The Hand Job

By D L Morton

The lost, the lonely, the pained need only cry out the name of Green Tara whose outstretched hand symbolizes her offer to help.
Agnostic Hanna is damaged, fiercely independent, and knows what she wants. Michael is deeply religious and sure that he knows what she needs.
As they search for the icon, will Tara strengthen their love or will the market value of her emerald green jade tear them apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D L Morton
• Release date: Feb 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452411309

D L Morton

I lived in China for several years, studying in Tianjin and teaching in Beijing. When not working I traveled. Now I explore her art and culture in my novels.

Book preview

Prologue

Behind the doors of the shrine, Swift Lady waited.

A young girl, followed by her maid, slowly advanced. Her lustrous silk gown made slithering sounds, and her hair hung shining black beside her face. She sat on a low stool in front of the shrine. A blue silk kneeling pad lay on the floor in front of her feet.

At her command, the servant opened both doors of the shrine, placed a length of shimmering golden silk on the altar, and replenished the fruit bowls with tiny new oranges and polished red apples. The girl lowered her head and whispered the twenty-one praises. Propitiated, Swift Lady’s imperial jade palm glowed in the lamplight.

The concubine came to ask Swift Lady to grant her request. Kneeling on the pad, she held up her clasped hands. Her maid placed three joss sticks between them and lit them. Bowing three times to honor the deity, the supplicant had just begun her prayer when the door to her chamber crashed open, and her Japanese guard strode in.

Grabbing her arm, he spoke harshly. Madam, now! We must go! The Russians will be here within the hour.

Chapter 1

Music blasted from a CD player behind the bar. Hanna and Betty squeezed in between a couple of young guys dressed in jeans and work shirts. Clearing a space between ashtrays and bowls of peanuts, Hanna ordered beer then twisted around to look at the room jammed with bodies and thick with smoke. It didn’t seem to offer enough to justify the crowd, a dim space with nicotine yellow walls, a gouged bar worn down to the bare wood, and a few, mismatched tables. But all the seats and stools were filled, and a ring of people surrounded a tiny space where a couple was dancing.

Well is it worth it? asked Betty with a grin. Hanna had talked her into taking a break from the family reunion because she had always hankered for a look inside.

Nah, but the beer is. Looks like we got lucky with a seat too. So is this the only bar in town?

Betty laughed. Oh no, and they’re probably all full too. This one’s been here longest though.

Do you know the dancers?

Never saw them before. Light on his feet for such a big one.

The music finished, and the bar tender changed the CD to an old but great group, Fleetwood Mac and hiked the volume. Turning back toward Betty, Hanna commented, the reunion’s going well. Everyone seems to be having a good time.

You ought to come to Illinois more often, stay with us. Us being Betty and her family.

I’d like to, but summer is about the only time I’m free, teaching the rest of the year, and that really takes it out of me, lot of prep time and grading.

Fleetwood Mac was just finishing Rhiannon and after the applause died down, swung into I’m So Afraid. The relentless base got to Hanna, and she was practically dancing on her butt. Someone tapped her shoulder, and a deep voice asked if she would like to dance.

She swung around and looked at the hulk at the other end of the finger, the dancer they’d been watching. Easily six five, he had huge shoulders, chest, and arms that strained his gray tee shirt, and the thickened, solid middle of forty years. She didn’t bother looking up at his face, just shook her head no and turned back to Betty.

Oh go on. You know you want to. I don’t mind. Betty urged Hanna off the stool.

Turning around, she said, One then.

I didn’t ask for the whole evening, but let’s go, we’ll miss this if you don’t get moving.

She was about to snap something nasty back at him, but the need to dance won out. They hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he led her smoothly into West coast swing. Staying tight in the slot he barely swung his hips out of her way as she stepped by him. For two people new to each other, they danced pretty well together, especially as he led her in a two handed hold. As the final dialogue between the electric guitars and base climbed to an intense pitch, he pulled her closer and closer until he was rocking his pelvis against hers. Deep into the howling rhythm she didn’t notice that they were the center of attention until the music stopped. Breathless and flushed, she headed back toward the bar without ever looking her partner in the face. He followed, said thanks in a deep voice and left.

My god, Hanna. Why didn’t you just drop your pants? You were practically doing it anyway.

He’s a good dancer, but no kidding, did it really look that bad?

Oh yeah! But what’re a few hot boys and several annoyed wives?

How about we get out of here then, get back to the farm.

Eyes followed Hanna out the door. The air was clean compared with inside, but in moments the August humidity would press in and sweat would ooze. As Betty climbed in her truck and started the air conditioner, she noticed the big man watching them. Hanna was swatting mosquitoes and thinking about talking cousin Tom out of the elegant green hand.

Chapter 2

Late yesterday afternoon, the glaring August sun burning through a west window of the farmhouse had turned the tiny hand into glowing green fire.

Hanna raised an eyebrow at her cousin Tom. Okay to pick it up?

Sure, but when you’re through, put it back, so it can keep on doing its job.

Job?

Yep. Tom stuck his arm out westward. Betty’s house is over that way, and this little arrowhead of rocks is pointing straight at her. Rocks have special powers, and that little green hand at the tip aims ‘em at her and the kids, keeps things going okay over there.

She started to laugh at the notion of rocks having powers then thought, oh well, if he believes in dowsing for oil, why not? A few minutes earlier in the living room, lined with books along the baseboards of three walls, Hanna had been going through dowsing motions while Tom and the other cousins watched. She pulled her eyebrows together in a frown and squinted blue eyes in phony concentration on the rod as she walked a grid. The room was hot, and her firm mouth—some said verging on grim, but Tom didn’t agree—was tighter than usual. She didn’t look her best in the heat and humidity of August in Illinois, but even with no make up, with a red face, and sweat soaked ash blond hair gathered on top of her head in a sloppy clump, she looked fine to him. At thirty-six, Hanna was only four years younger than his daughter Betty, but looked closer to ten years junior. Her wide shoulders, narrow waist, rounded hips and long legs were lean, so she always had an elegant line. Uncomfortable and bored, Hanna had turned the rod over to a waiting cousin and wandered into the next room. Tom followed, eager to show his favorite younger cousin his collection of rocks and explain their properties.

Honestly Tom, do you really believe rocks have hidden powers?

Tom grinned down at her from his six foot four height and smoothed thick gray hair. Blue eyes twinkled. Do I look crazy? Anyway, what I believe probably won't change things, if the power is there, it’s there. I know this little green hand might be plastic, but since it came off one of her toys, maybe that will make up for it not being crystal.

It’s pretty. Where’d it come from and where’s the rest of it.

Tom looked baffled. I just know it's been around here long as I can remember, and I assumed it came off one of Betty’s dolls. I don’t know about the rest of it, probably went to the junk store in Wapella with other things she outgrew, stuff usually ended up there. The old gal who owns the place used to drive a regular route around all the farms.

Hanna easily talked Tom into giving her the hand, then decided to check out the local junk store for more parts, maybe she’d be lucky.

Anybody want to go with me? You, Mom?

Yes, if you mean the one in Clinton.

Clinton, with a population of between six and seven thousand, was four miles south of Wapella on Illinois 51. Most of the visiting cousins stayed there in the Comfort Inn.

No, Wapella.

Oh, that place. Not me, we went last year, indicating herself and Hanna's aunt, and I swore never again. The old woman who runs the place is wacko.

Wacko?

She followed us around yelling at us every time we touched something.

Sounds fierce.

You’ll find out.

Chapter 3

Her Volvo rode smoothly raising a steady plume of road dust that slowly drifted away over long corrugations of corn and beans. The car sat solidly on its tires, and she felt she was boss at any speed. Control was very important.

Most days, she went everywhere in a hurry—rushing to class, to a meeting, to an appointment—always on a tight schedule. Now creeping along, she was trying to make the two miles to the junk store stretch out to ten minutes. Hanna enjoyed most of her relatives and looked forward to their reunion each year, but there was no plan, nobody in charge, and nothing ever happened with sufficient alacrity to suit her. Without some sense of forward motion, she got edgy, so she took little breaks like this to slow herself down. She tried to remember if she was like this before all those years of exams and due dates, but lulled by the quiet hum of the engine, gave up. The air was warmer now, but still not hot enough to make her thighs stick to the seat, so she kept the window down. The air was rich with the smell of dirt and crops heating up, and inhaling with pleasure, she drove slowly watching corn tops ripple.

The junk store sat on the north edge of Wapella where the gravel county road became a paved street. The nearest buildings were several empty lots away and included a tiny hardware store, a convenience store with the US post office in one corner, the tiny bar from last night—still more trucks parked there than in front of other any place—and a derelict warehouse where farmers used to store sacks of grain until the next Illinois Central freight train came through. Trains didn’t stop now, and the huge hybrid seed corn companies that cultivated so many of the surrounding acres had their own trucks. Fifty to sixty houses comprised the rest of the town. Beyond the town, Illinois Highway 51 ran north to Hayworth and on to Bloomington and south to Clinton, Maroa, and Decatur. Two vast warehouses on its west side marked the turnoff into Wapella. Otherwise, in all directions there was nothing but fields and barbed wire fences under a fierce August sun. A tiny dust devil whirled by stirring the dry, red brown tobacco weed growing along the road. Insects buzzed wings and rubbed legs together, and gray-green grasshoppers jumped at her.

Hanna opened the door and a bell tinkled, but no one came. It was one long dim room with all four walls lined high with shelves and its center filled with loaded tables. Boxes filled the spaces underneath. The air was hot and thick with dust. Content to be alone, she wandered from one wobbly pile to the next. Giving a cursory look at huge stacks of old records, Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogues, Simplicity, Vogue, and McCall's patterns, fragile, yellowed newspapers and sheet music going back forty and fifty years, she quickly got to the shelves of bottles, cute salt and pepper sets, stained coffee mugs, and an amazing variety of Avon jars. No luck there. Other shelves held games, stacks of puzzles, dolls, and boys’ toys, she ignored those. Looking for a flash of green, she poked around in trays of tarnished buckles, Masonic rings, windup watches, buttons, stick pins with political and religious slogans, and costume jewelry with missing rhinestones. Uncomfortable and sweaty hot with her face and neck dirt streaked, she was about to give up when, in a small bowl of buttons, Barbie boots, pinky rings, and lapel pins, there it was, a foot, its green so dull under the dust she would have missed it if she hadn’t stuck her finger in and stirred. She picked up the bowl to blow out the dust and heard somebody behind her.

Turning, she saw a tiny woman coming toward her, the fierce old gal her mother and aunts had talked about? Didn’t seem likely, this woman couldn't be much more than five feet tall when straight, which had been a long time ago. She was deeply lined, and as she moved, her brown pants and shirt rustled like the red brown tobacco weeds. As she came toward Hanna, her steps lagged then stopped several feet away, and even in the poor light, Hanna could see that she was trembling, and her mouth was working. Attempting to reassure her, Hanna moved toward her with her hand outstretched, and the old lady's eyes widened in terror as she shrank away.

The front door swung open behind Hanna, but she didn’t hear anyone. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a massive shape filling the doorway, apparently taking in the situation. Finally the man came in, her dancer. Perplexed Hanna half turned toward him.

Hey, do you work here? What’s wrong with her?

Ignoring Hanna, he went around and squatted in front of the old lady, his haunches straining the seams of his jeans. Hanna peered around him and saw him capture both of the old woman's fluttering hands in one of his. With his other huge hand, he gently moved a wisp of white hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. In a deep, soft voice, he crooned to her in what sounded like Russian, then in a couple of other languages, and finally in English.

Aunt Iris, it wasn't you. It was your mother, not you, not you darling. You're safe, completely safe my little Iris. No one is going to hurt you, you’re safe. You have me, you have Hercules, and you have The 911. Remember The 911, a whole police force on your side, you’re safe, you’re safe.

He repeated the same words several more times, all the while gently caressing her hands. Finally, when her trembling slowed and her eyes were sane again, he rose, tucked her in behind him, and turned toward Hanna. She couldn't see much of his face because the room was almost as dim as the bar last night, and he wore a baseball cap that shaded his eyes and squashed his hair down into clumps that stuck out.

She stared at him, and finally he asked in the same soft rumble, Did you find something interesting?

She swung her eyes back and forth between him and the old lady. When she realized that he had asked a question, she answered with one. Why’s she so afraid of me?

He didn’t say anything. She felt herself getting annoyed and wondered if he were as dense as he looked.

I didn’t do anything to her, but she’s scared of me. Why?

He looked at her appraisingly, then spoke. She thinks you're a Nazi bitch.

It took a couple of seconds for Hanna to get her voice. Naturally, and why didn’t I think of that?

Mind blank again, Hanna did the obvious and handed him the bowl of buttons and junk to ring up. He stuck a finger in and turned the bits over until the green foot surfaced again. Picking it up, he blew the dust off and examined it closely before asking. You want to buy this stuff?

Yes.

From her shelter behind him, the old lady warned, You watch out for her Michael! She looks treacherous, probably a thief like all of them.

Now I’m a thief?

He shrugged, What’d you expect? All Nazi bitches were treacherous thieves.

He turned toward Iris, and showing her the contents of the bowl, asked if she thought twenty dollars was a fair price. Iris considered and agreed it was, but warned him to examine the money carefully.

I’ll take care of this Aunt Iris. Maybe you could go in back and make us some tea?

Hanna looked at him in disbelief, You can't be serious about twenty dollars.

He looked her impassively, Make me an offer.

Seventy-five cents might be excessive.

Make it one dollar, save me some face here. The little green foot is worth a lot more than that.

That little plastic thing?

Plastic? Try jade! I’m giving you a real break here.

She sniffed and snapped. How would you know it’s jade?

He frowned. I’ve been around lady. I seen things. There was some in the jewelry store window in Clinton, and it was real expensive.

She handed him a dollar and started to ask if he’d come across other pieces in the shop but was distracted by what he was doing. With his back to Iris, he slipped a twenty from his wallet and examined it in front of the light. Then he snapped it sharply by his ear making sure Iris who was watching intently could see him. He slipped the dollar into his pocket and put the twenty into the cash drawer.

You’re as crazy as she is, now I know you’re related!

Tsk, tsk. Shouldn’t make facile assumptions. He looked at her for a moment then said quietly. I'll give you this much. Night before last, some kids threw rocks through the back windows, smashed things up quite a bit and yelled at her for a while. That was pretty frightening to an old lady, would scare you too I think. That was on top of her not being well lately, not her usual self. When things pile up on her like that, she forgets that it was her mother who survived the Nazis, not herself. Her mother really only made it half way back to sanity, and sometimes she’d make Iris hide with her under the stairs and listen to her talk about what the Nazis did. Iris remembers.

His voice didn't rise or lose its rumbling softness, yet she felt reprimanded. She realized he’d been playing a rube and was disconcerted.

I guess I was so surprised that I spoke without thinking.

Really? What would you have said if you’d thought about it?

I don’t know, but . . . She looked up and caught a mouth twitch. Oh, you're still making fun of me, but go ahead, enjoy yourself.

Hard not to. And was that an apology of sorts?

Don’t even think it, not a chance. Better she give me one, but for a frightened old lady, I'll let it pass. Unless you want to apologize for her—Michael, is it?—and for yourself while you're at it, you're damn rude too. What’s more Michael, if you're the person who's supposed to be looking out for her, you're doing a fucking poor job of it, whispering so she didn’t offend the old lady.

He shrugged and smiled slightly. I’d go down on my knees and apologize to you sweetheart, but I’d probably break several of these treasures around us.

Temper blotched her face bright red, but she decided to ignore him and get out.

He surprised her then. I wish we’d had a chance to talk last night, but it wasn’t a good place. Actually you’re lucky none of the boys got riled. You might have gotten a flying boot in your, uh, bifurcation. Wouldn’t want that. Before Hanna could react, he went on. Aren’t you one of the Larson cousins? I know Tom Larson, and somebody told me all his cousins were coming to the farm. Maybe if you don’t have to get right back, we could talk a bit now? I'll treat you to some iced tea, be great in this weather. Just ten minutes down the road on this side of Clinton, the Red Wheel Inn. How about it?

She looked over the top of her glasses at his unkempt hair, grungy shirt, hulking shoulders, and huge dirty hands then answered sarcastically. Hard to refuse such an tempting offer, but no thanks.

She tucked her little bag of junk and piece of jade into her purse and started toward the door. Half in and half out, she turned back to him. Who broke her windows?

He shrugged. Don't know, probably kids with nothing better to do than pick on the local eccentric. No way to find out.

She didn't say what she was thinking. Why was a delusional old woman living here alone? She started to leave and stopped again.

A couple more things. Have you come across any other pieces like this one, and who is Hercules, her dog?

No to both. Didn’t you ever see any movies about the Nazis? They had Dobermans and other savage beasts even scarier than blonds. Hercules is her baseball bat.

Even in the dimness she saw the amusement in his eyes.

I don't mean to diss your old auntie there, but can she even lift a bat?

He came around from behind the counter, and as he got close to her personal space, picked up on the determined look in her eyes, her squared shoulders, and fingers of one hand curling into a fist. He saw her shift her weight and one leg tremble slightly just ready to get him in the balls, and he instantly backed up, concern on his face.

Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you.

She didn’t relax as she looked over her glasses at him. Why would I be frightened of you just because you’re a Neanderthal?

He didn’t say anything, just watched her leave.

Hot, she sat for a moment with her face close to the air conditioner vent, embarrassed by the encounter, sorry for Iris, irritated at him, and even more at herself for the Neanderthal remark. Why had she come here, looking for another piece of what was probably glass? She had the hand and just found a foot, but she would never discover how these two bits ended up in Illinois or find the rest of the statue, the only other green around here was baking in the August oven. Depression settled on her. She had the car in gear to leave when he loomed up, tapping on the passenger side window.

Chapter 4

Interest in her little finds revived as Hanna laid the hand and foot side by side on her desk and studied them. The hand itself was intact and broken off its arm just above the wrist, all together over an inch long. There was a tiny, sharp projection on its back as though the hand had been supported, and the support broke when the wrist snapped. It was a right hand held at an angle to its arm, which wore a bangle, long, plump fingers together and cupped ever so slightly with its fat thumb held loosely beside its outward facing palm. It had the well-tended look of a pampered woman. When she shielded it, the hand turned dark and opaque, but as she held it up in direct sunlight the plump palm, fat thumb and fingers glowed translucent green

The hand held a vaguely familiar Buddhist pose, but she couldn’t name it. The foot carried a symbol of the Buddha, a flattened lotus blossom etched into its sole. Like the hand, the delicate foot seemed purposeful—its high arch and flexed big toe ready for action—and in execution the two pieces were a match; all creases, joints, and nails were masterfully articulated and showed no signs of wear.

The color and posture of the jade hand in particular made Hanna think of Tara, a high-ranking deity in the Tibetan Buddhist pantheon. Like most Tibetan deities, she has many roles, moods, and colors, but to the many lay Buddhists who turn to her with requests, granting them might be Green Tara’s most significant job.

Staring at the hand, Hanna made a mental note to go through her books and research materials to pull together all her blurbs about Tara. But only if the hand and foot were good jade. If she were wrong, if the hand and foot turned out to be glass or cheap stone treated to look like jade, she'd forget it.

The junk store man had tried to slip a business card through her lowered window and being pissed off at herself, she snarled at him again.

Thanks, but I can find this place all by myself anytime I need to scare an old lady.

He smiled. No, this is the card of a friend of mine in San Francisco. He’s a gemologist, knows all about jade. In my opinion the foot is a fine piece, but if you want a professional evaluation, he'd be a good man to see.

The sun slanted directly into her eyes blacking him out except for his hands holding the top of the window. It didn’t help his case by revealing cuts and badly snagged nails with crescents of dirt. She accepted the card and opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off.

Don't bother. I’ll just consider myself told to fuck off.

Now she turned the card over and saw a San Francisco address. Probably find an expert in Denver, but decided a trip would be fun, combine shopping with seeing the gemologist. Hanna hadn’t been too surprised to find a second piece in the junk store—it was stranger that Tom hadn’t thrown out the hand years ago—but that suggested the rest of the statue might be in the store too, which meant tackling old lady Iris again and her Neanderthal nephew.

Chapter 5

Wei! Wei! Changcheng Shangdian, um . . . duibuqi, sorry I mean Great Wall Emporium. Hold please. John made a disgusted noise.

Did you get Sonny yet? Ducking his head, Michael Laurence came out of his tiny office into the front end of the doublewide construction trailer and looked for a bare spot on John's desk to set his coffee. A receptionist usually occupied an empty desk sitting at a right angle to John's. There were a couple of chairs on the left wall beside John's desk for visitors and when they were occupied, Michael had to climb over feet to get into his office. Behind John, three five-drawer file cabinets took up most of the back wall next to Michael’s door.

Not yet. I'm on hold. John complained. Why doesn't he put in a decent phone system, he's got crap, and they're always hollering Wei! Wei! And why does she rattle on in Chinese? Why can’t she just say hello like everyone else, you’d think they weren’t even Americans.

Don't get so excited, somebody will get back to you. Sonny wants the help to answer in Chinese, adds a little authenticity and impresses the tourists. Besides, they deal with Chinese suppliers, so maybe she just got a little mixed up.

You think that really works on tourists, that people are that gullible?

Who knows? Of course, Sonny's real customers, the ones with piles of money go upstairs. Sonny himself or one of his assistants is always on site to welcome them, serve tea, and wait.

Wait for what? said John to his back.

Michael's assistant on this project was a graduate of Denver University. His responsibilities were increasing each year, and he hoped to get bumped up to manager on the next project, handle all the problems himself, and in the following year achieve his goal of designing buildings.

The current construction project of Laurence & Brawly Designs was a complex of three office buildings around a central courtyard for their client Global Traditions, Colorado. Located northwest of Denver on the edge of Superior, the site put Global reasonably close to Denver International Airport, Jefferson County Airport, and several interstate highways. Michael drew up the plans, and either he or his partner Jim Brawly was at the site most days to supervise.

Global, with headquarters in Beijing, was a pharmaceutical subsidiary of Titus-Markam Industries, a huge conglomerate operating out of New Jersey. The Beijing branch was eager to expand into the US markets with their medical equipment and an array of traditional Chinese medicines (TCM). Global thought it could tap a huge demand for natural products by an aging society overloaded with chemicals, not to mention burdened with soaring costs, but first their medicines had to meet USDA standards in terms of identification and application. Comparable to humans, each TCM has a unique genetic fingerprint, and the USDA had begun to accept plant genetic fingerprints as a useful and reliable method of identifying major components in new medicines. Global sent teams to work closely with scientists at the Shanghai Research Center for Control of Chinese Medicine located in the Shanghai Traditional Chinese Medicine Park in Shanghai Zhongjiang Hi-Tech Park. Together the scientists were working day and night to complete and confirm the mapping of several well-known medicines. With USDA approval in hand, Global would then be able to push TCM in American markets. Beijing Global wanted Denver Global’s receiving and distribution center fully operational as soon as possible. From this center they planned to establish themselves by marketing their medical equipment before starting to push TCM.

Michael and Jim were running this site themselves because of its key position in their plan to open a branch office of their firm in Beijing. China was actively encouraging foreign design and construction companies to get in on mainland projects, and if all went according to schedule, Michael and Jim would soon be partners with Sonny’s uncle Liu Chunsheng and his son Dongsheng in a joint venture company. Chunsheng had hooked Michael’s firm up with Global through his deceased wife’s uncle who was a corporate officer.

Although well regarded, the Liu operation was small and needed cash. Buying into their firm, gave Michael and Jim an established business identity and links to many firms along with access to their Chinese partners’ knowledge of Beijing and personal contacts with suppliers. The four men had already agreed to the details, but permits and paperwork were burdensome. Despite the open arms attitude of current Chinese leaders, all parties involved thought their plans would benefit by Global's recommendations in the ears of the right government officials. Global also had many potentially useful connections with big firms covering a wide range of services, products, and expansion plans.

Business concerns aside, Michael needed to work long hours in August to help him get through his most painful month. Through his small window, Michael could see disorderly piles of forms for pouring concrete, stacks of rebar, vehicles, and yelling men. The constant clang of metal on metal, drills, roaring engines, laughter, shouts and curses blended into white noise that blurred painful memories.

The din also reminded him of Beijing, always vibrating from stuttering jackhammers, whacking dirt packers, whining drills, and thudding mallets. Construction was everywhere at a furious pace as Beijing razed old office and apartment buildings and replaced them with modern concoctions.

Most Americans thought of Beijing and the Forbidden Palace, the Temple of Heaven or Mao and the Communists. Michael thought of glass stalagmites and toys. Many new buildings were shards of glass stabbing the sky or curved sheets decorated by moving dioramas of street life. Others were fantastic. Traveling on the second, third, and fourth ring roads, he crossed streets lined as far as he could see with twenty and thirty floor office and apartment buildings, many rising to crowns of spikes, wheels or horns, and looking like Lego constructions in a huge child's game. He especially enjoyed the towers when the lower floors were dark below illuminated penthouses. One enchanting group along Fourth Ring road near Anhui Bridge looked like a flock of elegant spaceships hovering in the night sky, and Michael saw his taxi rise above the gridlock to deliver him at the door of his own air palace.

Wait for what? John holding the phone and following him, asked again, his eyebrows pulled together. John was five ten and slim. Two of him bundled together might equal Michael's girth. His Hispanic heritage showed in his dark skin tone and almost black hair, but Irish ancestors peered out of big greenish hazel eyes.

Michael turned away from his window toward John. His own little office was just big enough for him to move around in if he were careful. One wall backed a large table that held copies of the building plans. All other materials—signed and approved originals, engineering studies, environmental and traffic impact studies, and interviews with close neighbors—were locked up in the firm's Evergreen headquarters, a mountain town southwest of Denver. Michael once wryly commented that the only people not on record about the project were the players in the Rocky Mountain Horror Show. Against a second wall, an ordinary desk held a phone, computer, and more paperwork. Michael did need a good chair so he brought in a swivel model big enough his bulk.

What do you mean, wait for what?

You were saying that Mr. Liu or someone serves tea and waits.

They know anyone who comes upstairs will eventually buy something old and very expensive. Maybe it takes several visits and a lot of tea and polite conversation before decision time. But when they finally to get down to dealing, they might spend thousands, and they'll come back. Sonny knows that, so he gives them great tea and no pressure.

Chapter 6

Michael wished he were in his Evergreen office, a large, airy room with big windows. Here feeling cramped, he automatically tucked his elbows in as he picked up the phone.

Sonny, I'll be in Sacramento Wednesday next week checking out a site for one of our buildings, probably finish mid afternoon. How about dinner? I could come down.

Sorry Michael can't. Could on Thursday if you stay over. Shanshan would like that, and maybe her sister could join us.

Yes I can stay, and I'd enjoy seeing Shanshan, but please stop trying to fix me up with Wenmin. It's just not going to work, didn't before and won't ever.

Yeah, yeah, ok. So, I suppose you have someone new. I know that tone.

"Nothing to share on that subject. Hey, if you do invite Wenmin to join us, it's because you want her to come. She might be almost as beautiful as Shanshan, and you might love her as a sister, but you and I both