The Color of Jadeite. Eric D. Goodman

      A Little Trouble in Little China

      Had I known I was going to be forced into an unexpected vacation halfway around the world, I’d have worn a more comfortable pair of pants. The way I see it, there are two types of men in the world: men who dress down for dinner, and men—like me—who don’t. I was headed to Boston’s Chinatown to get an evening bite. For a leisurely stroll like this one, I’d normally have worn a pair of jeans and T-shirt—it was early and Chinatown’s rather informal—but I opted for a light gray button-down Armani and a pair of dark blue slacks from Filene’s Basement. Got them a few years back during their going-out-of-business sale. Filene’s used to be an institution in both Boston and Baltimore—the two cities I’ve called home over the half-dozen decades of my life. The store’s mark-down basement is how I’ve been able to dress in style on a private eye’s budget. The brick and mortar Filene’s Basements are ancient history now and I don’t do online shopping. Fortunately, my closets are stocked with classics.

      My closet—and home—is in Baltimore, where I retired from the Office of the Inspector General, OIG for short. I was in Boston for the weekend to catch an Orioles game against the Red Sox. It was 2014, so I was rooting for the Orioles to beat the defending champions. Spent half my career in Boston, the other half in Baltimore, so I find it hard to decide which team to root for when they’re on the field together. OIG had me on the road a lot, investigating fraud cases all over the Mid-Atlantic region. The steady pension of a retired fed pays the rent, but it doesn’t keep you from getting bored. That’s why I set up shop as a private eye. A guy’s got to have a hobby, and shuffleboard was never my thing.

      Most of the work I do is pretty cut and dry. Get the skinny on my distant husband. Is my wife-to-be marriage material or divorce potential? Can you tell me where my long-lost kid is? I get gigs from law firms, referrals, and the occasional Craigslist post. My usual turf is Boston, Baltimore, and everywhere in between.

      From time to time, these seemingly little cases can grow into bigger things, like threats from the followed party, or the unearthing of things not anticipated; what was expected to be infidelity may in fact be embezzlement, or even murder. I’ve always had a knack for solving puzzles. Why buy a jigsaw puzzle when you can work on figuring out real cases?

      I took the T from Southie, stepped onto the Orange Line platform, and transferred to the Blue Line. Boston has a transient feeling, old buildings intermingled with new skyscrapers and newer signs. I can appreciate new architecture, but always gravitate toward the classics. That’s probably why I yearned, that night, for cuisine that’s been around for thousands of years. A reliable bowl of Chinese noodles always hits the spot.

      The sun was just going down and the lights were just coming up as I passed under the green-shingled paifang—the traditional Chinese arch that marks the entrance to Chinatown—at the intersection of Beach and Surface. Red and pink neon Chinese characters flashed along Washington Avenue, and made me feel I was actually on the other side of the globe. But only for a moment; a famous white politician with his female, Indian assistant jollying up to a group of black businessmen—probably potential donors—broke the illusion before it could take hold. This place was more melting pot than noodle bowl.

      The Romanesque Hayden Building and nearby luxury housing skyscrapers slapped me with their urban American-ness. I realized that Big China probably had the same eyesores. God knows they have their share of KFCs and golden arches in Asia, and I’ve read that China employs about half of the world’s cranes in efforts to build, build, build. The rest of humanity is as fatally attracted to fast, disposal “new culture” as we are stateside. To hell with tradition; society seems to move ever forward in the march for progress.

      I found my way to No. 1 Noodle House, a little joint in an alley off Washington, famous for the noodle man in the window. You’d miss the place if you weren’t looking for it. I’d been to this hole-in-the-wall a dozen times before, and, as usual, the Chinese noodle master was on duty in the front display window, pounding his dough and stretching out noodles like snowy taffy. Yellowed newspaper and magazine reviews framed the edges of the window. Best noodles in Boston, Best duck in the birthplace of democracy, On every Boston bucket list, Top 10 Places to Eat in Boston’s Chinatown.

      The noodle man saw me and smiled, inviting me to enjoy his talent. Then, his eyes darted to my left, just behind me. Before I could turn to look, something hard and cold jabbed into my back. I stiffened, then lowered my body ever-so-slightly and swiveled to the right. Using my elbow, I threw the man off balance. I brought my leg back to knock his legs out from under him. Elbows out, edge of my palms poised like chopping weapons from No. 1 Noodle House’s kitchen, I stood over my felled attacker.

      When I saw who it was, I huffed out my annoyance, dusted off my pressed shirt, and tsked over the scuff marks on my polished wingtips. “Damn it, Salvador! You know better than to sneak up on me like that! I could have hurt you.”

      Salvador was a big man, 250 pounds of sociable ex-heroin addict. The only reason he wasn’t in jail was because our mutual friend, Mark, convinced Salvador to promise the judge he would go to anger management and rehab. Salvador was on a gorilla-sized dosage of Valium, which he’d told me helped keep his anger in check more effectively than his shrink, a bizarre slice of cheesecake who drove him crazy because of her racy attire.

      Salvador made his way clumsily to his feet. “I’ve got a bum knee, Clive. You should be more careful.”

      “You should be more careful,” I said. “Go around poking people like that and you’ll land yourself back in the slammer.”

      Salvador put his hands on his lower back, slipping his fingers through the elastic band of his sweat pants. “I just wanted to say hello.”

      I softened my tone. “Well, then, hello.” Salvador was actually a decent guy and would probably have turned out fine if he’d had just one good break somewhere along the line. “How you doing?”

      “Still breathing.”

      I cracked a smile. “That’s a pretty low bar.”

      “Yeah, but it don’t leave much room for disappointment.”

      I knew what he meant. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

      Salvador pointed to the noodle man in the window. “I’m hungry. That a crime?”

      “No crime. You still seeing Mark?” Mark was more than just a mutual friend. The former Boston cop I shared information with during my OIG days couldn’t rest after retirement any more than I could. He was now Salvador’s parole officer.

      “That asshole? He keeps telling me I got to piss for