Pearls of Asia: A Love Story (10 page)

Mac fought the urge to tell Reyna he already had that information. Plus he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’m sort of out of my comfort zone here.”

“Honey, you have no idea what you’re missing,” she demurred. “Men who start dating TS’s rarely go back to GG’s. Just ask my boyfriend.”

“Are we talking about women or movie ratings?”

“I love first-timers,” declared Reyna, speaking louder so those around her could hear. “Now pay attention because we’re going to have a quiz later. A ‘TS’ means someone who is a transsexual. ‘GG’ stands for ‘genetic girl,’ also known as one of those nasty bitches you straight guys chase around the Marina.”

“Okay, Reyna, you hooked me. What is so special about dating a TS?”

“I’d love to show you,” she said, peering over his shoulder, “but there’s a line to the bathroom.”

A bar manager called for Reyna’s attention. “Well Mr. Whoever You Are, nothing would make me happier than to climb onto your lap and chat some more with you, but I need to get ready for the Blowout Show. I do want to tell you one last thing that I like to say to all of my customers; a GG is good, a TS is better, but a PG is the best!’”

“Now I’m confused. What is a ‘PG?’”

“A PG is a Pearl Girl. You see, there are a lot of TS’s in San Francisco, but just like the movies, only the best girls ever get a PG rating.”

Mac shook his head in mock confusion. “How about a ‘TMFA?’” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“Too Many Fucking Acronyms.”

NO STRANGER TO A
microphone, Reyna stepped onto the stage. “Okay people,” she announced, “Everyone should order another round and get ready for the Blowout Show. It’s time to fill up those nooks and crannies, and remember to tip the cooks and trannies.”

For the next fifteen minutes, three girls stepped onstage and entertained the audience with a feast of sky-high heels, almost-there outfits, and provocative dance moves. At the end of each number, tables of customers feeling buzzed and brave would shout out the names of their sexy servers: Diamond, Nadia, and Ashley.

Reyna stood on the middle of the runway and spotlighted diners who were celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, and for tonight at least, divorces. She asked tourists where they were from, then followed up by saying, “Thank you for coming to San Francisco, where men are men, and so are the women.”

Reyna singled out the waitresses, each of whom stood on stage in the slinkiest of attire. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure to introduce to you the very special ‘Pearls of Asia.’”

She led off with Diamond, who had more curves than Lombard Street. “You see before you this alluring and irresistible young lady. Her name is Diamond, because she shines brighter than anyone else. Most of you must be wondering ‘is she or isn’t she?’ Well, let me assure you, she is not a vegetarian.” The room erupted in laughter.

Next up was Nadia, a skinny brunette who had the best legs of the bunch. “A lot of you wonder what we do when we’re not trying to seduce you. Well, this very special lady is a software engineer by day and a sexy vixen by night. Her specialty is turning your software… into hardware. For a small consultation fee, of course.” The revelers whistled and screamed.

Last was Ashley, the newbie who danced the night before. “This statuesque blonde just turned twenty one, and she’s new to our horny harem. We like to call her ‘gifted,’ if you know what I mean. Her dancing is amazing, but you know what’s even more amazing? Her Jimmy Choos are a size twelve.” The crowd went nuts, and Ashley received the loudest applause of the night.

Reyna had one more announcement to make. “Ladies and Gentlemen, not only does
Pearls of Asia
offer a feast for your eyes and well as your tummies, there is also a dance club downstairs, where the room gets hot, the women get hotter, and the drinks are as stiff as a wedding night prick.”

The lights came back up, but Mac had seen enough. It had been a very long day.

As he headed out a side door that lead onto Howard Street, he saw Nadia and Ashley outside sharing a cigarette. “Have a good night, ladies,” he said as he strolled toward Eighth Street.

“I would if you’d take me home with you,” suggested Ashley.

Mac turned and smiled. The ladies from
Pearls of Asia
must have been on their school’s varsity flirt team. And they weren’t shy about speaking in Tagalog around him.
“Dyos ko day hihimudin ko ang buong katawan nyan.
(I’ll lick his whole body.) “
At ang puwit… winner!
” (Now that’s what I call a great ass!)

“You like the suit?” Mac asked, clueless.

“The suit looks good on you, babe,” said Nadia, taking a long drag from the cigarette, “but I’d rather see you naked and hand-cuffed to my bed. If I didn’t have to do a web cam show tonight, I’d put a leash on you and put you in the back seat of my car.”

“Of course you would.”

Ashley and Nadia waved as Mac drove south on Howard Street toward Ninth. It was a very cute scene, two attractive women, one a tall blonde and the other a skinny brunette, running into the street to say goodnight.

A tall blonde. A skinny brunette.

“No way.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Saturday, September 13, 2008 - 7:30 am

“Michelle Osher’s body was discovered by the couple’s live-in maid, Maria Madrigal. An anonymous tipster has informed the Examiner that, according to immigration records, Miss Madrigal entered the United States from Mexico seven years ago on a work visa. U.S. law requires her to annually renew her visa, but she failed to do so. Efforts to reach Ms. Madrigal have been unsuccessful, and she is rumored to have left the country.”

The San Francisco Examiner

“T
HEY’LL CRUCIFY THE
guy,” deplored Mac. His feet propped on his desk, Mac was speculating with Mayes on the media’s reaction upon learning the true identity of Paul Osher’s alleged mistress. “Whether he killed his wife or not, there’ll be nothing left of him but a few scraps of decomposed arrogance.”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” said Mayes, already on his third cup of coffee. “It’s not like the world hasn’t seen this kind of relationship before. Ever hear of a play called ‘M. Butterfly?’”

Mac picked up a Rubik’s Cube on his desk and tried to solve it for the millionth time in his life. He had yet to be successful. “Who hasn’t, Mr. Magna Cum Laude. Didn’t the 49ers use that play to score the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl?”

“At least those guys are scoring instead of living at home with their mother,” quipped Mayes. “M. Butterfly is a Broadway play, inspired by the opera ‘Madame Butterfly’ by Giaccomo Puccini in 1904. The modern update is based on a true story, and the main character, a French diplomat, falls in love with a beautiful Chinese opera singer who is a man masquerading as a woman. At first he doesn’t know it, and then it doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t care, and he’s happy with her forever after. It’s a wonderful love story. You should see it if you ever get the chance. I think you’d like it, and you might even learn something.”

Mac was intelligent, but rare was the opportunity when he could teach his cerebral partner a thing or two. “Speaking of learning something, smart guy, I’ve been doing some homework this morning. Do you know why they call the place where Sheyla Samonte works
Pearls of Asia
?”

“Not a clue,” replied Mayes, relishing the moment. “Do tell.”

Mac put down the Rubik’s Cube, which looked more unsolved than when he had picked it up. “You see, the girls who work there are like pearls. Very early in their lives they have the sense they’re not who they should be. It’s like they’re trapped in a shell. Over the course of time they get braver and braver, and the shell starts to crack open. Then one day the shell opens up, exposing a pearl. Then the real self comes out and the pearl gets polished to a beautiful radiance. Since most of the girls who work there are Asian, they call the place
Pearls of Asia
.”

Mayes was impressed with his partner’s dissertation. It was the first time in months he’d seen that twinkle in Mac’s eyes, a spark that disappeared along with his best friend and his wedding ring.

“Okay Mac, that’s very interesting. Now here’s a question for you. Is someone born transgender, or do they become transgender?”

Mac’s voice pitched to another level, and his hands became as animated as a puppeteer’s. “I’ll take a stab at it, partner, no pun intended. I think they’re born that way, just like you were born to read books and I was born to chase bad guys. In fact, my mom and I were talking about this yesterday, and she pointed out how much courage it takes for someone to transition from one sex to the other. You put everything at risk: your job, your family, and your friends. It’s more than just being gay and coming out of the closet. You have to expose yourself everyday, to everybody, while you evolve from A to B. It takes courage for you and me to put our lives on the line every day, but imagine the guts it takes to say to the world, ‘You all may not be comfortable with what I’m doing here, but I have to do this.’”

“Well Oprah, you’ve convinced me. By the way, did San Jose State offer a class in Gender Studies? They did over at Cal, and I got an ‘A.’ Now shut up and grab your coat. In ten minutes, Longley expects us to be in Chief Stone’s office for a briefing.”

NINE AND A HALF
minutes later, the detectives found Chief of Police David Stone sitting behind a desk more vast than an aircraft carrier. His chair was placed beneath a large portrait of Thomas Cahill, not only because his name was on the building, but also because Stone and Cahill shared an affinity for strong Irish whisky. And even stronger Irish women.

“Where do we stand on the Michelle Osher case?” barked Stone. “The media’s farther up my ass than a botched colonoscopy. Please tell me after forty-eight hours you’re closing in on a suspect.”

Mayes, who didn’t enjoy as close a relationship with Stone as his partner, decided to lead off. “Sir, the medical examiner’s report says that based on the depth of the wound, the murder weapon was a Balisong switchblade. They’re handmade in the Philippines and illegal to carry in California. So far we haven’t been able to locate it. The report also said the angle of the wound suggests the killer was left-handed and at least six feet tall.”

“Great. So far you’ve described my gardener,” growled Stone. “What else?”

It was Mac’s turn to step up to the plate. “We’ve checked the financial and phone records of both Paul and Michelle Osher. Other than spending money faster than my soon-to-be ex-wife, Michelle Osher’s records are fine. Paul Osher is another story. His spending patterns and phone calls are consistent with someone having an extramarital affair. He denies it, of course, but we believe we’ve identified a…um…woman…who could be his mistress.”

Stone’s face turned redder than a poison ivy rash. “I was afraid of this. Paul Osher has always had a hard time keeping it in his pants. Who is she, and have you been in contact with this ‘maybe mistress’ yet?”

Mac squirmed in his seat, knowing the next words out of his mouth might set off Stone’s famous temper. “Sir, when we interviewed Paul Osher, he claimed he had never been unfaithful to his wife. However, the woman he appears to be involved with is named Sheyla Samonte. She works as a waitress, yet somehow she manages to afford a late-model Mercedes and live in an expensive luxury apartment in South Beach. We haven’t interviewed her yet, but we know where she works.”