Just as important, she thought, was that the bank operated branches across three continents, providing safe haven from Asia to Europe, convenient and invaluable for transferring the assets in her account.
The exterior of the Asia America Europe Bank was modern, brass and glass, with huge red block letters AAE mounted above the tall picture windows. Inside, high-tech track lights beamed down from a twenty-foot-high ceiling, illuminating a wall mural depicting an old-time Chinatown montage of street scenes. The business floor was white marble tile, anchoring a corporate presentation that resembled a luxury hotel lobby, with young Chinese in uniform black vests behind a long black stone counter of teller stations. The walls were panels of blond wood, and customer-service agents sat behind matching wood desks in black business suits bearing name tags. Sleek computer stations angled across the desktops.
Mona observed a long queue of customers, heard Asian Muzak floating in the air. The setting felt familiar, comfortable. Welcoming.
She’d worn a conservative black coat over a simple black frock and plain pumps, and a cheap wristwatch just to keep her focused, a prop. The blood-red bangle dangled elegantly off one wrist, her jade charm from a bracelet on the other. She wore no other jewelry except for a plain gold wedding band, another prop, to fend off the men.
Seated at one of the desks, she peered through school-marmish non-prescription glasses, worn for effect, part of the disguise, jouh hay. She seemed to be yet another businesswoman, lo baan leung, “entrepreneur,” boss lady, and yet she appeared elegant in an understated way.
She’d expected, anticipated, the intrusive questions from the managers and the account representatives.
“And in what type of business is Madam invested?”
Marketing and design was her answer.
“Will this be a corporate account? Or a proprietorship?”
Business proprietorship.
“Are you involved with the fashion industry?”
Sometimes.
“The movie industry?”
Sometimes.
She answered the questions in a quiet voice with a small smile, and the young male service agents regarded her with respect, as if she were a dai ga jeer, big sister, rather than just a businesswoman.
A clerk brought over some documents for her to sign.
Mona accepted the attention but felt strange knowing her presence was being recorded by the camera system covering the big floor space. She calmed herself, pressing the jade charm inside the soft flesh of her palm.
Again she began with a smile, splaying the identification items onto the blond wood desktop: the Social Security card, the non-driver’s license. The young service manager ran his fingers through his gelled-up hair and checked the documents for her signature: Jing Su Tong.
Presented with her documents, she saw that she’d acquired deposit box number 3388, a lucky fung shui number, two yangs two yins, perfectly balanced to grow and succeed. Her account number was 6818, another auspicious series of numbers: Confident, Wealthy.
Her journey through darkness was turning to light.
The manager moved her along.
Her eyes swept across the bank lobby. No one else seemed to be paying her any unusual attention. Finally, she put away the identification cards, glanced at her watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed.
She was escorted to a secure area where there were private cubicles behind accordion folding doors. She signed for the red cardboard envelope of keys they presented her with.
The big bo yim seong, deposit box, was more than large enough to hold her assorted jewelry, the bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills, the cache of one-ounce gold Panda coins, and the bag of fiery-cut diamonds she would transfer from their hiding place inside the heavy burlap sack of rice. Almost a quarter million dollars’ worth of freedom that she’d be entrusting to the care of the AAE Bank. Not for too long, she hoped, before she’d be moving on.
She graciously thanked the manager while returning the empty box, then quickly departed the bank with her keys.
Outside, she felt the weight of the security cameras lift, and she went down a back street knowing she’d return another day soon, in a different guise, to make the deposits that would aid her escape.
The bank account would allow her to transfer cash internationally. As for the gold and diamonds, those she could transport across on a senior citizens’ tour bus. North. To Won Kor Wah. Vancouver.
Pausing at the street corner, she took a deep breath of the cool morning air, and noted that there were few people around. She still checked to make sure she wasn’t being followed, remembering being stalked by homeless men as she passed through Chinatown’s adjacent neighborhoods. She didn’t see anyone suspicious-looking but she’d felt uneasy for weeks. She wondered if she hadn’t been imagining things.
She crossed back to the main street.
The man at the Chinatown market.
She hustled through Pioneer Square, made a quick left on James. Outside the Buddhist Temple, the woman with the man? There seemed to be even fewer people out in the cloudy morning. Something about one of the customers at the bank? The way he’d looked at her? At her brisk pace, she’d soon be home. Was he a black snake? Or just another old horn dog, hom sup lo?
I must be losing my mind, she thought, even as she turned for home, to the little basement apartment that held all her hopes.
Changes
Jack awoke to the gray light of the Sea-Tac afternoon, feeling hungry enough to cab up to Chinatown for congee and jow gwai.
When he checked in at West Precinct Holding Facility, they’d moved Eddie to the Segregation Unit; he’d taken a beatdown and had been terrorized by other prisoners; he was moved for his own protection.
Jack stared at Eddie’s swollen black eye and busted lip, and the lumps on the sides of his head. Body bruises no one could see under his clothes. He spoke like he had a wad of cotton in his mouth.
“Those baldy skinhead motherfuckers.” Eddie spat out the words. “Fuckin’ gwailo Nazi cocksuckers!”
“Yeah, they got a lot of that out here,” Jack commiserated. “Too bad you still got a few days here before you go back into general population.”
“No way!” Eddie cursed. “I’m not going back in there.”
“They can only hold you in Protective for so long, Eddie,” said Jack coolly.
“No fuckin’ way,” said Eddie as he ran his scraped fingers over his busted eye.
Jack offered quietly, “The only way is if I get a written statement from you. To expedite extradition.”
“Extradition?” Eddie winced.
Jack leaned back. “Otherwise, take a seat and get beat. You’re just another slab of meat.”
“A written statement?”
“Right. A signed confession.” Jack rapped his knuckles on the dented metal table. “I take you back to New York. You get a Chinese lawyer, take your chances with a minority jury.” Jack saw the light of hope in Eddie’s eyes and shoved a pen and pad his way.
“Tell your story as you write it,” Jack instructed, “And don’t leave out the part where you shoot Koo Jai in the back.”
“I get back to New York’s Chinatown?” Eddie grimaced.
“Yeah, something like that,” Jack answered. “If you cop to the shooting, I can get you out of here, back to New York. Where you’ll deal with big-city justice. See?”
There was a pause and Eddie fingered the pen nervously.
“Otherwise,” Jack said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, “you go through Seattle due process, back into general population, and let some white-power prison skinheads fuck you in the ass for two weeks, before you come back to me anyway once the lab matches up the bullet with the gun I found. You know, that gun with your prints all over it? Once we pull your prints off the bag of watches? Along with the vics?”