The Color of Jadeite. Eric D. Goodman
mean it! We’re just having a friendly chat. Right, gentlemen?”
I feigned a search of my blazer pockets, waiting for Salvador to climb the treacherous stairs. When I heard the bell on the door tingle, I said to Gunmetal Mouth, “I seem to have left my appointment book at home. Here’s my card. Have your boss call my secretary.” As if I could afford one.
Gunmetal Mouth stepped forward and his two men came slowly around, surrounding me. I felt like a dog in a crate, but tried not to let on that I was the least bit worried. Yoga and meditation have helped me with that. I kept my stone face as solid as this guy’s implants appeared to be.
Gunmetal Mouth said, “You have honor of being dinner guest. Best cuisine in Chinatown.”
“Doesn’t every chow hall in Chinatown claim that?” I smarted back. “Besides, I just ate.” I pointed at my noodles, strewn all over the ancient Chinese carpet.
The three men maneuvered around me like the rollers of a conveyer belt, and I couldn’t help but turn to walk along with them, flanked from behind and both sides.
“You won’t be disappointed,” Gunmetal Mouth assured me.
I was relieved to see Salvador was nowhere around as the goons escorted me outside and shoved me into the back of a black sedan, cozy between two of the Chinese behemoths. Gunmetal Mouth sat in front, next to the driver. He spit out some Chinese and the driver answered. As the goons beside me tittered excitedly to one another, spittle hitting my face, I wondered how I wound up in this situation. I normally didn’t let myself fall into predicaments like this one. And as my mind drifted momentarily to her, I realized that I’d become distracted.
I know, I know: men like to blame women for their sins and missteps more often than they should. The fault was my own. But I couldn’t help but think that allowing my mind to hover around her vision was why I lost my focus.
I wiped the fish-scented spittle from my face after the men stopped their heated conversation. The sedan sped off with me stuck in its center like someone’s fortune waiting to be discovered.
3
Mysterious Things of Beauty
It was dark behind the tinted windows of the sedan, but it got even darker when the goons strapped a blindfold around my head. I knew better than to put up a fight and instead relaxed, allowing my body to memorize the turns so I could replicate the route later if needed. It’s a habit.
The trip was short, maybe five or six minutes. I was blind as a bat, so my new dinner dates escorted me not-so-gently out of the sedan, through the revolving door of what must have been a Chinatown office building, and into an elevator—a big freight elevator by the sound of the old creaky gate. Padded, I noted as I leaned against a wall, meaning it wouldn’t be easy to knock a thug’s head against it with any effect. As we lifted slowly (this must have been one of the older office buildings), I breathed deeply, remaining relaxed but alert. We got off the elevator, and they led me into a room that stunk like a cheap buffet.
A new gentleman’s voice sputtered something in Chinese, and the blindfold was removed. Flanking my back and two sides were my three traveling companions. In front of me, the usual suspects: General Tso’s chicken, sweet and sour pork, sesame chicken, lo mein, fried wontons, egg drop soup, and the likes (or dislikes, as in my case).
At the far end of the round table sat a thin man dressed in what looked like a custom-fit suit that probably didn’t come from Filene’s Basement or even Nordstrom. He stood from his chair and extended his arms, as though showcasing the food between us.
“Welcome, Mr. Allan,” the thin man said.
I took a seat across from him. “Friends call me Clive. But you can, too.”
He smirked, said something in Chinese, and our three mutual friends joined us at the table. This Chinese kingpin was as thin as bamboo, unlike his three stooges. He hid behind large Ray-Bans, even though the room was barely lit, and the windows were shaded as to not reveal our location. His black hair was slicked back and salted with a touch of gray.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Definitely not for this. “I was enjoying some handmade noodles when your hoods took me for a ride.”
“I think you’re hungry for more than noodles, Mr. Allan. And I have what you crave.”
“I seriously doubt that.” The only thing I was hungry for was the woman I’d spotted in the noodle joint. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t pitch it. Dr. Charlie Wang. I’m a businessman with interests here in America … as well as in my homeland.”
“And what, exactly, interests you, Charlie?”
“Mysterious things of beauty, same as you.”
“Why all the drama? You could’ve just asked me to tea if you wanted to discuss paintings or porcelain.”
He put his head back and laughed. “Please, help yourself. You can’t go wrong with the chicken.”
I eyed the food, suddenly ravenous. I spooned out a healthy portion of broccoli, white rice on the side, and forked some into my mouth. “Let’s cut to the chase, Charlie.” I talked with my mouth full to annoy him. “Why am I here? And don’t tell me it’s to talk art.”
“I know all about you, Clive Allan. You have a reputation for digging things up that are lost.” Charlie poured himself some green tea from a cast-iron pot. “You haven’t tried the chicken.”
“If you knew all about me,” I said, stuffing a clump of rice in my mouth, “you’d know I’m a vegetarian.”
“So sorry.” He snapped his finger and a timid waitress shuffled in. He barked at her and she swiftly removed the meat dishes. His voice became gentle again as he turned back to me. “There is something I need you to dig up in Beijing.”
“In Beijing?” I gulped some ice water. “There’re plenty of private eyes in China. Get one of them and you won’t have to pay airfare, which probably costs a fortune. What is it these days, a couple grand?”
“A lot more when you fly by private jet.” Charlie forced a smile. “But money is not an object. The object is an artifact of great importance.”
“Artifact?” I poured myself a cup of green tea from the cast-iron pot. “What kind of fossil are you looking for?” I picked a tea leaf from my tongue. “I’m a PI, not an archeologist.”
“Try it,” Charlie said, examining my face.
“What, archeology?”
“The tea leaves. The best quality green tea has leaves so delicate and delicious that you can eat them like a luscious salad.”
With a scowl, I put the tea leaf back in my mouth and chewed. It had a slightly sweet taste. “Not bad.”
“You see, Clive, sometimes it pays to try new things.”
“What is it, exactly, that you want me to dig up?”
“It’s a priceless Imperial artifact from the Ming dynasty.”
The assignment, like the tea leaves, had a new and unfamiliar—but by no means unpleasant—flavor. The lingering taste left me wanting a little more. “You think it’s worth sending me all the way to China?”
Charlie smiled. “Certainly.”
I mused over my catalog of handy quotes. Why try to come off as wise myself when I can use the words of much wiser men? This time, I decided on Dostoyevsky. “Taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.”
“I seek neither crime nor punishment here,” Charlie volleyed. “Only to unbury an item of historical significance.”
The