“You think so?”
She considered it for a moment, her eyes on the malt. “I think she was serious, yeah, but that’s not exactly right. It was more like she was sad. You can see it sometimes, in the shows when she got a little older. When she was really little, it was like she didn’t even know she was acting. Later, she sort of got a bunch of technique and she stopped showing you who she was underneath, but she looked sadder. I think I liked her best when she was younger. But I’ll bet she was sad, even when she was a big star.”
“You’re a perceptive kid,” I said.
Rina shook her head. “You know, Dad, only adults think of kids as kids.”
“Yeah? What do kids think of kids as?”
“People,” Rina said.
15
In 1996, Li Bai Chen, an eighteen-year-old in Fujian, China, gave a few hard-earned yuan to a street vendor to buy a DVD that he thought was a bootleg of Rush Hour, starring Jackie Chan. When he got it home, it turned out instead to be a movie from the 1950s about a kid whose parents didn’t understand him. The kid smoked cigarettes, wore a red jacket, combed his long hair back with his fingers, and at one point screamed at his parents, “You’re tearing me apart!”
And he ripped out Li Bai Chen’s heart. The kid in the movie had everything a Chinese teenage boy could want: the courage to rebel, an endless supply of smokes, that red jacket, cheekbones that could cut glass, and Natalie Wood.
Twenty-six months later, Li Bai Chen was in Los Angeles. He’d gotten work with a snakehead outfit that smuggled Chinese immigrants into Meiguo, or America, and then he’d gone ashore to deliver the human cargo and prevent them from running away. Once everything was in order, he ran away himself. He had no English and no marketable skills, so he decided to hide in plain sight. He changed his name to Ding Ji Ming and joined a Chinese gang in New York. Chinese names are written with the surname first, but if you wrote Bai Chen’s new name in the Western fashion, first names first, it would be Ji Ming Ding, which was as close as he could get in Mandarin to Jimmy Dean.
Ji Ming, who preferred to be called “Jimmy,” applied himself in the energetic manner of so many Chinese immigrants and rose quickly through the ranks. He spent five hours a day learning English during the time when most people would be sleeping, and got himself promoted to what, in a different kind of business, would probably be called the L.A. office. I ran into him in 2004, when we accidentally burgled the same house. In part because I gave him right of way, so to speak, and in part because I’m something of a James Dean freak myself, we became friends. We’d sit around together smoking, drinking beer, and reciting lines from the handful of movies Dean filmed before he crushed himself to death in his Porsche roadster. One evening I found-in the house of a producer whose burdensome load of material possessions I’d been sent to lighten-a videotape of one of Dean’s first television roles, as a farmer’s son in a 1953 drama called “Harvest.” I gave it to Jimmy. Two days later, I woke up to find a vintage Porsche parked in my driveway with a bow around it and a red jacket neatly folded on the front seat. I was still living with Kathy then-Rina was only five-and this was precisely the kind of episode that made my wife wonder whether she’d made a wise marital choice.
I met Jimmy in Hollywood a couple of hours after taking Rina home, and the two of us jammed into the inevitable Porsche and took three or four turns around Thistle’s apartment house. The Camelot Arms was a half-timbered, half-derelict, pathetically wannabe Tudor building with a few broken windows. It was in an area off Romaine that couldn’t decide whether it was going up or down, although I’d have bet on up. It couldn’t go much farther down.
“Only one way out,” I said, looking at the door.
“Man,” Jimmy said in the hipster English he insisted on using. “When you’re living in a place like that, ain’t no way out.”
“Stifle the film-noir metaphysics, okay? See that door? Practically speaking, if she’s going to come out, she’s going to come out there.”
“And if she does?” Jimmy lit a cigarette. He thought smoking made him look more like the other Jimmy Dean. He’d learned to let the butt dangle from his lips and grin around it in a way that made his cheekbones jump out. With his hair combed back and that ciggie-centered grin, he looked about as much like James Dean as it was possible for a young Chinese gangster to look.
“She comes out, you call me,” I said. “If she’s alone, stick with her and stay on the phone. I’m going to sleep in Hollywood tonight, so I can be with you in eight or ten minutes. If it looks like trouble, if she’s resisting or something, go point your gun at them.”
“Seven-fifty if I have to do that.”
“Fine. If it’s anything you don’t think you can handle, just stick with them until I’m there, and I’ll work it out.” I gave him the scrap of canvas Trey had cut from the painting. “If you see this guy, call me instantly, before he even gets into the building. Clear?”
Jimmy looked down at the picture and gave me a James Dean shrug, full of pained cool. “What’s not to be clear?” he asked.
One of my storage facilities was in Hollywood, so I swung by and dropped off Bunny’s necklace. Even with Rabbits still out of town, I was more comfortable without it in my pocket.
Storage facilities are indispensable to burglars. You need someplace to park stuff while it cools off or while you look for the right fence. Most of the time, I didn’t have to deal with fences because I worked on assignment, but from time to time something extra fell into my hands, much as Bunny Stennet’s necklace had. This storage space was a small one, just a four-by-six, in the name of Wyatt Gwyon, who is the hero, or at least the central character, of The Recognitions. I had a phony driver’s license in Wyatt’s name, which I figured was appropriate, since he’s an art forger, and I’d given it to the manager of the facility when I leased the space.
Here’s a trick in case you ever need to lease a storage space under a different name. First, master the simplest of all sleight-of hands maneuvers, the card switch, where you hold two cards in your hand, one hidden below the other so that the mark thinks you have only one. The entire trick consists of swapping the top one for the bottom one while you divert the mark’s attention. A lobster could do it, and they don’t even have palms. Second, when you make up your fake ID, buy a really stupid-looking wig and wear it in the photo. Third, for the second fake ID (you’re going to need two), choose someone on Flickr or another image site who looks a little like you, and photo-shop the stupid wig onto him or her. When you lease the space, wear the wig. The manager will ask for identification, and you flash the ID with your real photo, with the other license hidden behind it. Then do the swap before the manager photocopies it. If he glances at the photocopy, all he’ll see is the stupid hair. Someday you might hit a streak of bad luck and the cops could show up. What they’ll find is a storage unit that was leased by someone with a different name and a different face than yours. And stupid hair.
My king-size bed for the night was in The Hillsider, an anonymous mid-scale motel on Highland, north of Hollywood Boulevard, at the foot of the long uphill to the Cahuenga Pass. The room I got didn’t have a rear exit, but there was a back window I could have squeezed through in an emergency. The driveway opened directly onto Highland, and it was about a six-minute drive, even in traffic, to the Camelot Arms. It was only about 8:00 when I checked in, and I was hungry. I drove down to Hollywood Boulevard and parked behind Cherokee Books. Ten minutes later I had a well-worn copy of Oracle Bones, Peter Hessler’s wonderful book about China, under my left arm and was on the sidewalk, dodging panhandlers and heading for Musso and Frank, one of the oldest and most dependable restaurants in Los Angeles. I’d already read about half of Hessler’s book, but the copy I owned was all the way out in the Valley, at the Snor-Mor, and I couldn’t take a chance on being that far from Thistle’s apartment.