Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Read online

  "Join the club, dear," I said. I had hoped that talking through things with Tracy would help sort them out in my own mind. It hadn’t worked.

  After lunch, we hit the Art Museum. The closest I’d ever been to the place was my picnic with Tracy, when we’d first met. On the way, in my car, we found some small musical common ground – David Bowie. We both agreed that he was…ahem… ‘The Bomb.’

  The museum was alive in a way that most artsy places I’d been to were not. There was nothing somber or even especially quiet about it. Everyone seemed respectful, but there was a genuine feeling of fun to the place.

  Even amongst the neo-post-modernistic-alt-impressionist-destructo-metal pieces.

  I stared up at the formless scrap metal and broken glass and attempted to meaningfully ponder it, but I just didn’t get it.

  I felt Tracy looking at me. When I turned, she was grinning conspiratorially.

  "Before you even ask, it doesn’t have to mean anything, y’know. None of this does. That’s the problem with people… they think too much. Just let it all go. Think back to when you were a kid. You can remember that far back, can’t you?"

  "Hey, now," I said.

  She wrapped her arm around my waist and slid in close.

  "When you were little, really little, remember how things looked? How the textures were? The way you just wanted to reach out and touch everything? Go back to that… and look at this again. Look at everything that way. Don’t try to fit it into your preconceived notions, don’t try to give it a meaning or figure it out… just look at it, feel its texture in your mind."

  For all the simplicity of the idea, it worked. The useless piece of shit I’d been staring at became something I wanted to climb. A marvel of angles and lights and shadows.

  The transformation was shocking. I remembered my teacher’s words, "Stop thinking you know so much and see the world like a baby sees it. When you know it all, there’s nothing more to learn, nothing more to see. For a child, the world is open, miraculous."

  I leaned down and kissed Tracy on the forehead.

  "Thank you," I said.

  Even a dinosaur can learn new tricks.

  We spent a good part of the afternoon and early evening wandering the galleries. We spent a long time in the Asian collection, and I explained some of the religious symbolism to Tracy. She seemed genuinely interested, and it kept me from feeling like too much of an idiot.

  The contemporary gallery, as promised, featured a few of Tony Lau’s paintings. I couldn’t tell you what it looked like. I was too fixated on an information placard on the wall.

  I excused myself from Tracy long enough to head outside and make the call.

  Knox answered on the first ring.

  "You find out anything else about Lau Enterprises?" I said.

  "A bit. They’ve been scooping up bargain basement real estate around the bad parts of town, renovating it and selling for extravagant prices. Some stuff they’re keeping. Seems they’re intent on creating a real Chinatown again… why?"

  "You think the Eight Tigers are moving more business into the city?"

  "It’s possible. You find anything out?"

  "Lau Enterprises is sponsoring an exhibit at the art museum."

  "No shit? Of junior’s stuff, I presume."

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Interesting."

  Yeah. Real interesting.

  34

  We went to Tracy’s apartment after the museum.

  She offered to cook. I offered to eat. It was a match made in heaven. Except, of course, for the mutant cat-thing that glared at me the whole time, but I was even getting used to that.

  "Hello again, Tito…" I said, reaching out to pet him. He got up and walked away, staring disdainfully at me over his shriveled, wrinkly shoulder. She turned on MTV and got to work. It just so happened that we were lucky enough to catch the fifteen minutes of actual music videos on MTV.

  She made vegetable and herb samosas with raita and matar paneer. With the spicy Indian food, we drank a dark amber beer. It was, as Tracy said, "The Yum."

  "I was almost going to be a chef," she told me over dinner. "Spent a year in cooking school and everything."

  "What changed your mind?" I said.

  She dipped one of the vegetable dumplings in creamy yogurt sauce and said, "Patience. I don’t have enough. And cooking, real cooking... the gourmet shit… it just gets sort of pointless. You spend so much time preparing some foo-foo dish, just so some schmoe can scarf it down in twenty minutes. Not to get overly crude or anything, but no matter how good the food is, or how long it took to make, it’s going to end up in a toilet somewhere, y’know?"

  "You ever hear of the sand paintings that the Tibetan Buddhist monks do? Some of those mandalas take weeks to make, and when the painting’s all done, they destroy it."

  "What kind of pointless shit is that?"

  "It’s not pointless. It’s a lesson: Nothing lasts forever. All things are fleeting."

  "Right, well, no shit. Why dwell on it? Why not just enjoy things while they last?"

  "That’s exactly the point. For a great chef, the joy is the preparation. For the monks, it is in the creation of the sand painting, not in wondering how long it will last. In China, they use the word Kung-fu to mean a kind of expertise that surpasses surface beauty. Confucius once said, ‘To study and at times practice what one has learned, is that not a pleasure?’"

  Tracy said, "Ah, so."

  "In graphic art, each painting or drawing is better than the one that preceded it; hopefully… this is Kung-fu. We imbue each thing we do with a bit of ourselves, and in all that we do we unfold a bit more, like a flower blossoming."

  Tracy tilted her head and smiled. "So really, nothing is pointless?"

  I drank some beer and said, "Oh, sure. Some things are. Boy bands, reality television, fast food, Ashton Kutcher movies… that sort of thing."

  35

  In the morning, I got dressed and kissed Tracy goodbye as she slept. If all went well, I would stop in to see her at the bar later. I went back to my apartment and changed clothes. The Midwestern autumn was finally in full gear, so I dressed in thick sweatpants, a black cotton t-shirt, a thick grey sweatshirt, and a pair of alpaca socks.

  I went back to Millar Park for my morning practice. I practiced Zhan Zhuang for twenty minutes, in a posture known as the three circle stance. When I was finished, I didn’t need the sweatshirt anymore; my body felt swollen and humming with energy. I began to practice the form.

  Master Cheng Xing and a few of his students were gathering. The students were warming up with some five animal movements; I felt Master Cheng was watching me. When I completed the first section, he came over and said, "Wu Cai is your master?"

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  He nodded curtly and said, "Your technique is not horrible, but like most American shitheads, you are in too much of a hurry."

  I bowed my head slightly.

  "It is not your fault that you were not born Chinese, but if you truly wish to learn this art you will have to try much harder. If Wu was willing to teach you, you must be hard-working… perhaps you can transcend your hereditary disadvantage."

  "Thank you, master," I said.

  "I said perhaps, asshole," With his accent, the last word came out ‘ass-hoe’.

  "Will you help me then, master?" I said.

  He scowled and said, "Impatient! Impertinent! Not to mention ugly… I will teach you when you can knock me on my old wrinkled ass, eh, big-nose. What do you think of that?"

  He zipped up his windbreaker and stomped back to his students.

  I thought about taking him the letter of introduction from the Synergy of Heaven School, but realized that could only get me killed.

  36

  I took Tony Lau’s card from my wallet when I got back to the apartment and called him. The voice that answered wasn’t Tony’s; by the accent, I realized it was Daniel. For most of the conversation, I was talking to myself. He answered only w
hen necessary to ask his own questions or clarify a piece of information.

  I mentioned the upcoming exhibit and asked if Daniel would be accompanying Tony to the show.

  He said he would.

  I said I’d see him there.

  "Indeed," he said, and hung up.

  Clearly, Daniel was my kind of conversationalist. Of course, I’d never heard him fumble anything, or say anything stupid or inappropriate, so I still had that going for me.

  I sat on my couch and wondered. I wondered about the art show at the end of the month. I wondered about whether or not Lau senior was going to make an appearance. I wondered what I’d say to him if he did. I wondered what was in the fridge, but was too tired to get up to find out. With my eyes closed, I wondered what Tracy would be wearing to work tonight, and if I would be able to coax her out of whatever it was once she was off the clock. With that wondrous train of thought in my head, I drifted off into a lovely mid-morning nap.

  37

  That night, Tracy wore thigh-high fishnets, a black and violet leather skirt, and a tight black corset.

  As for the other wonder, well, a gentleman would never say.

  38

  My cell phone rang.

  When I opened my eyes, I realized that I’d been pinned to the bed by a small, sleeping, gargoyle-looking cat. As I fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, Tito woke with a start and bolted, leaving thin, bloody furrows in my chest.

  Thanks, Tito.

  I flipped open the phone and got up to look for something to staunch the bleeding. I listened to the voice on the phone, threw in an occasional ‘uh-huh’, and walked into Tracy’s open living room. She was up by one of the Halloween themed windows, at an easel, painting. She wore only an oversized Morrissey concert t-shirt, and the sight of her legs nearly made me swoon.

  Or maybe it was the blood loss.

  Probably, it was her legs.

  I took a paper towel from the kitchen and used it to dab at my wounds. Then I hung up the phone and kissed her neck.

  "Good morning, sailor," she said.

  "You want to take a ride with me?" I said.

  "Where to?"

  "Police station."

  "Why?"

  "There’s been another murder, but this time they have a suspect in custody."

  "Ooh, do I get to see a for real dead body?"

  "Probably not."

  "Do I get to question the suspect and shine bright lights in his face? You can be good cop and I’ll be bad cop!"

  "Um…no."

  "Well, hell. You’re no fun."

  We got dressed. Tracy in a pair of tight, faded jeans and another oversized concert shirt - this one was The Cure. I threw on some loose cotton pants and a grey t-shirt that I’d tossed in the back seat for just such an eventuality.

  In the dingy waiting room of the police station we sat on green vinyl chairs and waited for Detective Knox. The black and white TV in the corner played an old re-run of Love Connection. Chuck Woolery was doing his infamous two-and-two thing when Knox finally showed up.

  He looked drawn and tired. His normally immaculate appearance was uncharacteristically unruly – hair mussed, face unshaven, eyes red and bleary.

  He nodded to me and said, "Who’s this?"

  I said, "Tracy Sandoval, from the club, the security video, remember?"

  He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, "Right, sorry."

  "So, what’s going on?" I said.

  He led us back through a dimly lit hallway and opened a grey door. Inside, the room wasn’t much bigger than a closet. One wall featured a window looking out into an interrogation room. I’d seen enough movies to know it was one-way glass. Knox said to Tracy, "You can hang tight here. Anybody asks, you’re a potential witness."

  She nodded.

  Knox left the room and gestured for me to follow.

  I did.

  We went next door, to the interrogation room.

  He offered me a seat. I took it. He pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and set it on the table. He got up and walked out. I blew a kiss to the mirror that was not a mirror on the wall.

  A few minutes later, Knox and a few uniformed officers brought in a young Chinese man. He looked familiar. Knox took the seat to my right while the uniforms pushed the suspect into the chair to my left.

  The kid looked scared shitless. His pale, splotchy face was slick with the sick-smelling sweat of the unjust; his wide eyes were bloodshot and darted from me to the detective and back every three of four seconds.

  Knox leaned back in his seat and slipped a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. As he lit it, he said, "Talk."

  The kid immediately stuttered, "I…do...no…speak….English."

  Knox looked to me.

  I asked the kid if he spoke Mandarin. He shook his head.

  I asked if he spoke Cantonese. He hesitated.

  Knox threw a manila folder on the table and spilled its contents. At first, my mind couldn’t translate the images in the photographs into recognizable shapes. The forms were familiar but wrong. Spread open, strewn, dark with blood. At first, that’s all I could see – blood. So much blood.

  "Ask him about her," Knox said. "Ask why he did it."

  In Cantonese, I said, "Why did you kill this girl?"

  The kid shook his head violently, throwing droplets of sweat like a dog. He said, "No, no, no," over and over.

  "DNA evidence at the scene, buddy-boy." Knox said.

  I looked at another photo, one of the girl’s face. It was unrecognizable. The eyes were swollen shut, the nose was smashed. The girl’s teeth had cut through her lips before cracking and splintering under some horrific force. Her hair was saturated with blood, but I saw one strand that had somehow escaped the flow.

  "Do you have an I.D?" I said to Knox.

  "No. This fucker smashed her teeth and cut off her fingertips. We’ve got forensics guys working on her, but they’re not too hopeful."

  "I think I might know who she is," I said.

  He looked over at me and took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Of course you do. Care to share?"

  "I think she was a dancer at The Sapphire Room, in Centreville. Her stage name was Jade. I think she was killed for talking to me."

  Knox thought for a minute and said, "Body was found wrapped in plastic in a ditch in Centreville."

  I looked away from the pictures before they made me sick. My chest was heavy, my mind fuzzy. I felt like I should force myself to look, like I had to shove my nose in yet another life erased because of my fuck-ups, but I couldn’t do it. Just one more weak moment, one more failure.

  To the kid, I said, "Are you Eight Tigers?"

  He slid back in his chair, stood up, and said, "I want my lawyer." Knox told me to translate, but I was stuck staring at the kid’s clothes. I hadn’t paid any attention to them before. Acid washed jeans. Bruce Lee t-shirt. Jean jacket, complete with patches.

  Kangeroo high tops.

  I said, "How’s your friend?"

  The kid froze and stared at me.

  "You know," I said, "your friend, Scarface? How’s his hand? His teeth?"

  Whatever color was left in the kid’s face drained and he repeated his request for a lawyer.

  Knox hit me in the shoulder and said, "Translate."

  I sang a happy composition of my own, a medley of ‘It’s a small world’ and The Police’s "Synchronicity."

  39

  When we couldn’t get anything else from the kid, Knox offered to buy Tracy and me some breakfast at a nearby diner. The waitress looked like Meatloaf after a particularly vicious knife fight, and she sounded like Fran Drescher after gargling with acid, but at least she was rude and mean enough that I didn’t feel bad for making the comparisons.

  Knox ordered ham and eggs, I ordered biscuits and gravy, Tracy got the apple Belgian waffle. Unfortunately, the plates that came to the table looked more or less identical, and didn’t resemble any of the things we’d ordered.

  I s
tarted to protest, but Knox just shook his head.

  "Trust me, it’s better if you just smile and nod and eat whatever they bring you. They got Tums at the counter. Besides, half the force eats here, and we haven’t lost anybody yet."

  "I don’t like you," I said.

  Throughout the "meal", the three of us talked about the case.

  Finding a public defender that spoke Cantonese was going to take a little time and until then, we at least knew where the little shit would be.

  I told Knox that I didn’t think he did it.

  He and Tracy both asked why I would think that, considering all the evidence to the contrary.

  "He’s nothing, a follower. That Scarface kid…he’s the boss of that pathetic little crew, and he seems just tough enough to take on an unarmed woman that’s half his size."

  "And the DNA evidence?"

  "I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the gang took a turn on her, but that’s a whole lot different from bashing her skull in."

  Tracy set her fork of steaming goo down and grimaced.

  "Sorry," I said.

  "So we’re looking for the rest of this gang, and especially the leader," Knox said.

  I nodded.

  "Any ideas?"

  "You’re the detective, detect something," I said.

  "Lately, I’m thinking both of us missed our true callings… "

  "Ah, Johnny boy, there’s plenty of time to be a fry cook after you retire," I said.

  Knox gave me the finger.

  Tracy perked up and said, "Do you have one of those books of suspects? Y’know, like they always do on TV?"

  "A photo lineup? Yeah."

  "Maybe Scarface is in that?" she said.

  Knox shook his head and shoveled some slop into his mouth. He seemed unfazed by all of it. I could not make an attempt to taste the stuff.