The Chinese Jars (7 page)

“What d'ya mean by that?”

“If you want to have anything to do with Blanche, it has to be in an area where you can compete. You're no more fit to run a few yards than I am. In fact, it might kill you,” she said laughing, taking a deep drag off her cigarette. By that time, Samuel had also lit up, and he began to laugh, too. Now they both had a case of uncontrollable giggles until all the patrons left in the bar were staring at them.

“Kind of pathetic, isn't it?” said Samuel.

“Yeah, pathetic, but that's life,” she said in the middle of a coughing spell.

* * *

Samuel and Blanche met Saturday morning at the western end of Golden Gate Park near the Pacific Ocean at the Murphy windmill, one of the two huge Dutch windmills that looked as if they came right out of a Low Country's picture postcard. They were big, imposing, and in some need of maintenance; their shingles had not been replaced since they started to fall off years before. But they served a purpose. They were used to obtain water for the irrigation of the park and several of its lakes. Quite a chore for the over-a-thousand-acre park, which was designed by the famous William Howard Hall in the 1870s to cover the unruly sand dunes and isolated vegetation, Blanche explained to Samuel.

“It was made into a modern marvel by John McLaren, who was in charge of it and who lived in the McLaren Lodge until his death at the age of ninety-six in 1943,” she added for Samuel's benefit.

It was a typical cold day by the beach. The fog hadn't lifted and the wind was blowing in toward the city, but the sand didn't invade the park. It was kept out by the row of Cypress trees between the ocean and the windmills. The trees also told the story of the strength of the wind, as they were all bent heavily toward the east.

Blanche was dressed in sweats and tennis shoes, looking every inch the athlete, her hair pulled back with a rubber band. Samuel, on the other hand, had on loafers and his usual worn beige sports jacket with the cigarette-burn holes in the sleeves. He'd changed his appearance slightly by donning a Madras shirt, whose brown tones surprisingly blended with his jacket. It was his attempt to be casual.

“I thought it'd be nice to run through the park. There's less traffic. You can trot along if you like; and since I'll get there before you, I'll do some shopping and meet you at Betty's, let's say ten o'clock,” Blanche proposed.

“That's two hours from now. You think it will take me that long to get there?” asked Samuel, terrified.

“More or less. It's okay. I'm not in a hurry today, and it‘ll be nice to talk with you.”

Samuel sighed. “What happens if I get there earlier?”

“That would be a stretch! But if you do, you can look for me on Haight. I'll be the girl with the sweats on,” she said with a radiant smile. And she was off.

Samuel sat down on a rock by one of the dormant windmills and lit a cigarette while he mulled things over. Things hadn't worked out the way he'd planned. Instead of spending a couple hours in Blanche's sweet company, he would spend them running like an exhausted fugitive, alone. He stood up slowly, put out his cigarette, tried to wrap his thin sports jacket around his exposed torso to protect himself from the wind, and ambled south toward Lincoln Way at the southern edge of the park. He waited for a downtown bus, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to keep warm. When the 72 bus arrived, he hopped on and got off when it got to Stanyan Street, where the park ended. He had ridden east for the entire length of Golden Gate Park. He was now across the street from Kezar Stadium, just at the edge of the panhandle. It was bustling with activity as the groundskeepers prepared it for a Forty-Niners game the next day. He bought a paper, crossed over to the park, and sat down on a bench. The trip had taken twenty minutes. He was surrounded by a myriad of trees, some of which had no leaves, and there were spacious areas of lawn in between them and a children's playground full of toddlers and their mothers, as it was a Saturday. The tots had on their bright jackets of different colors, with caps and mittens to match.

He sat there for more than a half hour before Blanche streaked past him almost in a trance; her blondish brown hair was damp with perspiration, her cheeks flushed, and her nose red, like a clown's. He found her more beautiful than ever. Samuel thought she had the grace of a gazelle loping along on the African plain. Not that he'd ever been to Africa, or ever would be, but he liked the metaphor. He would find an opportunity to say it to Blanche, if he could summon up the courage.

When she reached the corner of Stanyan and Haight, she halted, waiting for the traffic light to change. She kept running in place but stopped long enough to touch her toes. He thought better of running over to greet her, as it would be embarrassing for him to explain his speedy arrival. It was better not to discuss it. When the light changed, Blanche trotted across the street and started to walk cheerfully down Haight Street, the Haight-Ashbury District's main drag. It was then just another San Francisco neighborhood. The Hippies, who would transform it, hadn't yet arrived.

Samuel waited until she passed Betty's Diner. Then he got up and went there and sat in a booth looking out on the street through the plate-glass window. He smoked several cigarettes and was reading the paper, drinking his third cup of coffee, when he was startled by a “Boo!” and the tap on the shoulder. It was Blanche, full of smiles and energy.

“You must be a fast walker,” she commented.

“Nothing to it. Would you like something to eat?”

“Thank you. I'll have a carrot and a glass of orange juice.”

Samuel called the waitress and gave her the order.

She smiled slightly. “We don't serve carrots here.”

“Why not?” asked Blanche.

“Ask the owner.”

“Okay, I'll have orange juice.”

“Anything else?”

“I'll have another cup of coffee,” said Samuel.

They talked about this and that. Samuel felt that something had advanced between them, even though with Blanche he couldn't be sure—she had the innocence and enthusiasm of a golden retriever.

E
VEN 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.