I told myself it was better to suffer minor embarrassment from leaving a Toyota with a parking valet than to risk damage to a more expensive car. In any case, the young man who didn't speak much English didn't seem to care what kind of car I drove as he handed me a parking stub.
A number of uniformed employees hovered about and one held the front door of the hotel for us, but Pat knew where he was going. There was no smiling girl to bow us into the elevator like the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo had featured when my father stayed there, but other than that I suspected the service here was first rate.
The room that appeared before us when the door was opened to Pat's knock was more luxurious than I had anticipated, with expensive antique furniture. In fact, it must be a suite because there was no bed in evidence and I doubted that the Beverly Hills Hotel used hide-a-beds.
I gathered that the man who answered the door was not Pat's uncle from the way he bowed to Pat. He led us through a doorway into another room, still with no bed but with a desk and a telephone.
The man who sat at the desk was small and gray, including the suit he wore, and distinguished looking. He rose and hugged Pat and then shook my hand when Pat introduced us.
"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Patterson," he said, formally, in a low, rumbling voice. "I am glad you came. I wanted to personally thank you for helping Pat to get his feet back on the ground."
"I didn't do much," I protested. "Many other people helped as well. And if Pat didn't have the drive to improve his life, nothing any of us could have done would have helped."
"Nevertheless, you and the others in your organization succeeded where I and Pat's parents couldn't."
I saw pain in his eyes and I suspected it was difficult for him to admit this. I said, "Mr. Wong, Pat is a fine young man and you will be proud of him." I hoped it was true.
Mr. Wong led us back into the first room where we sat in overstuffed chairs and his assistant brought us tea, which we sipped in small cups. Then he brought us a plate of fortune cookies.
Mr. Wong smiled and said, "We ordered takeout from a Chinese restaurant and these cookies came with it. Let us see what the fates have in store for us."
He took one of the cookies, broke it open and extracted the fortune. He read, "'You will never lack for money.' That is reassuring. Although I would rather have serenity. Pat, what is your fortune?"
Pat read, "Your journey begins with a single step."
"That is appropriate," Mr. Wong said. "Mr. Patterson?"
I was hoping for a good stock tip, but what I read was, "A crisis is an opportunity blowing on a dangerous wind."
Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then Mr. Wong said, "Perhaps this is a good time to tell you why I really asked you to come here. I wish to speak about Ned Mackay." He paused, took a sip of tea and said, "I believe Pat told you my belief that Mr. Mackay was not a drug dealer, but was killed by some person or persons who also placed cocaine in his rental car."
I nodded.
"I wanted to help you because you helped Pat, so I conducted a small investigation," he continued. "The results have confirmed that my suspicions are true."
I waited for Mr. Wong to say more, but he sipped his tea and looked off into space. "Do you know who killed Ned?" I asked.
"It is probably not relevant who did the actual killing because they were undoubtedly hired by somebody else. But I think they are members of a local gang."
I must have looked surprised, because he said, "Oh, yes, there is a gang in Chinatown, just as there are almost everywhere else. They would do something like that, for money."
"And plant the drugs?"
"Many gang members are drug dealers. The person who hired them must have paid for the drugs."
I looked at Pat. He said, "Uncle knows more about this than I do. I wasn't a gang member."
"He was a good boy," Mr. Wong said.
"Can you give me the names of the people you talked to?" I asked Mr. Wong.
He shook his head. "They will not talk to the police. They will not talk to you, either. And it could be bad for both of us if I gave you their names."
That sounded final. I was preparing my exit words when Mr. Wong spoke again. "I have another piece of information for you. In my inquiries I found an old friend of Mr. Mackay's. Mr. Mackay gave this person a gun some time ago to keep for her own protection. On the night he was murdered, Mr. Mackay came to her house and borrowed the gun. He said he would return it later in the evening."
"Can you tell me who this person is?" I asked.
"She wishes to remain anonymous. She cannot contribute anything beyond what I have just told you."
"Is…this person Chinese?"
Mr. Wong nodded.
"But if Ned wasn't involved in drugs, why did he need a gun?"
"I can't tell you that.”
Perhaps seeing the look of disappointment on my face, he continued, "I want to reassure you that Mr. Mackay was not a drug dealer. This should be comforting to Mr. Mackay's family and friends. I know it is not a completely satisfactory conclusion to his murder, but I suggest that you do not pursue this further."
"And not try to find the murderer?"
"Yes."
Mr. Wong was right about one thing. It wasn't satisfactory. I tried once more. "Do you have any idea who is behind Ned's murder?"
Mr. Wong looked at me for a while and then said, slowly, "A fortune cookie can make danger sound romantic, but it isn't."
Chapter 18 T206 WAGNER
Palos Verdes is Spanish for green trees. The name is ironic because if you look at pictures taken 80 or 100 years ago the hill is completely barren. There are no trees in sight. The land was once used for cattle ranching and more recently for growing grain, vegetables and flowers. Some sheep grazed on the hillsides.
The trees were planted by "settlers" who built homes here starting in the 1920s. Perhaps a case of people improving the environment, not ruining it. Thoughts like these sometimes occurred to me as I ran along the tree-lined streets in the mornings, but this morning they were more concerned with the future of Dionysus.
Would Elma side with Buchanan or my father? Why did Ned want to fool Buchanan into thinking that he was losing a lot of money? Who killed Ned? Why did he need a gun if he wasn't a drug dealer? Who was the mysterious Chinese lady? I was still pondering these questions later as I worked on my baseball card business.
While I was checking eBay auctions other than my own on the Internet I came across the Honus Wagner card again. The bidding for it had reached $350,000. That sounded low if the card was in good condition. I rechecked the pictures of the front and the back of the card. I looked at some of the favorable comments other bidders had made about the seller. His credentials were impeccable and he stated the card was in near-mint condition. He was probably selling it for somebody else, but his reputation was still on the line.
Unless there were some sandbaggers waiting to pounce, I suspected that the card could be stolen for under $400,000. On impulse, I found James Buchanan's business card and called his office in San Francisco.
A man answered the phone. I gave my name and said I'd like to speak to James Buchanan. He asked what it was regarding. I said it was in regard to a baseball card. He said to hold on. I held, thinking that he would come back on the line and brush me off.
Instead, I heard a familiar voice. "Good morning, Karl, I'm glad you called. I saw you at Ned's funeral yesterday and I was thinking about you."
"I saw your limo." I wanted to ask him about the woman who was with him, but I couldn't think of a smooth way to do it.
"Sorry I couldn't stay around and chat, but I had some business meetings to attend. But back to you. How would you like to come to work for me?"
My planned speech evaporated. I stuttered something about being happy where I was, and then realized this was absurd because I was nowhere. I finally had wit enough to ask him why he wanted me to work for him.