Last Ditch (25 page)

On
my right,
next to the elevator, two pair of rubber boots rested on a bamboo mat.
One pair
small, almost childlike. The other pair big enough for me. It was like
I'd figured;
old Gordo lived with his mama.

She
was down at
the far end on the right, on her knees, digging. I walked down the path
and
around the gazebo until I was about eight feet from her and stopped.
Her hands
said she was about seventy, her hair gone silver beneath a Mariners
baseball
cap. She wore blue jeans and a gray Husky sweatshirt. She used her
thumbs to
separate bulbs. I stood quietly as she wiped the last of the dirt from
the
bulbs in her hand and then got to her feet. She used the wrist of her
empty
hand to wipe the hair from her face and then took me in from head to
toe with a
level gaze.

"You
favor
your father," she said.

"So
I'm
told."

She
was still
beautiful. Like the pictures I remembered from the newspaper. Her
almond-shaped
eyes were clear and her skin nearly flawless. Her mouth was small and
tight,
like the bud of a miniature rose. Only her hands and the lines around
her eyes
suggested age.

She
motioned
for me to follow as she moved down the path to the right, toward a
brown basket
which rested on the flagstones down by the south edge of the roof. We
walked
side by side. She moved with the lithe grace of a young girl.

"I
presume
you've seen the papers," I began.

"I
haven't
read a newspaper or watched the news in nearly ten years," she said.
"Not
since I retired."

I
told her the
story. The strange saga of Peerless Price. Five hundred words or less.
She
never even blinked.

"You
can
imagine what they're saying about my father."

She
stopped
walking and looked up at me.

"He
wouldn't mind,'' she said flatly. "You're sure?" I asked. "I'm
certain," she said without hesitation. She began walking again. As I
hustled to catch up, I had the feeling she was right. "I mind," I
said.

She
stooped low
over the basket and dropped the handful of bulbs in with several dozen
others.
I stood still and listened as the wind rattled the dry bamboo. In the
distance,
a car alarm began to chirp like an urban cricket She straightened back
up,
dusting her hands together.

"Is
that
what you were doing down at my warehouse? Protecting your father's
honor?"

"I
thought
you didn't read the paper."

"Gordon
told me of your unfortunate experience. Is it? Is that what you were
doing?"

"Something
like that," I hedged. "I was looking for something that might have
pushed my father into killing Peerless Price."

She
looked
mildly amused.

"At
my
warehouse?" she scoffed.

"Fourteen
dead people make an excellent motive for murder."

She
compressed
her lips into something thin enough to pass for a scar. "And you think
your father was, in some way, connected to that tragedy?" She cocked
her
head. "You've confused me, Leo. Just a moment ago, you said your
intention
was to protect his honor."

I
changed the
subject. "They say that you and my father were ..." I searched for a
phrase but came up short.

"Were
what?" she prodded.

"Lovers,"
I said.

Her
eyes took
me in all over again.

"And
if I
were to say to you, yes, that is true . . . what then? Would you not
then find
it necessary to defend your mother's honor?"

"My
mother's face isn't all over the front page."

"You
should be careful what you ask old women. The older we get, the more
likely we
become to tell you the truth."

"The
truth
is what I came for."

She
thought it
over, looked at me as if to say I'd been warned, and said, "Then . . .
yes, since you insist the truth is what you shall have. It's true. Your
father
and I were business associates and lovers for many years."

"Did
my
mother know?"

"Yes,"
she said.

As
I sat there
rolling it around in my head, she made a face and continued.

"In
those
days, the world of business was not open to little China girls. In
order to do
business, I had to find a . . ."

Now
it was her
turn to search for a word.

"A
patron," I said.

"Yes.
A
good word. A patron. Your father was my patron. Your father had what
they call
today clout. He opened a great many doors for me, and ... I would like
to think
. . . was amply rewarded for his efforts on my behalf."

I
swiveled my
head around.

"Looks
like you made out pretty well too."

Her
eyes grew
darker and her voice took on an edge. "This may be difficult for you,
but
what I have is the result of my efforts and no one else's. As I said,
your
father opened doors. It was I who walked in."

I
switched
gears again.

"People
say it was your company that was bringing those people who died into
the
country." She made a resigned face but didn't speak. "Was it?"

"And
if it
were? What then? Would it be so terrible to assist others in the quest
for a
better life? When I do it here, they call it 'giving back to the
community.' A
public service. They give me plaques." Her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps
it's just that bothersome feeling that we Asians don't value life as do
you
Occidentals. What with there being so many of us and all."

"Now
I
know where Gordon learned the trick."

"What
trick would that be?"

"Throwing
the race card whenever you get pushed. Just sort of segueing into
bigotry at
random."

"Perhaps
you are on the wrong side of the issue to be making judgments such as
that."

"What
side
of the issue was that family in the container on?"

"The
inside," she said.

She
adjusted
the cap on her head and looked up at me.

"Do
you
honestly think those people were unaware of the risk they were taking?"

"They
probably didn't plan on dying."

"Neither
life nor business is without inherent risks."

"You
seem
to have played your cards right," I said.

"Once
again, my success seems to surprise you," she eluded. "You're not one
of those who believe business acumen is the sole province of the white
Anglo-Saxon male, are you?"

"I
didn't
mean it that way," I said quickly.

"One
of
your father's many attributes was that he never underestimated anyone.
A habit,
which as I am sure you understand, while not necessarily more accurate
than its
counterpart, is necessarily more successful."

I
made a mental
note not to make that mistake with Judy Chen and then shifted gears
again.

"I
seem to
have made your son Gordon rather nervous."

She
didn't
flinch.

"Why
do
you say that?" she asked.

"I
just
stopped in to ask him a few questions. He threatens me with the cops,
throws me
out of his office and then he makes a beeline over here to talk to you."

"And
thus,
quite obviously, underestimated you," she said, with a wan smile.

"That
remains to be seen," I said.

"Gordon
is
very protective of me."

"Are
you
sure that's all he's protecting?"

She
motioned me
over toward an ornately carved stone bench along the west edge of the
roof. The
pinwheel roof of the Kingdome lounged among a sea of cranes. To the
south, a
dozen yellow construction cranes encircled the hole in the ground that
was to
be the new retractable-roofed baseball park. To the north, a forest of
bright
orange loading cranes stood ready to pluck at the container ships.

"I'll
tell
you a little story," she said. "Then perhaps you will understand why
Gordon is at times a bit over-zealous in his attempts to protect me
from the
world."

She
motioned
for me to sit, pulled the cap from her head and shook her thick hair
out. She
used both hands to pull the hair back away from her face and then
settled the
cap back onto her head to keep it there. She pointed toward the south.
Toward
Pier Eighteen. "I came here on a boat from British Hong Kong in
nineteen
fifty. I was twenty years old. Unlike many others, I was not indigent I
was
sent to work in my uncle's import business. My father had smuggled a
great deal
of money to my uncle. My father believed that I was to be taught the
business
as a partner." She shrugged. "My parents were ..."

I
let her go
through her life story, marveling at how different cultures, ten
thousand miles
removed, could so completely share the same set of hopes and dreams. It
took
her another ten minutes to get back to where-she'd started.

"But
my
uncle was an old-fashioned man. Women were to him little more than
animals. He
treated me like a dog and when I objected, he put me out into the
street
without a penny."

Her
eyes
searched inward and then she continued. "By then, I was twenty-five. My
parents had been murdered by the Communists. I was alone. I did what I
had to
do." She seemed to wait for me to say something, so I did.

"What
did
you do?"

"What
else? I found a rich young man and married him."

"Just
like
that?"

She
gave me a
wink. "What else was I to do? Go to work in a laundry?" Her mouth
took on a bitter cast. "He was only twenty ... so eager. His name was
Jimmy Chen. His parents owned frozen fish warehouses. He had a big
trust fund.
I seduced him."

She
turned her
gaze my way and looked at me as if she had new eyes. She waved a hand.
"To
make a long story short, Jimmy Chen was a drunkard and a wife beater. I
divorced him and used my half of the settlement to go into business for
myself.
I knew my uncle's customers. They knew me." Her eyes twinkled.
"Before long, my uncle sorely wished he had made me his partner."

"And
that's when you met my father?"

She
nodded.
"I needed better port facilities. The jobbers were squeezing me out. My
goods would sit around for months sometimes. I couldn't do business
that way.
They said your father was a man who could arrange such things." She
averted her gaze. "Your father was a very impressive man," she said.

As
usual, other
people's stories about my old man gave me the urge to be on another
planet.

"If
you
don't mind me asking, what's all this got to do with your son Gordon
being
overprotective?"

"I
knew
your father then . . . I mean ... we were involved. Gordon and I lived
above
the warehouse on Pier Eighteen." My face must have told her something,
because she stopped her story. "I can see you're surprised. It's true.
Gordon and I lived above the warehouse until he was eighteen. Money was
very tight
in those days. Everything I had was invested in that building. Nothing
was left
over for housing." She sounded almost nostalgic.

She
took a deep
breath. "In the beginning . . . before the divorce Jimmy Chen used to
get
drunk and beat me bloody. On two occasions, I had to be hospitalized."
She
looked up to make sure she had my attention. "Gordon was there in the
room
on those occasions. Once when he tried to help me, he was beaten
unconscious." She paused for effect. "It was an experience which
neither of us has forgotten. So I hope you forgive him for wishing to
protect his
mother."

If
there was a
snappy rejoinder for a moment such as this, it was lost on me, so I
waited
until she went on.

"I'm
sure
you must be every bit as sick to death of hearing about your father as
Gordon
is about hearing about his," she said. "So I am sure then that you,
above all others, will appreciate the fact that I have no intention of
betraying any of your father's confidences to you or to anyone else."
She
folded all of her fingers except one into her palm. "I will tell you
the
following, however. Your father did not kill Peerless Price."

"How
do
you know that?" I said quickly. "Did you kill him?"

"No,"
she said. "I did not. I know it because I know your father. Shooting a
man
in the head was not at all his style. That would be much too direct for
your
father. Your father was a master at insulating himself."

Once
again,
despite my best efforts, she read my face.

"You
doubt
me?"

"I'm
keeping an open mind," I said.

She
brought another
finger out from her hand.

"Secondly,
I will assure you that your father was not involved with the tragic
incident in
which that family perished."