“They have nice stuff over that place across the street?” Akoni asked the waiter as he delivered our kung pao chicken. “I need a present for my wife.”
The waiter leered. “Very nice stuff.” He made curving motions with his hands. “You like very much.”
“Me, I’m not married,” I said to the waiter. “They have pretty girls that work there? Maybe I can get one to go out with me.”
He shook his head. “They no go out.” Then he broke into a wide grin. “They have rooms in back, no need go anywhere else. You like,” he said, nodding. “You like very much.”
The waiter went back into the kitchen and Akoni looked at me. “You’re still interested in girls?”
I gave him a look. “And you’re really going to buy something there for Mealoha.”
“I might,” he said defensively, and turned his attention to his chicken.
When I was a kid, I remember Chinatown was a lively neighborhood, full of colorful groceries, lei shops and dark little restaurants and bars. Now, though, it was pretty dismal. The streets were dirty, with old soda cans, shriveled dog turds and shreds of newspaper rustling in the wind. Most of the storefronts were shuttered and many were scrawled with graffiti, and there was nothing much Chinese about it.
There were still a bunch of lei stores on South Beretania amp; Maunakea Streets, but they’re tiny rooms with folding shutters or rolling grills, and the leis were all behind glass refrigerator cases. You could walk past and only smell car exhaust and fried oil, not a single flower. North King was the only street with any life on it-groceries with tubs spilling out to the street, stacked with garlic, ginger, hard-boiled eggs, and packages of dried mushrooms, noodles, and soy sauce.
We paid our bill and crossed the street, past a stand with row upon row of leis made of orchids, velvety orange ‘ilima flowers, and fragrant maile leaves intertwined with tiny white pikake blossoms. Behind the counter, an elderly grandmother sat stringing even more. Chattering teenagers and haole tourists crowded around the booth, debating the merits of different leis and bargaining for better prices.
Through the window of the lingerie store, we saw three elegant young Chinese women and one Filipina strolling around inside in lacy undergarments, periodically stopping to strike poses for the half-dozen male customers. We walked in, and a soft, musical bell rang. No one paid any attention to us.
Each of the girls was wearing more than you’d see on any public beach, particularly since the invention of the thong, but their effect was totally sexy, from their high heeled shoes up to their expert makeup and hair. And each had a flawless body. “If you see something you like, just ask,” a girl in a red lace teddy said, brushing past Akoni. He turned almost as red as her outfit.
“Where do we find Norma Ching?” I asked the girl.
“She’s in the back.”
Akoni and I steered our way past tables of panties, racks of bras and waterfalls of see-through nighties to a desk in the back where an improbably elderly Chinese woman sat behind an elaborate French renaissance desk.
She looked tiny, barely four feet, and wore a bright blue silk cheongsam. Her gray hair was as elegantly coiffed as any of the girls’, and her skin was hardly wrinkled. Even so, I guessed she had to be at least eighty. “Mrs. Ching?” Akoni asked.
“You must be the detectives,” she said. “Please sit down.”
She motioned us to two tiny embroidered chairs across from her desk, and Akoni and I perched on them like embarrassed elephants. “We’re interested in anything you can tell us about Tommy Pang,” Akoni said.
“That man, what a flirt!” she said, with a light, musical laugh. She had almost no accent and her voice was high and girlish. “He used to come around once a week or so to meet the girls and examine our merchandise. He was very interested in quality control.”
I’ll bet he was, I thought. “Did he ever bring anyone with him?”
“Oh, yes, often,” she said. “He often brought business colleagues here to show them our facilities.”
Akoni took out a pad and pen. “Can you give us any names?”
Norma Ching looked horrified. “Our business is very confidential.” She leaned toward us. “Sometimes, you must understand, our clients are making purchases they would not want revealed to their wives.”
“We understand,” I said. “And we’re not interested in anything that goes on here, or in connecting anyone to this facility. We’re trying to find out who killed Tommy Pang. And in order to do that we need to talk to people who knew him.” I smiled at her. “We won’t find it necessary to reveal how we were able to secure these names.”
“Let me see.” She opened a box filled with index cards and flipped through for a minute or two. “Melvin Ah Wong,” she said. “Dong Shi-Dao. Those are two associates he brought here occasionally.”
“Melvin Ah Wong runs his shipping agency,” Akoni said. “I don’t know Dong Shi-Dao.”
“Anyone else?”
“Others were usually businessmen visiting from other cities. Sometimes Hong Kong, sometimes Manila. Once or twice Japan, Singapore.” She paused. “You might also want to speak with Treasure Chen. She used to work here.”
I nodded. “A special friend of Tommy’s?”
“You could call her that,” Norma Ching said. “She worked here once. Mr. Pang took a liking to her. They became good friends. She now works at a restaurant in the Ward Center, the Lobster Garden. She is the hostess.”
That was about it. I knew Akoni wanted to check out the merchandise, but was too embarrassed to say so, so I said, “May we look around for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. Akoni almost blushed, but he looked happy. He got up and walked back to the front of the store. As I was going, she said, “We have some gentleman’s items in the corner there.”
So she knew. That was interesting. I wondered if, now that I had acknowledged my sexuality to myself, there was now some change in my body language that enabled an astute observer to see. On an impulse, I turned back and asked, “Did Tommy Pang ever bring his son here?”
“Once. As you can imagine, he was not particularly interested. Although it was at his suggestion that we included the section to which I referred you.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Do you know if the ownership of this store passes to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. You know of course Mr. Pang was married.” She nodded. “It’s possible that either Mrs. Pang or Derek will contact you.”
“I will look forward to it.”
I walked over to the gentleman’s section, as she had called it. They had a nice selection of extremely skimpy men’s thongs, as well as athletic supporters in a wide range of colors and styles. I had never realized you could buy a gold lame jockstrap, and wondered under what circumstances it would be appropriate. You could buy an improbable-looking triangular patch that would cover your privates, but I couldn’t figure out what made it stay on. There was a lot to learn about my new life, I decided. A lot.
PACK AND SHIP
The Chinatown air was filled with the scent of ginger, frying fish, and something rotten coming from Nu‘uanu Stream, just down the block. The offices of U.S. China Ship, Inc. were sandwiched between the dirty windows of the Floating Palace restaurant, long since closed, and Hin Shee Dook dry cleaning, which may have been open at some time during the day, and then again may not have been open since statehood. The front windows of each store, like all those around, bore legends in both English and Chinese.
Inside the pack and ship there were racks of Chinese greeting cards, and displays of the different sized boxes you could purchase, as well as packing materials like tape, twine and Styrofoam peanuts. Melvin Ah Wong was in his mid-fifties with thinning hair and a wool vest. An air conditioner hummed somewhere in the back of the store, but it was still hot and stuffy inside, and I couldn’t understand how he could dress so heavily. He stood behind the counter making change for a bent old man with one prominent tooth. As the man shuffled away Akoni and I stepped up.