Gems

© 2005, 2014 ALAN DE WOLFE. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/15/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4208-4060-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-9078-2 (e)

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About The Author

CHAPTER ONE

Whiz … CRASH! A brandy snifter flew past Tracer’s ear and splashed bits of broken glass inside the front window. Holy mackerel! he shouted. It was his first inkling of trouble.

The spot of the exact hit was somewhere between SHANGHAI and PLACE on Madame Ling’s colorful window banner, followed quickly by the scuffling feet of two men who’d met more than their match in the kitchen. A second clatter of glass, a bigger one, was the sound of a now-pulverized slab of crystal large enough to have been the display window in a downtown department store, which in fact it had been. The mass of broken shards cascading toward the street betrayed Johnnie’s poor aim and stiffened the hair on Ron Tracer’s back half. The malefactors Johnnie had in his sights ran hell-bent for the bright red doors when the crash occurred, but if Johnnie’d meant to accomplish anything by throwing his hand-held wok, it failed. The counter-productive toss served only to break his very expensive pane of flat glass and probably awaken half the south side of town.

Aaiiigh, Madame Ling screamed watching her window explode into bits of tinkling spray. Johnnie, you crazy!

The purple skin on the neck of the Chinaman worked extra hard to hold back his veins. Located dangerously between Johnnie and the front windows, Tracer had leaped off his bar stool partly to miss being crowned by the cook’s flying wok and partly to gather the long rug runner into his hands for a good hard yank.

Where you going, boys?

He curled his fingers around the tough fabric and upended the escaping men faster than their senses could understand. One of them hit his swarthy face against the door sash painfully and the other was propelled into the street outside. Parked near the front entrance was a Beemer the two men were trying to reach, but Tracer had slowed them down mostly to get a good look at them. Instead, they got a good look at him. The goon inside yelled at Johnnie as he got up and fled.

We’ll find out anyway, you know!

You will never find out! Johnnie screeched.

Find out? Find out what? Tracer wondered. It was a little dark where he was crouched and he didn’t think the two thugs got a sufficient look at him, but as they ran to the car, both purposely stared into his face for a moment wondering about his part in this episode. Something told him it didn’t bode well.

Johnnie yelled something again in deep Chinese, too deep for Tracer to guess the meaning, then stiffened his resolve for another go ‘round. Realizing that familiarity had often saved his butt during his time in the rug business, Tracer made sure he got a detailed view of the escaping men and the Beemer they were heading toward. Johnnie kept coming like a wild man despite the entreating of his wife.

You stop, Johnnie!

Again the Chinese words spouting from Johnnie were unintelligible to Tracer who was not entirely unfamiliar with the language. Jeez, Johnnie, he muttered under his breath.

The two thugs dove into their parked car and fired up the ignition. One man, the one with the glass eye, took a particularly long look at the middle-aged Caucasian as if to remember him for a future moment. To Tracer, the runner looked vaguely familiar, except for his dark skin and eye patch. The scenario involving flying glass, things to trip over and people fleeing other people seemed all too familiar to his tired mind, but in Corning?

The excited chatter of Chinese talk within the restaurant was replaced by sounds of scrubbing bumpers and broken lenses as the trapped BMW attempted to wooji its way out of a too-small parking space.

Hey, you rats! That’s my car!

Trace shouted more epithets at the driver who was rocking his car back and forth in an attempt to forge more room for escape. He ran up to the passenger’s window for a more concise expulsion, but his own indiscretion took on an amplified meaning. As the men purposely eyeballed the car he seemed to be protecting, his own, it occurred to him that they might be imprinting it for future reference. Jeez … maybe I shouldn’t have said quite so much.

A second after he heard his own voice quit, the black Beemer screamed out smoke in donuts of blue clouds, rounded the corner from Market Street to Wall and absconded into the night’s dark veil. Except for the distant wail of police sirens heading toward Madame Ling’s establishment, silence fell on the narrow main street in a town where nothing ever seems to happen. This upstate city where the manufacture of glass drives the local economy is not accustomed to having its ambiance shattered by sociopathic intruders screeching about on warm July evenings and threatening precious groups of tourists. Visitors meant a lot to this city and the mayor would rather not have them threatened with bodily harm. This bastion of peace and beauty is where the fast life slows down to an easy walk. Nothing weird or hurtful or out-of-the-ordinary happens here, usually.

The restaurant, SHANGHAI PLACE, was misfortunately located next to a biker bar, which predictably emptied when the conflagration began. The hogs seemed envious that someone other than them had dared to do the acts they felt were reserved for them. They were disappointed not to have been in on it and for once were agog with wide-eyed wonder. Even their strangest member, a thin, stringy-haired being named Dizzy couldn’t believe something happened without him. Damn, he said, walking amongst his pals. That’s what I get for going to the bathroom. As quick as the road warriors appeared on the street they went back to their drinking inside, including Dizzy, who, before reentering the establishment threw an empty cigarette pack to the brick sidewalk and spit a wad fifteen feet as always. Trace viewed the street scene through the recently opened front.

Madame Ling. What the hell was that all about?

In heavily accented English the narrow-hipped owner of the restaurant sputtered, I keel them! She made a bony little fist.

Her husband Johnnie, the Chinese chef (I am not a cook!) stood riveted to his last throwing location, puffing his face back to normal through descending shades of red and trying to regain the smiley calm he was noted for. Johnnie’s eyes darted around the bar, exposing a fear Trace had never sensed before in this exemplary chef he’d known for twenty-some years. That look reminded him of the old days in Taipei, where the sloe-eyed beauty of an Asian face, any Asian face, would send a shiver up his spine if it changed from smile to frown. He’d been away from it for a few years but, like riding a bicycle, it was a thing never forgot.

After a moment, the cops arrived to ask the usual questions. Darryl and John, Madame Ling’s loyal waiters, quickly badgered the police to get after the escaping car. The cop’s tacit reply underlined his ‘lazy’ reputation. They’re too far down the road by now.

What? I don’t believe this!

Darryl, the waiter who’d been known to follow customers down the street for a tip he thought he deserved, railed at the officer’s inadequate remark and shouted with a murderous peeve.

Well we’ve got to try!

Yeah, let’s take my car! John insisted, stepping over the shattered window frame toward his insufficient Nissan. The two American waiters, Darryl, a recent Ph.D., and John, a young world traveler, had been with Madame Ling long enough to know that occasionally she needed help only they could give. In the U.S., a Chinese émigré will deal less quickly with American trouble than will an American. The stewards were up to the challenge even if John’s car was not. Trace watched them tear down the street and smiled. Never irritate your waiters.

After the angry young men from Madame Ling’s limited wait-staff went smoking down Market Street, Ron Tracer noticed the Chinese lady’s accent become nearly uninterpretable when speaking to the puzzled officer. Her husband Johnnie had become impossible to understand. The cop wrote something on his report pad but Trace knew he didn’t have the whole story. The irascible Madame Ling had thrown a fake hissy.

The good madame had come to the U.S. while still in early high school. She and Johnnie had learned their English well. They both attended Northwestern Protestant University in Toronto and if Trace could recall correctly, her major had been languages. After the university, they went back to Taiwan to open a business now fabled in the minds of expatriates the world over. Everyone went to MADAME LING’S to see, and to be seen. Her mysterious reputation was her big draw. She never disappointed.

After this evening’s award-winning performance with the cops, Trace looked at the woman and remembered Shakespeare. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. In his thoughts, the incident left some unanswered questions, which after the cop left, begged a rejoinder.

Johnnie, I thought you could speak better than that. Johnnie forced a smile. I can recite the Gettysburg Address … with footnotes! Trace chuckled with a wincing facial gesture and pondered his friend’s nervous wife. And Madame Ling, you’ll have to stop eating the pizza from next door, your English is deteriorating. Her businesslike stare rode atop firmly pursed lips. He knew there was more to come.

I will tell you about it.

Trace’s friendship with Madame Ling ran for several years, beginning with those years when he was in the business of finding rare and exceptional Persian rugs for highbrow customers. Thank God I’m out of that, he would often remark. But his new business, trading in precious gems, had begun to look just as dangerous. Even an old friend, Altaf Ahmed in India, had said, You go from frying pan to fire! You better keep good friends like Madame Ling and me! You gonna need us! In a pensive state Trace surmised that, now and again, Altaf had been quite correct.

Altaf had retired to his native northern India a few years ago to escape the problems of a now-forgotten business. He’d made his money and wanted to enjoy his family and friends once again. Much like Tracer, he longed to be free of the dangers but still loved his favorite trading commodities, rugs, gems and sometimes gold. Trace couldn’t live in one spot for long, at least not yet. Altaf’s middle-age existence was less dangerous for sure, but his American counterpart still loved the travel and adventure. Unfortunately, the three commodities are more often entangled than not, and occasionally, the fourth item is danger.

Madame Ling’s restaurant in Taipei had been his meeting place for clients and sellers of dubious integrity during the rug years before he’d had trouble with the thugs from Hong Kong’s triads. The vicious murderers who make up the triads were just too malignant for him. Enough’s enough he had decided, and made room in his life for a newer interest - gems, mostly from Sri Lanka. It was his intention to keep it low-key and just try to enjoy it. Gems from Sri Lanka were nice, but not usually of a quality that made them dangerous to handle. It was a good life. He liked it.

He gave the rug business to his junior partner Eli and was glad to do so. Eli’s wife Jeannie proved to be an ideal mate for him and the two were happily running a successful shop in the city. Trace loved them both but was always concerned about Eli’s safety. The gemologist reckoned, He’s a big boy. He can handle himself.

So, is the good madame going to tell me all about this or not?

The Chinese lady groused around behind the bar. I got to find my cigarette.

Many a night in Taipei Ron Tracer remembered sitting in his favorite spot at Madame Ling’s with an arm draped backwards over the low rattan chair back, allowing relaxation to creep up on him, imbibing glass after glass of Zit (Zeet) and wondering if escape or disaster was in the cards that night. In Taipei, the restaurant’s back door had always been his private exit.

He and the good madame had seen lots of thugs come and go in those days. It was a delight to know that she and her husband had finally endured enough of the difficult city of Taipei and decided to open shop in a sedate town near the New York-Pennsylvania border. At least, he thought, I can see them under less stressful conditions. It was good to renew old friendships on these short trips from New York City to the western town of Salamanca, where he was still buying Native American artifacts from Billy Light, an old and gentle Seneca, and who was almost single-handedly responsible for his burgeoning collection. The relatively small Corning had the quiet world Johnny and the madame wanted for their kids. Quiet, that is, until tonight.

Are you getting back to normal, Madame?

Yes, but I need a drink with my ciggy!

Trace had searched his soul quite a bit before bequeathing the rug business to his helper Eli Whitewater, also a Native American Seneca. Since that difficult chase through Saudi Arabia two years previously, Eli had married their third adventuring friend, the former Jeannie Lipton, and settled in to a life with one of the best women Trace had ever met. The native citizen and his British wife had achieved much success after Tracer had left them the business. He and the young couple stayed in close touch.

But Eli and Jeannie were always a subject of his concern after the three of them had endured some very close escapes from the Chinese crime groups, the triads, and he wondered if those encounters with thugs would someday effect their lives again. He hoped not.

In spite of those prior difficulties, he knew that Eli’s amazing instincts defined the personality of the only one who could replace him in the rug business. When one is running from criminals of every variety one should have the instincts of a … well, Native American, Trace would think. He knew he’d made the perfect choice and was glad the couple found prosperity. Eli’s come a long way from those Indian games in Salamanca, he daydreamed, recalling the way they’d met a couple of years before.

Madame Ling broke his contemplation. The quaking Asian lady asked about Trace’s best friends. Where are your two friends?

You mean Jeannie and Eli?

Yes.

At their shop in New York. I’m heading there now.

Tell them to drop in on me again. They are a pretty couple.

I will. I’m sure they’d like to see you.

The marriage of Jeannie and Eli two years ago had been the talk of western New York. Even the madame and Johnnie had attended the affair. Tracer had uprooted the young man from his native traditions and made the happy discovery that Eli’s appetite for international intrigue was much the same as his own. He and Eli were a good pair while it lasted, but the demands of the rug business, especially when one has to run from bad people, convinced Trace to chicken-out and let Eli have the business. His new wife ran the stateside store and generally left the travel to her husband. Jeannie rarely went along on trips because the store was doing well enough to demand her complete attention. She was safer in New York anyway, which in the light of some knowledge could be an improper assumption. Trace was glad to be heading for the two-year anniversary of their store on Park Avenue in the Rotten Apple, as Jeannie called it. All he wanted, really, on his way through Corning this weekend was some exceptional Chinese food. He didn’t expect the excitement of the shattering glass in the Crystal City. Somehow the grief made him feel at home.

He spoke to a calming Madame Ling. What was that smoke screen all about?

The Chinese lady was glad to have Tracer around. As in the old days when trouble started in Taipei, Ron Tracer was always ready to jump in and lend a hand. Madame Ling had a great affection for the rugged American who always called himself chicken. They’d been friends a long time - even before Johnnie was on the scene. Her mind pondered their friendship, which was still steeping like a pot of Chinese tea and remembered that, like a pot of tea made properly, at one point it was a bit warmer than it should have been. She knew all along: Trace will help me.

While the evening breezes blew in through the vacant window frame, Madame Ling floated closer, lit a cigarette and shunted her shapely bottom onto a bar stool. The tinkle of glass that Johnnie was sweeping up with help from their only waitress Tina would go on for about a half-hour. Their movement caused the smoke from her cigarette to swirl in large lazy rings under the false bar roof and under Tracer’s nose.

Don’t you know those fags aren’t good for you?

Her loose satin blouse puffed itself out from the waist of a black split skirt, and far below, at the end of a long set of legs, a pair of red pumps accented her total look. She ignored his remark and let a slinky, sinuous gam peek nicely through the skirt’s opening. Madame Ling’s tiny black pupils slid seductively but nervously under the hood of her eyelids. She took a drag on the cigarette, sipped her clear red Bacardi cocktail and quietly confided in Trace.

"Several years ago,