The Chinese Jars Read online

  © 2006, 2011 William C. Gordon

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher: Bay Tree Publishing, LLC; [email protected].

  Calligraphy by Ward Schumaker

  Cover design by Lori Barra and Sarah Kessler

  Interior design by mltrees

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gordon, William C. (William Charles), 1937-

  The Chinese jars : a novel / by William C. Gordon.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 978-0-9819577-8-4 (alk. paper)

  1. Deception--Fiction. 2. Smuggling--Fiction. 3. Homicide--Fiction. 4. Chinatown (San Francisco, Calif.)--Fiction. 5. San Francisco (Calif.)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.O5947C55 2011

  813’.6--dc22

  2011032003

  This book is dedicated to

  San Francisco’s Chinatown.

  This is a work of fiction set against a background of history. Public personages both living and dead may appear in the story under their correct names. Scenes and dialogue involving them with fictitious characters are, of course, invented. Any other usage of real people’s names is coincidental. Any resemblance of the imaginary characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  1

  Reginald Rockwood III

  Reginald Rockwood III died today at the age of 35. He was an heir to the fortune of one of California’s wealthiest families. Born in San Francisco in 1925, he attended the Cate Preparatory School and the University of California, Berkeley, where he graduated with honors. He served with distinction in the armed forces of the United States, and was decorated for bravery during the Korean War. His parents and a sister, Mrs. Eugene Haskell of Palo Alto, survive him. Services will be held at Grace Cathedral this coming Tuesday.

  IT WAS A CRISP autumn day in San Francisco in 1960, and John F. Kennedy had just been elected president. Samuel Hamilton was sitting at the large round table at the front of Camelot, his favorite bar. Little did the public know the bar’s name would soon be co-opted by pundits to describe Kennedy’s short reign. It was the table he had shared with Reginald almost every night for the last two years.

  Samuel, a transplant from Nebraska, was a mix of Scottish and German ancestry. He had dropped out of Stanford at the end of his second year after his parents were mugged and murdered by unknown assailants. That, however, was not his only woe. While in mourning, he had gotten drunk and driven head-on into another car, badly injuring a young woman. He would have gone to jail had it not been for the maneuverings of a young San Francisco lawyer. As a result of the accident, Samuel had lost his driving privileges for three years, which further plunged him into a darkness that he was still unable to exit.

  He read with sadness the words in the obit column of the local newspaper, where he worked selling classified ads. Rockwell’s death did not help his state of mind. Unable to shake his parents’ demise or the accident, he had been wandering aimlessly for the past six years, nursing the depression that seemed to follow him and that served as an excuse for his lack of purpose. And now this!

  With Reginald’s death, Samuel had lost his drinking buddy and the person he’d gotten used to commiserating with. Samuel had listened with admiration and a certain envy to Reginald’s stories of world travel and his conquest of exotic females in every corner of the globe. They’d even talked about the possibility of taking an adventurous trip together. For someone in Samuel’s condition, Reginald was a life raft.

  He scratched his head of fast-receding red hair in puzzlement, drawing deeply on his unfiltered cigarette. His baggy sports coat, its sleeves freckled with burn holes, hung limply from his shoulders, which were flaked with dandruff. Everything about him stood in sharp contrast to the dapper Rockwood, who’d been a handsome and charming man in spite of the disdainful smile that often twisted his expression.

  Samuel recalled the deep lines around the corners of Reginald’s mouth and eyes—eyes that had begun to protrude slightly, probably because of the fast life he led. Not that the lines had detracted at all from his distinctive looks: he was slim and long-boned, with heavy eyelids, well-defined eyebrows, and a full head of black hair that was always slicked back. He looked like an Italian movie actor, and in Samuel’s estimation he was an immaculate dresser. In fact, he never saw Reginald wearing anything other than a tux. Sometimes he even wondered if Reginald’s dress wasn’t out of place, but he never dared mention it. Who was he to have an opinion about fashion? His friend was a nocturnal creature and Samuel assumed he circulated in high society, where a tuxedo, perhaps, was appropriate. He flicked the ashes of his cigarette toward the ashtray but missed. A few spilled onto the table while the rest floated gently to the floor.

  It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning. Outside the bar, one could gaze at the San Francisco Bay and watch the cable cars as they turned and made their way down Nob Hill toward the other side of the busy city, their bells clanging. On cold and windy days like this one, the conductors provided blankets for passengers who wanted to cover their exposed legs.

  Samuel was the only one at the table that morning. He called to Melba, one of Camelot’s owners. She was a woman in her early fifties, but she looked older; smoking, drinking and hard work had worn her out. She had the coarse voice of a sailor, and her only sign of vanity was the blue tint in her gray hair. In the bar’s dim light her coif looked like a wig.

  “Did you know that Reginald Rockwood died?”

  “Yeah, I read the obituary in the paper,” she said. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He was an asshole when he was alive, so he’s an asshole when he’s dead,” she muttered.

  “What?” exclaimed Samuel. “I thought he was well-liked and respected here. He certainly had an air of success about him.”

  “Bullshit. The guy was always wandering around in that fucking tux like he was on the way to some debutante party. But let’s face it, if he was really successful, he wouldn’t have spent his time here.”

  Samuel was perturbed but chose to ignore the obvious slap at regulars like him. “You’re just mad because Reginald owed you $200, and now you probably won’t get your money.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Or do you know something about him that I don’t?”

  “Just a feeling,” replied Melba. “Just a feeling.”

  “Based on what?” asked Samuel.

  “That the guy was a prick and tighter than a mule’s ass. He was here every night of the week and he never bought anybody a drink, not even himself. He was a loser.”

  “You’re just pissed because he never gave you a tip.”

  “It’s more than that. I bet you didn’t ever see him eat, other than at the hors d’oeuvre table in the back there.”

  “That’s true. But he was always on his way to some big party. He’d have the invitation in his jacket pocket, and he’d drop in here for a nibble and a drink beforehand.”

  “Okay, I’ll make you a bet,” said Melba. “Ten bucks says you can’t find one person this guy ever spent a dime on.”

  “What d’ya mean? He was going to take me to Morocco. He’d already bought the plane tickets. At least that’s what he told me on more than one occasion.”

  “Yeah, sure,” laughed Melba. “Show ’em to me.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your bet,” said Samuel. He gave her one of his infectious smiles that shone from his face when he was happy or when he thought he’d won a s
ignificant coup, such as his bet with Melba. He had no idea how he could prove that Reginald actually had those tickets.

  Samuel settled down and returned to his reverie. He lit another cigarette and sipped his Scotch—which he always drank on the rocks—and reflected on the fact that he’d spent a lot of time talking with Reginald and had thought he knew him. He’d found him to be a sensitive and intelligent person who had some insight into the world and its complex problems. He certainly didn’t see him as a cheapskate or a loser, as Melba suggested, or he wouldn’t have hung around him. Even she must have trusted Reginald a little, since she’d loaned him what Samuel considered a lot of money. And he would have stuck to that opinion and gone on with his mediocre life had he not gone to the service for Reginald at Grace Cathedral the following Tuesday.

  * * *

  Samuel arrived early, assuming it would be crowded, but he found the church deserted. He waited for the appointed hour, and still there was no service and no sign of anyone even interested in one. He went to the front of the church and checked the log of activities for the day, but nothing was listed for Reginald Rockwood. Figuring he had gotten the date wrong, he asked an avuncular priest he found wandering around if he knew anything about the deceased. The clergyman searched the church record; he showed Samuel that no service was scheduled for Mr. Rockwood that day or at any time in the past or the future.

  Samuel went back to Camelot. Melba was just coming on shift. He explained to her what he had just been through.

  “Reginald probably planted that obit himself and then skipped town because he owed so much money.” Samuel thought she was thinking of the $200 she’d lost.

  “What about the body?” asked Samuel.

  “That’s the thing. Are you sure the cadaver is Rockwood? He’s not the only guy in the city who dresses in a tuxedo.

  “Someone must have identified him,” said Samuel.

  “Maybe he was involved in an accident,” said Melba.

  Samuel didn’t know what to make of it. He downed two double Scotches on the rocks and made his way uneasily back to his den on the edge of Chinatown, at the corner of Powell and Pacific. It was a small place with only enough space for a pull-down bed, a sofa, and a table, and it was badly in need of a cleaning. He hung his laundry on a wire strung across the room. There was also a little kitchen, which he never used, and a bathroom with rusty faucets. It wasn’t a palace but there was no reason to complain. A whole family of Chinese could live in an apartment this size.

  He staggered up the stairs, went to bed, and didn’t wake up until the next morning.

  * * *

  After finishing his ablutions he went for a cup of weak coffee and a pastry at Chop Suey Louie’s, the local Chinese bargain café near his flat. He said hello to his friend, the proprietor, and received a broad smile in return. Louie’s mother was there, as usual, sitting at a table near the door keeping an eye on the clients. The little old lady had been in San Francisco for thirty years, but she thought she was still in Canton. She didn’t speak a word of English, and she never ventured outside of Chinatown. Louie, on the other hand, spoke English without an accent and was so proud of being an American that his restaurant was decorated with American flags and photographs of him and soldiers he’d served with in the army in the Second World War and Korea. He was about Samuel’s height and had black bushy hair; a round, kind, acne-scarred face; and an amiable personality that gained him more clientele than his kitchen merited.

  The twelve tables of his small restaurant were all draped with blue oilcloth coverings. On each was a bottle of soy sauce, a saltshaker, a pepper container, and a chrome paper napkin holder. The counter where Samuel usually sat had six seats that faced a large aquarium covering almost the entire back wall in front of the kitchen. The tropical fish that swam among the carefully tended tank flora had a hypnotic effect on him. Sometimes he would come in just to watch them.

  After his morning infusion, he caught the Hyde Street cable car to its terminus at the end of Powell Street and walked the few blocks to his job at the newspaper located at Third and Market, setting his watch to the clock in the tower of the Ferry Building at the foot of Market. His office, which he shared with five other ad salesmen, was in the basement of the twenty-story building that housed the giant journal. He walked down two flights of dimly lit stairs and when he finally reached the hallway, he felt grateful that the ceiling fan was working that day. It took away some of the musty smell that usually lingered there. He opened the opaque glass door with black bold letters that spelled “Advertising Department”. He flicked on the fluorescent light, which gave a greenish hue to the windowless room. Five desks were crammed into a space that should have accommodated two; each one was piled high with telephone directories and stacks of papers. Some had been there for a long time. He looked through his messages, all of which were pretty mundane: mostly promises to buy an ad at some undetermined future date. He tried to focus, but Reginald Rockwood’s ghost haunted him. Why wouldn’t a dead guy show up for his own funeral? He started thinking about what Melba had said about Rockwood planning his own disappearance. He went down to talk to the clerk in the obit department. He had the clipping in hand. “Do you remember anything about this?” he asked, showing it to the clerk.

  The clerk absentmindedly took the clipping and disappeared into the back room. While he was waiting, Samuel tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his white shirt and the sleeves of his beige sport coat. The ashes of his cigarette fell on the floor, and the overhead fan scattered them into the corners of the small stuffy office.

  The clerk came back with the file. “I remember the guy who brought this in: impossible to forget him. He was dressed to kill, in a tux, no less. He said his brother died, and he wanted to make sure we ran it on Saturday. The only thing that ticked me off was that he wanted to be served like a prince, but the SOB didn’t even give me a tip.”

  “A tux, huh?” repeated Samuel, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Can you describe him? What color was his hair?”

  “Real black, slicked back, brown eyes. Very handsome man.”

  “How tall?”

  “Tall, and well-built.”

  “Did he leave an address?”

  “Sure did. A fancy one, way down on Broadway in Pacific Heights.”

  Samuel wrote it down. When he left, he was puzzled. He began to think Reginald really had come in with his own obituary.

  He shot up the stairs and went out onto the street. It had started to drizzle, and he didn’t have a raincoat. He caught the Third Street trolley bus, which took him across Market and up Kearney, where he transferred to a Pacific Avenue bus right at the foot of Chinatown. Here even the smell was different. The sterile scent of the financial district was replaced by soy and ginger, and he could almost taste the noodles he knew were steaming in the Chinese kitchens that now surrounded him.

  The bus lifted over the hill and across Van Ness into the neighborhood where he thought Reginald lived. He rang the doorbell of the stately mansion with Greek columns on the front porch. When the large, ornately carved mahogany door stained a deep dark walnut opened slowly, he found himself staring down at a pleasant-looking Chinese maid in a black dress covered by a starched white apron, who stared back at him through wire-frame glasses.

  “Yes, sir. Help you?” she asked.

  “My name is Hamilton. I’m from the local newspaper. I’m trying to run down a story on Reginald Rockwood III. Our records indicate he lived here.”

  “No, no. That man no live here,” she responded.

  “Did you know him, at least?” he asked, sounding relieved.

  “That man came to party here. Vely hungry. Eat lots of free food and free drink from the trays, and then leave.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “How is it you remember him?”

  “I remember everybody that come here, including name. He tall, handsome, for white devil. Black hair. Vely hungry. Eat every
thing, then go.”

  “Do you know where he lives or where he came from?”

  “No, no. Just come to party. Never saw him before. He had invitation.”

  “Can I talk to the lady of the house?” he asked.

  “Not here. Leave card, maybe she calls you.”

  Samuel gave her his card.

  “Welcome, sir,” and she closed the big door.

  * * *

  Samuel had time to think on his bus ride back downtown. It was becoming clear that his friend had written his own obituary. He realized that it was probably all lies but he couldn’t figure out why Reginald would do such a thing. Melba’s doubts rang in his ears. He certainly wouldn’t do it to get out of repaying $200. Surely he owed more than that or had other serious problems. What did he know about the guy? Not much, really.

  He got off the bus when it stopped in front of the newspaper office, went downstairs, and sought out a friend of his who was a reporter on the police beat. He found him pounding away on his typewriter, his fingers smudged with black ink from the carbon paper. He explained to him what he’d found out.

  “Try the medical examiner. They investigate deaths,” the reporter said.

  Twenty minutes later, Samuel was at the medical examiner’s office right behind the new Hall of Justice, where all the criminal courts were located.

  “Is the boss in?” he asked the clerk, an emaciated young man with yellow teeth.

  “He’s with someone right now. It’ll be about fifteen minutes. Who should I say is calling?”

  “Samuel Hamilton. I was sent over here by the reporter on the police beat; I work for the newspaper.”

  “Maybe I can help you?”

  “We’re looking into the death of Reginald Rockwood III. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “Yeah, it sure does. I was fussing around with that one for a while, but the boss took it over personally. They say the guy was a socialite.”

  “What d’ya mean, ‘they say’?” asked Samuel.

  “Take it up with the boss,” said the clerk. “He’s free now.”