The Color of Jadeite. Eric D. Goodman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 him, but then he cancels. I haven’t seen him in weeks. I know he’s just setting me up. You know? He’s going to ambush me. Make me piss after months of making me think he never follows through with it.”

      I frowned at him. “Would that be bad, if he surprised you with a test?”

      “Nah, I’m clean. My only vice is the legal stuff.” He rubbed his belly. “Food.”

      I figured he was telling the truth. If he’d been on heroin, he’d have been a helluva lot skinnier.

      Salvador shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid. Mark’s Mark. You know?”

      I nodded. We stared into the No. 1 Noodle House window where the noodle master was stretching, pulling, slamming dough on the wooden cutting board.

      “That guy’s like the Zen master of noodles,” Salvador laughed. “His noodles are crack.” Salvador’s face dropped, like he’d misspoken. “Not that I like crack or anything.”

      I smiled and looked beyond Salvador’s grungy sweats to his dirty, once-white sneakers. It’s a funny thing, the line between the law and the outlaws. That’s interested me ever since the day I became an investigator and well into my days as a private detective. I’ve known plenty of bad cops—and enough good ex-cons—that I no longer think a person’s born good or evil. Just look at one of my favorite shows, The Wire. Some of the cons had a stronger code of ethics and discipline than some of the cops. The distinction is how equipped you are to resist temptation. My method for staying out of trouble has always been keeping to myself. My policy: don’t fraternize with criminals or parolees.

      Salvador motioned his chin toward the door. “You going in?”

      I looked up from his dangling shoelace and sighed. “Yeah, come on.” So much for policies.

      2

      Of All the Noodle Joints

      Salvador and I entered the dark vestibule, our vision struggling to adjust as we stopped to descend the steepest staircase in Chinatown. “These steps must be made for bound feet,” I said. Salvador grunted, like he didn’t understand what I meant and didn’t notice the little shoes on the women waiting tables below.

      The green light from the scummy aquarium, parked right beside the entrance, was the only thing illuminating our way.

      “What kind of fish is that?” Salvador asked, banging on the side of the aquarium, the fish darting away from him—like I wanted to.

      “Poisonous,” I said.

      “No, really? You shitting me?” He looked surprised. I shook my head and faced the stairs before us.

      I put my right foot on the first step and descended, sort of sideways, wishing I’d remembered my manners and let Salvador go first. One stumble from him and I’d be crushed like a handful of fried soup noodles. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, the waitress nodded at me as she passed with two bowls, dropped them off at one of the occupied tables, and then darted back to the menu stash beside us. Before she could greet us or ask us to follow, a shrill voice erupted from the dining room.

      “Oh, my God! Look who it is!” I knew who that screech came from before my eyes confirmed her. It was Mackenzie Hines, the divorce attorney who sometimes hires me to get the skinny on her clients and their soon-to-be exes. She waved to me, sitting at a table with Harriet Huntsman, a woman twice Mackenzie’s age who owned a chain of yoga studios, among other things. Chatty Mac and the self-proclaimed yoga guru had had an on-again, off-again love affair for years. Last I’d heard, Mackenzie had dropped Harriet like a hot dumpling. Apparently, she was more like a sticky bao bun.

      Mackenzie jumped from her seat and came to me. She called across the restaurant to Harriet as though it was her living room. “It’s Clive and …”

      Harriet gave me a feeble smile, not bothering to stand.

      “Salvador,” Salvador said.

      “Salvador, right!” Mackenzie shook his hand and whispered, “Have we met?”

      “Never had the pleasure,” Salvador said, smiling stupidly as though he might have a chance with her. Mackenzie has that effect on some men. I find her short, curvy figure too … familiar. If she was in one of her man phases, maybe I’d let her charms have their way with me. But I’ve become a pro at resisting temptation, mostly by not allowing myself to be around it. Aside from our business meetings and my gumshoe work for her, I’ve seldom had much more than a cup of coffee or a salad with her.

      Seeing her with Harriet Huntsman brought out my protective instinct. The waitress looked at Salvador as I pulled Mackenzie aside. “What are you doing with Harriet Huntsman? Don’t you remember how she almost killed you in Isla Mujeres?”

      “That wasn’t her,” Mackenzie hissed. “It was her psycho ex.”

      “I thought you were going to date Mark,” I said. Yes, the same Mark—Salvador’s parole officer—was with us in Mexico a few years back. He and Mackenzie had a brief fling when she was going guy, but when the fling was over she flung him off—and men in general—and I could never find out why. Now the “why” was having dinner with her.

      I СКАЧАТЬ