’ve got her. At least I hope so. There’s thousands of dollars in those suitcases. Where did she get it and where was she taking it?”
“It’s evident she planned to escape. That means she has the claim check and the key on her,” said Samuel.
“If she has them on her, we’ll find them.”
* * *
The interrogation and search of Virginia Dimitri at the U.S. marshal’s office was a raucous affair. She refused to answer any questions and demanded to consult with her attorney, who couldn’t prevent the search. She had to be physically restrained by two matrons while she was stripped. Virginia threw the first tantrum of her life, which increased in intensity until she lost control. She broke free—scratching, biting and kicking. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “There, you see, nothing on me, you Lesbian bitches!” Another matron joined the fray, and Virginia was finally subdued and flattened against a table. The claim check and the key were found in a plastic bag inserted in her vagina.
The head matron winked at her, and said in a soothing voice, “It never fails, sugar. Those with the most to hide make the most noise.”
They let her go and gave her a clean set of jailhouse garb, but Virginia was still foaming at the mouth and yelling expletives and pulling out her hair. They had to restrain her again. An hour later, she was still out of control and her voice was cracking. A doctor was called and she was sedated before she was locked up in the psychiatric ward.
* * *
With the claim check and key in hand, Charles had a new subpoena issued, and he again appeared at Mr. Song’s with two federal marshals, a Customs expert on fingerprints and, of course, Samuel, to whom he owed it all.
Mr. Song was his usual ceremonial self, bowing from behind the black lacquer counter, looking as strange as he did the first time they saw him.
He stroked his white wispy goatee as he examined the claim check and nodded affirmatively. He then looked up serenely at Samuel and Charles, placing both of his hands on the counter, as if weighing his options. Eventually he motioned to his assistant to get his niece. Fifteen long minutes elapsed. When Buckteeth finally showed up, she spent another ten minutes talking to her uncle. Then she got down to business. “Hello, Mr. Hamilton. How’s your mood and your health?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m happy. You are welcome to come back. It will be cheaper now,” she smiled, showing her charming rodent teeth.
Charles raised his eyebrows. “What’s that all about? You haven’t been dating this young girl, I hope.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Mr. Song helped me stop smoking a while back. I’ll tell you all about it later,” explained Samuel, blushing.
“You tell your uncle that we have this claim check and key and this subpoena, just like last time,” demanded Charles.
After she and her uncle talked for five minutes, she translated. “My honorable uncle says that you still haven’t returned the jars you took the last time.”
“As soon as the case is over, we’ll return them, I promise. It’s getting close now.”
“When?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. Right now I have to take another jar, the one that corresponds to this claim check.”
“My honorable uncle repeats what he said the last time. The contents of the jar belong to you, but not the jar.”
“We’ll talk about that later. First I have to take a look at what’s inside.”
The assistant went up the ladder and brought down the jar in question. Samuel remembered that when Fu Fung Fat had been there previously, Mr. Song’s assistant removed a smaller jar from the center of the wall, and there was now a gap where it had been.
Charles ordered the top of the jar be dusted for fingerprints before the contents were examined. Then they opened the jar and disgorged package after package of one-hundred-dollar bills, which he looked at closely in disbelief, before giving instructions that prints be lifted from them. “There’s a lot of money here! Do you have any more jars that belong to Virginia Dimitri?” he asked Mr. Song.
“He only goes by the claim check number,” she said. “He doesn’t know a Virginia Dimitri.”
“Ask him about the gap in the middle of the wall,” said Samuel. “Whom did that belong to?”
“He says that person’s business is finished. That’s why that space is empty.”
Samuel whispered to Charles, “Ask him where the jar is? That’s the one that the manservant opened the other day.”
“You need to bring us that jar,” ordered Charles.
When Mr. Song understood what Charles wanted, he had his assistant go behind the bead curtain and get the mediumsized jar, which he put up on the counter.
“What was in this jar?” asked Charles.
Mr. Song waited for the translation.
“He has no idea,” said the girl, and she burst out with contagious laughter. “And if my honorable uncle knew, he wouldn’t tell you.”
Charles ignored her. He also ordered that it be dusted for prints. He then counted the money. There was several hundred thousand dollars. They’d already recovered hundreds of thousands from Virginia Dimitri’s suitcases. The total was more than half a million. The major part of the money, $500,000, probably belonged to Mathew O’Hara. The question was what was she going to do with it? The more important question was where did the rest come from and to whom did it belong?
Mr. Song followed them to the street, arguing in his language that he considered what they were doing robbery and an assault on his property, but he couldn’t stop them from confiscating both jars.
Samuel, who now had a relationship with him and understood his frustrations, was the last to leave. He said goodbye with reverence to the albino, Buckteeth, and the assistant and promised them he’d personally see that the property was returned. “Tell your uncle I’m still not smoking,” he said.
“Mr. Song says that is good. He also says he hopes you begin to understand how sinister this whole affair is, just as he told you.”
“Yes, I believe I’m beginning to see that,” said Samuel.
“My honorable uncle says to never bring your friends here again,” the beaver translated.
* * *
That weekend Melba and Samuel went to visit Mathew O’Hara, who by then had been in the hospital prison ward for two months. He’d lost almost forty pounds, and he looked twenty years older. They didn’t know what to say, expecting to hear the worst, since it crossed their minds that he might be dying, but Mathew surprised them.
“I’m very happy to see you.”
“We heard they couldn’t save your leg,” Melba blurted out.
“They amputated my leg. Imagine! After all I went though.”
“You certainly have been through hell, Boss,” Melba said, looking in anguish at the place where his leg should have been.
“Nothing compared to what Rafael’s family’s been through, I’m sure. I know you’re close to them, Melba. Tell me how they’re doing. I heard Rafael’s wife had a healthy baby,” said Mathew.
Melba had known him for many years. She remembered him as a man who was always in a hurry, restless, full of ambitious plans, and who never demonstrated the slightest interest in other people’s problems. He didn’t even remember his employees’ names but never forgot those of people who could be of some use to him.
“Yes, he’s a handsome boy. He looks like his father,” Melba managed to answer.
“That’s right,” added Samuel. “They’re an amazing family. Fortunately, they have each other.”
“Melba, I want to do something for them, but I’m trapped in this bed and then I’ll go to prison. Will you act as an intermediary?
“What d’ya want me to do?”
“I want you to pay them the monthly stipend of $500 from the bar that you usually pay to me.
“You mean that you are giving up your share of the bar, Boss?”
“The bar’s in your name.”
“Yeah, but we both know we’re partners. How about if we put half in the name of Rafael’s family, so if something happens to me there won’t be a problem,” she said.
“I didn’t expect less from you,” smiled Mathew.
“I know that you’ve lost much of your fortune, Mathew. This is very generous of you.”
“I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for Rafael. I hope to meet his family one day. I’ll never be able to pay that boy back for what he did for me. In truth, he gave me more than my life, he gave me a new life.”
Samuel thought he was witnessing something he would always remember: the transformation of this man. Far from looking broken by the tragedy, Mathew seemed at peace and almost content.
“What about you, Mathew?” she asked. “What’s in store?”
“My lawyer tells me I’ll get out sooner now that all this has happened, but I need to go to a rehabilitation hospital and learn to walk with a prosthetic leg. I can’t do that until my wounds heal and the swelling goes down. I still have a ways to go.”
“I’m sorry,” commented Samuel.
“Nothing to be sorry about, man. I’ve learned a great deal about myself, and that’s what’s really important. Look, I’ve got several years ahead, and I don’t intend to waste them.”
As they walked out, Samuel gave Melba his impression. “The pain has changed and elevated him as a person,” he said emotionally.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” said Melba. “People don’t change much, no matter what happens to ’em. I’m going to put the bar in the Garcias’ name before he changes his mind.”
* * *
A couple of days later, Samuel answered an urgent phone call from Melba and rushed to Camelot. Excalibur was wagging his tail with delirious enthusiasm.
“Okay, dog, calm down. I’ll have to buy you another carrot for your fishbowl,” he laughed, petting him.
Seated at the round table was a beefy man with the gray crew cut. It was Maurice Sandovich. He wasn’t wearing his police uniform but was still recognizable. He was sipping a double or triple bourbon over the rocks and was talking earnestly with Melba.
“Hi, Samuel. Maurice has some news for you.”
The last time he’d seen Sandovich was from behind a mirror during an interrogation. Sandovich had seen him only once.
“Hello, Maurice,” he said. “It’s nice to see you in a social environment instead of on official business.”
“Nice to see ya, Counselor.”
“No, you’re mixing me up with Charles Perkins,” said Samuel.
“Oh, yeah. You’re the reporter guy.”
Samuel blushed. In reality, he was an unemployed ad salesman, but he accepted the compliment. “Do you want to talk to me?” he asked.
“I sure do. I was having a drink with my old friend Melba and telling her the latest gossip from the department, and your name came up. By the way, you wanna a drink?”
Samuel thought quickly. Should he trust this bastard? He was a pretty slippery customer at best, but maybe not as bad as Charles made him out to be. He remembered Melba’s words: he was small potatoes. “Sure, I’ll have a Scotch on the rocks.”
Maurice whirled around in his seat and yelled at the bartender, “A Scotch on the rocks for my friend here, and another bourbon on the rocks for me. Make ’em doubles. On my tab.”
“Yes, sir, coming right up,” answered the bartender.
Melba gave Samuel a complicitous wink. They both knew that people like Sandovich never paid the bill.
“Anyway, your name came up when I told Melba that we arrested Dong Wong, a well-known fugitive in Chinatown. You remember, I was being questioned by the attorney guy and the Customs agent, and you were behind the mirror.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“We cops know everything that goes on in front of us, my friend. But let’s get back to Dong Wong. He was arrested last night. He was getting ready to leave town, and they got him at the airport.”
“Wow! Does the U.S. attorney know about this?”
“Nope, just you and Melba outside of the department.”
“You know how bad Charles wanted this guy, don’t you?” said Samuel.
“Yeah, and he’ll want him even more when I tell you what he said.”
Samuel got his Scotch and drank it down in one long gulp.
“He spilled the beans.”
“What? Did he confess?” exclaimed Samuel.
“It wasn’t so simple. He figured we were trying to pin at least five Chinatown murders on him plus a bunch of other shit, so we asked what he had to offer in exchange for leniency. He told us plenty to try and save his ass from the gas chamber,” explained Maurice.
“So what’d he say?” asked Samuel, taking mental note.
“He gave us the mastermind.”
“You mean the mastermind behind all these crimes, including the murder of Rockwood and Louie?”
“Yes, sir, including the attempt on O’Hara. He gave us the one who organized the whole scheme. According to him, he was given orders to carry out the details, but the brain was someone else.
“Who?” asked Samuel.
“That Virginia Dimitri broad.”
Samuel started hyperventilating. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Will you let me take notes on what you tell me for my newspaper?” he asked.
“Go right ahead, my friend.”
He pulled his pad of paper and pencil out of his jacket pocket and for the next hour took notes from Maurice on how Dong Wong was paid by Virginia to kill Reginald after he’d collected the $50,000 from Xsing Ching. In other words, Reginald was the front man for Virginia for the blackmail, based on information she fed to him.
“She paid Dong Wong more money to have you and the attorney guy killed but there was a mix-up, and Chop Suey Louie got it instead,” added Sandovich.
“What about the man who showed up to pay for his own obituary?” asked Samuel.
“Dong Wong hired an actor with black hair and a tuxedo to file it so the employee at the newspaper would remember it. Virginia wrote the obituary based on what Rockwell had told her about his life. It turned out to be false. He never belonged to the upper class, but she didn’t know that.
“She also didn’t think that Samuel would show up for his funeral service. That started to unravel everything,” said Melba.
“Don’t tell me. I bet she was also responsible for the death of Rafael Garcia and the attempt on Mathew O’Hara. But why?” asked Samuel.
“That’s what I asked, why? Dong Wong said she also had a big pot of money she was hiding for O’Hara, and Wong thought she wanted him out of the way so she could keep it for herself. When she learned that half a million dollars would be in her hands to wire to Xsing Ching, she arranged it so that the feds would find out when the merchandise would be inspected and that’s how they arrested Mathew O’Hara with his hands in the cookie jar. That was the best way to get him out of circulation, but she ran a big risk if he was alive. O’Hara isn’t the kind of guy who just rolls over, so Virginia and Dong Wong planned to kill him in prison. The feds had traced the money in the San Quentin guard’s account to some money she had in one of those jars at Mr. Songs.”
“I wasn’t told that,” said Samuel and wondered how much more Charles was keeping from him. The deal was that he would be kept informed, but the attorney wasn’t playing straight with him. He would have to find things out for himself. Sandovich was a treasure trove of information, a stroke of luck for which he had Melba to thank.
“Can I use your name as a source? This is hot stuff, and I can get it published tomorrow in the newspaper,” he asked the cop.
“Not my name, for chrissake. You know how to do it. Unnamed sources in the police department, blah, blah, blah.”
By now Samuel was puffed up and couldn’t control his eagerness. He was thinking of how he needed to get this story to the night editor of the newspaper he used to work for, and how he needed to convince the man to publish it with his byline. If they didn’t hire him as a reporter with this story, it meant there was no way out of his bad luck. He excused himself and rushed out the swinging door of Camelot, tightly griping his notebook.
* * *
The next day Blanche burst into Melba’s bedroom at an indecently early hour, waving the morning paper in front of her.
“What’s wrong child for God’s sakes? It’s six thirty in the morning,” mumbled Melba still half asleep.
“Look! They published him on the front page in enormous letters, and with his name: Samuel Hamilton, Reporter. Imagine!” exclaimed Blanche, and she read the headline:
DRAGON LADY IMPLICATED IN SEVERAL CHINATOWN MURDERS AND THE DOUBLE-CROSSING OF SAN FRANCISCO MILLIONAIRE MATHEW O’HARA.
“Don’t you think it’s stupendous? Samuel, a reporter!” she said enthusiastically.
“What does it say? Read it to me,” grumbled Melba, feeling around the night table for her first cigarette.