He’d have to get back to his room, a half-hour ride to the motel. He purchased a tour map at a Jackson Street gift shop, noting the areas around the International District, assessing the ground he’d have to cover in the sixty hours he had left.
After Jack got back to the Courtyard, the concierge sent up a White Pages and a general street map of the city as requested. Plotting out his strategy, Jack knew he’d have to get an early start. It would be a busy Saturday morning and he had a hunch he wanted to follow up on.
But what if his hunch was all wrong? Eddie would have to find work but if he was an American-born Chinese, ABC, or jook sing, then he wouldn’t be limited to Chinese-language-only businesses.
Maybe he didn’t need to work and was just hanging out, enjoying his freedom. But where would he hang out?
Jack considered Chinese videotape shops where Eddie might rent kung fu movies, or porno flicks. He wondered if Eddie visited Asian massage parlors. In the morning, Jack knew, he’d have to check the Seattle Chinese directories.
For local traffic and news he powered on the television and caught an update on the Madrona Park shootings: three juvenile gangbangers had robbed and shot up an indoor hydroponic marijuana farm not far from the golf course. Two dead. Two wounded, critically. And the report confirmed that one of the dead had indeed been the son of a city councilman.
The news program followed with a special presentation about new-age pot growers in the Emerald Triangle of the Northwest. He turned off the TV.
He took out the evidence from the 0-Five and spread the array of data along the edge of his bed. Eddie’s juvenile poster and gang information. The little gray.22-caliber slug. There was a photo, and a note listing the serial numbers of the Rado and Movado wristwatches taken from the victims.
The story the Boston Chinese kid caught in the traffic stop had told him echoed in his ears. Was the Seattle connection just pure bullshit?
Jack considered visiting the local Chinese associations, but decided not to blow his cover yet. He didn’t want to warn them off by broadcasting his investigation. Check the streets, Billy had advised; street guys always wind up back on the street.
He felt thirsty and drained one of the little bottles of vodka from the minibar. He opened the White Pages and spread the maps on the carpet. He resisted a second bottle as he drew a big circle around the International District and West Seattle. As he started plotting the businesses and addresses he wondered how much of a Chinaman’s chance his investigation really had.
Hoping for a call from Seattle PD, he fell asleep thinking about red balls and yellow killers.
Cleansing
The Spa Garden, with its mix of fake and real greenery, its soft wood tones, and its cheery check-in counter, had seemed more like a yoga or fitness club than the glorified massage parlor that it was.
Mona had estimated that the spa was roughly a half-mile walk from her basement place on James Street, a trek that brought her to Union Place just under the freeway. She considered the walk as exercise, the air clean and revitalizing, a way to energize her legs and lungs. The walk would be followed by a two-hour session at the spa that consisted of thirty minutes reflexology, thirty minutes deep massage (neck and shoulders), ten minutes hot whirlpool, thirty minutes sauna/steamroom/shower, capped off with a healthy chirashi salad and Relaxation green tea from the on-site commissary.
The spa was the one indulgence she allowed herself, a ritual she brought from New York, the need to cleanse her body and also dissolve the toxins in her spiritual heart.
She kept a fresh change of clothes, and $666 in cash in her locker.
She’d jog the half mile back, then visit Chinatown to replenish her provisions.
The Spa Garden, as Mona quickly discovered, was Taiwanese-owned and operated. The facility provided a range of services, from facials to manicures and pedicures, from massage to waxing, and could readily manage eight clients during peak times. There were two large steam-room units and three hot tubs, and the manager, a fortyish Taiwanese woman, spoke enough Cantonese in response to Mona’s clipped Mandarin that they’d been able to set up a membership plan.
Mona planned to dedicate two hours a week to the spa but was unsure about how many months she’d use the services. She signed up for a monthly membership instead of an annual plan. Cash, of course.
Many of the clients were Caucasian women, which conveniently allowed Mona to keep her distance, playing up her inability to speak English. “No speakee Englee,” she’d learned to say.
The Garden also featured a backyard sundeck that opened onto a view of a waterfront park. The deck included three round tables under large red beach umbrellas, a vantage point that looked out over Elliott Bay.
Water Becomes Water
She caressed the charm even as the masseuse’s strong fingers worked the soles of her feet, pressed into her neck and back, even as hot water and steam drew her blood to the skin’s surface. The heated red jade bangle seemed to glow in the hot mist.
It was the deep massage that cleared the tension and the bad chi from her muscles, that broke up the knots across her shoulders, but it was the steam that drove the demons from her soul.
Water over water, whispered the charm. Have faith, journey forth through sacrifice.
As if the steam, the bubbling whirlpool, could purge the poisons inside her, poisons more spiritual than physical, as if heat could melt away her painful memories.
The spa was a form of exorcism and Buddhist salvation, the steamy rise of mercy and goodness from the depths inside her. Forgiveness releasing the anger, hate, bitterness. Like a devotee she rubbed steam off the hot charm of her mother’s soul, dangling from her bracelet, dripping its secrets.
Water over Mountain. She took a shallow swallow of steam.
Beware troubles from the Northeast.
It came as no surprise, but she hadn’t expected the warning so soon.
Time, she believed, was still on her side.
Prayers
As Mona became more familiar with King Street, Wong Daai gaai, on her trips through Chinatown, she discovered a Buddhist temple, a humble storefront location that was unlike the grand temples and monasteries she’d visited in Hong Kong but which attracted a faithful following nonetheless.
The Lantern Festival, Yuen Siu, had already passed, but the temple had posted an announcement of ceremonies for the Spring Blessing Festival, and upcoming celebrations of Kwoon Yum’s birthday, the coming of the Goddess of Mercy.
Inside, the monks and sisters wore burgundy-colored robes, led by a sifu, master, who wore a colorful dragon vest over the robe. The big room was hazy from the burning sticks of incense, and crowded, with a chanting drone that filled the air.
At the altar, Mona placed offerings of gladioli and fruits she’d bought in Chinatown, then touched fire to incense, which she stuck into an urn of packed ashes. She got on her knees before the large Buddha figurines and bowed her head into the cushions on the floor, picturing her deceased mother behind closed eyes. She mouthed a series of silent prayers in her mother’s memory.
Afterward, as a further expression of love, she gave a generous donation to the monk sister, who appeared mildly surprised.