“This the only identification you got?” asked Jack.
“El chinito said he got robbed. Lost everything, except that.”
Jack flashed him a look of disbelief.
“It was only a formality anyway.” The man shrugged. “Something for the labor inspectors.”
Jack called the telephone number and got a recording announcing service had been canceled. He copied the address off the application and called a car service to Central Seattle.
Carlos said, “El chaparrito no esta bueno, no good. He shoot me pool, billar. He win me engañando.”
“Billiards?” Jack asked. “He hustled you? Where?”
“Donde viven los filipinos.” He gave Jack a crumpled newsletter from his pocket. A community center in Filipinotown.
“Gracias,” Jack said, giving Carlos his NYPD PBA card. “Call me if he comes here looking for you.”
Carlos and Jorge nodded as Jack went to the cab that had pulled up outside.
The address that Eddie had submitted turned out to be an administrative office building not far from the University District, on Summit near East Madison, closer to the market. Give a university location, figured Jack, and people took you for a student, especially if you were Asian. Part of the disguise.
A bogus address, a dead end.
Jack caught another cab to Filipinotown.
The Villamor Community Center was closed by the time Jack arrived. A schedule posted on the main door noted that the center was closed on Sundays as well. Another dead end.
Jack wasn’t far from Chinatown and decided to calm the gnawing hunger in his gut.
Jade Garden was one of the restaurants he hadn’t visited, so he stopped in for a plate of beef and tomatoes over noodles. He peeped the kitchen, hoping to see someone very short. Again, no luck. While he waited, a news bulletin about the red ball homicides was broadcast from a television set above the cashier’s counter. They’d arrested two suspects. Teenagers. He called the West Precinct. Detective Nicoll was still out, and Jack wondered whether he was finally getting some sleep.
Devouring the dish of noodles, he recalled the details of his investigation into Nicoll’s voice mail: the watches and pawnshops, the Mexicans, the bogus information, and, adding to the end of the list, he likes to shoot pool.
Jack knew he had only one more day in Seattle, and wondered how much more ground he could cover.
Overthrow the Ching
Alex nursed a martini as the master of ceremonies took the stage and quieted the audience for the ORCA Silent Auction. The CADS were among the hundreds of people in attendance, ready to bid on items for charitable Asian causes.
The first item up for bidding was an antique Chinese fan, reminiscent of the Ming Dynasty era. The white paper fan was made of bamboo and parchment, and had two thick outer ribs, bracing the thirteen accordion paper folds inside.
Alex took a sip of her cocktail and checked her watch.
“The fat ribs of the fan once represented the capitals of Peking and Nanking under the first Ming emperor. There are poems on both sides of the fan, believed to have been written by Dr. Sun Yat-sen himself. A white peony appears on the front of the fan, a red peony on the back. Turning the fan meant overthrowing the Ching Dynasty, and was a gesture of many secret societies.” The master of ceremony paused to catch his breath.
Alex was curious about where Jack was, and wondered if he’d call after the auction. She knew that cop stuff ruled his world, and figured he’d gotten himself involved in more police trauma. She drained her drink as bidding for the fan commenced.
Cop Stuff
Back at the Sea-Tac Courtyard, Jack took a hot shower that steamed up the little room. It was almost 8 PM and he considered calling Alex. She’d said she’d be free after nine.
He changed into the fresh suit from the backpack, thinking he’d meet Alex at the Westin bar lounge after her Service Recognition Award Dinner ended. They could start with a couple of drinks while he tried to reel his mind away from the Eddie monkey chase.
His cell phone buzzed. Alex hooking up, he thought.
But the voice was pale male, law enforcement. “Detective Yu?”
“Yeah,” Jack answered. “Who’s this?”
“SPD Patrol, sir.” Professional.
“What have you got?” asked Jack, swallowing.
“We have in custody a person of interest to you,” the cop said. “Come to Manila Street and Walker. Just off the freeway.”
The cab service dropped Jack off a block away from where the SPD cruiser sat, its lights out on the desolate street. The area was north of the motel, with highway noise humming in the distance. Jack approached and badged the driver, noticing that someone was in the backseat. One of the uniformed officers got out of the squad car and walked Jack a short distance away before he said, confidentially, “He said his name was Carl Lim, but he didn’t have any ID. We saw him playing solo nine-ball when we rolled into Julio’s Place on Manila Street. The patrol update was for a very short male, may shoot pool.”
“Yeah, go on,” said Jack, figuring the update was from Detective Nicoll.
“So we figured we’d bring him to the car, check him out. Okay. Once we leave Julio’s and hit the street, he gets free and we gotta chase him, like six fuckin’ blocks. Jimmy caught him first, took him down hard.”
Jack nodded, an offer of respect and appreciation.
“He was uncooperative after that,” the cop continued. “Started bitching police brutality.” He gave Jack a business card that read JOON KOREAN GINSENG DISTRIBUTOR, with a Jackson Street address. “We found that on him. Nothing much else. Anyway, we can hold him for disorderly, resisting, or assault on a police officer. Anything like that, he’s got at least a few days chillin’ with the bad boys.”
Jack understood that meant Eddie would be in custody a while, and since it was a weekend, it’d be harder to find a public defender even if he demanded one.
They turned back toward the cruiser.
“Bring him out,” Jack said.
The man could have passed for a kid, short enough, his head well beneath Jack’s chin.
“I was just shooting pool,” the Chinese man protested, “I didn’t do anything.”
“Heard you did the marathon, trying to cut out.” Jack yanked down the shoulder of the man’s jacket. Even in the dim street light, the Red Star tattoo was clearly visible.
“What the fuck,” the man complained. “Yeah, I ran. Those gwailo cops were looking to fuck me over!”
“Okay, cut the bullshit,” Jack said, pulling back the handcuffs to reveal a monkey tattoo on the man’s wrist. Curious George. “This is jing deng,” marveled Jack. Destiny.
“What’s that?” puzzled Eddie.
Ngai jai dor gai, remembered Jack. Short people are shrewd.
“So what’s your name again?” Jack pressed.
“Carl Lim.”
Jack chuckled “You mean like in ‘Carlos Lima’?”
The man’s face froze.
“How about ‘Jorge Villa’?” Jack challenged. “Who would you be then, George Hui? Curious George, huh?” Jack could see the man’s resemblance to the face in the juvenile offender photo, and decided to bluff. “Guess what, Eddie?” Jack deadpanned. “Your own dailo placed you at OTB.”
“Dailo?” sneered Eddie. “Bullshit.”
“He said you guys had a beef over watches, and money,” Jack prodded.
“Right. Last I heard,” Eddie said defiantly, “he was brain dead in Emergency.”
“Yeah, you keep believing that,” Jack snapped. “He put your shorty ass at the scene. In the alley.” Jack noticed Eddie flinch at being called “shorty.” “That’s right, you’re bad,” Jack added sarcastically, “so bad you’re good for Murder One, monkey boy.”
He pushed Eddie back into the cruiser, and took a better look at the Korean ginseng business card. The address was just off the fringe of Chinatown.