The Color of Jadeite. Eric D. Goodman

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      It took me a good five minutes of looking before I admitted defeat. I’d lost her. Resigned, I went back in through the kitchen and found Salvador halfway through his meal.

      “Your noodles are getting cold,” he said.

      “Not just my noodles.”

      Salvador knew better than to ask. Smarter than I’d given him credit for. I half-heartedly began slurping my noodles. Salvador decided to wade back into conversation. “If you ever need any bodyguard work, I got a lot of time on my hands. Idle hands, devil’s workshop.” He laughed.

      But I was barely half-listening. How could I let her get away? I shoved my half-uneaten meal away and stood up. “I’m gonna hit the restroom.” But before I could push my chair in, I felt two hammy hands on my shoulders.

      I tried to throw the stranger off-balance, but he was one step ahead of me. He grabbed my elbow and swirled me around, flipping me like a potato pancake on the grill. I landed on my back against the food-stained floor. I reared back, tucked my knees into my chest and leapt to my feet—but before I could engage with my attacker, Salvador was in the man’s face, punching him in the nose. Two other men stood watching, cracking their knuckles.

      “Got a craving for prison food, Salvador?” I yelled at him. “You can’t violate parole like that! You’ll—” Another pair of hands landed on my shoulders and forced me around.

      I stared the Chinese man down and asked, “What, afraid I wasn’t gonna leave a tip?” He looked at me like he didn’t understand a word of English, then pushed me away so violently I crashed backwards into our table and landed on the floor again, my bowl of noodles falling next to me and splashing the arm of my Armani.

      Salvador had heeded my advice and stood by, looking antsy and ready to lunge, as three Chinese men stood over me. I got up to face them.

      “Ni hao ma,” said the one in the middle, dressed in a silver-gray suit. He must have mistaken my stern look for a not-understanding one, because he then translated, “Hello.”

      “Ni hao ma,” I said back to him without accent. I’d picked up a few niceties the last time I was in China, back in the … well, that’s another story for another time.

      The man in front of me was flanked by two broad men in navy blue suits, one pinstripe and the other soothsayer. The man in the middle breathed heavily, his nose just inches from mine. But it was the flash of his two gunmetal dental implants that caught my attention. Nothing pretty about The People’s dental work, as unappealing as it is dysfunctional. He kept grinding his teeth, his bite obviously uncomfortable. A P-22 and a Glock, respectively, remained cold in the side men’s shoulder holsters.

      “I recommend the noodles,” I said to Gunmetal Mouth.

      “Clive Allan, I assume?” He pushed forward, making me take a step back to avoid an advanced case of halitosis. His two bodyguards—as though the thug needed one—stepped forward with him like satellite appendages.

      I moved my eyes from his steely teeth to his steely gaze. “You know what they say about assuming.”

      He frowned. “Bu yao, I do not. But I know what my boss say. He wants talk at you.”

      I caught a glimpse of the noodle guy slipping into the men’s room. He knew enough to make himself scarce if he wanted to live to knead another noodle.

      “Get lost, Salvador,” I said. The last thing the schmuck needed was to get hauled in for a brawl. “Go on!” I repeated when he didn’t budge. “You’re just in the way.”

      “But, Clive,” he said. I could tell he was just rearing to lash out.

      “I 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 СКАЧАТЬ