Murder in Vegas

THE GAMBLING MASTER OF SHANGHAI by Joan Richter

Then three of us were hanging out in the kitchen that Saturday afternoon, when we heard the mail truck pull up at the end of our driveway. I’d come back from basketball practice a half-hour ago and was having a Coke. My mother was at the counter slicing vegetables for a stir-fry for supper that night. Dad was atthe table with the newspaper spread out in front of him. “I’ll go,” he said.

He was gone a while. Mom and I figured he’d probably run into the man next door, who liked to talk baseball, but as soon as Dad came back inside, I could tell something was up. His face had that tight look it gets when things aren’t quite right.

My mother heard him come in and stopped her chopping and turned around.

“It’s a letter from Shanghai,” he said, nodding at the light blue envelope in his hand. We could see he had opened it.

Mom stared at him. “From Shanghai? We don’t know anyone there.”

Both my parents had been born in China, but came to the states when they were little kids. They met one another in their last year at Northwestern and were married a couple of years after that. I was born in Chicago.

“It’s from Uncle Ho,” my father said.

My mother put down her knife and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “I thought Uncle Ho died in the Cultural Revolution.”

My father nodded. “That’s what I thought. That’s what everyone thought.”

By everyone, my father meant our relatives, who were scattered all over the U.S. In typical Chinese fashion we got together every few years for big reunions. The elders liked to exchange memories and tell Uncle Ho stories, which always led to talk of gambling. It seems, at a very early age, Uncle Ho had been a Gambling Master, which in Chinese lingo makes Michael Jordan a Basketball Master.

Everyone liked telling Uncle Ho stories. The relatives tried topping one another with a new piece to an old story, or an entirely new one. And since they all thought Uncle Ho was dead, it didn’t matter if the truth got bent a bit.

“Uncle Ho is coming here,” my father said.

My mother frowned. “What do you mean he’s coming here?”

“I mean here. Las Vegas.”

My mother had the next toss, but her sudden stony silence said she was deferring to my father.

The way he cleared his throat told me she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“He’s coming to Vegas on one of those casino-sponsored deals there’s been so much talk about.”

“You mean Uncle Ho is one of those ‘whales’?”

My mother sent me a look that would freeze Salt Lake.

I should have known better, but it just popped out. I dipped my head in apology and tried to look contrite. I did a retake on the “whales” story.

It hit the news a couple of months ago. American casino interests had decided to take advantage of the big economic boom in China and the Chinese centuries-old love of gambling. They were sending agents over there to scout for rich guys who liked high-stakes games. They called them whales. Once a whale was sighted, the only thing he had to do was offer some proof of his wealth, then the agents took care of the rest. They helped with visas, air travel, and hotels. It was only at the gaming tables in Vegas that the high rollers were on their own. And guess what? The casinos were counting on them losing big.

The media loved the story and ran all over the place with it. Reporters speculated about where the whales’ money came from, with edgy suggestions that it was hot, embezzled, or siphoned off from companies and corrupt government agencies. Another flyer was that the money came from smuggling-drugs, arms, trafficking in women.

A few reporters got to the practical question of how these rich guys managed to get their money out of China, since the country had rigid restrictions on currency going offshore. The conclusion was that a lot of people were getting paid to look the other way.

“The whole thing is going to start all over again,” my mother said.

She was a little off the point, but I knew what she meant. So did my father. He nodded.

Three years ago the relatives had come to Vegas. It was the off-season, rates were good, and we took over one of the small hotels on the outskirts of town. There was a swimming pool for the kids and a room large enough to have a real Chinese banquet on our first and final nights. The Strip offered plenty of entertainment of all kinds. The relatives weren’t opposed to gambling, in fact they loved it.

My parents never went near the casinos. They skirted theslots, which were everywhere, as if they sprayed the plague. The relatives didn’t quite believe it. Some came close enough to suggesting my parents were secret gamblers. It was in our blood, after all. It could be traced to Uncle Ho, which is what my mother meant when she said it was going to start all over again.

In all fairness, when someone moves here it’s sort of taken for granted that gambling is a big draw. I was only five when my parents made the move, so I don’t remember a lot, but I’ve heard their story enough times so it feels like it’s my own. We had been living in Chicago, where my father had a good job as an accountant, when out of the blue, through one of his clients, he was offered a partnership in a big firm in downtown Las Vegas. Mom freaked out. Sin City!

The two words became a drumbeat in her head, until she was driving home from work one day and heard a long-range weather forecast for the Midwest. The coming winter was supposed to be the coldest in fifty years. Record snowfalls, ice storms, and power outages. She started thinking about the bitter winds off Lake Michigan and soon she was on the phone checking out housing, schools for me and job opportunities for herself. She was a physical therapist. When she discovered she could line up a job before we even left Illinois, the deal was done. Vegas it was.

According to my mother, when the relatives got wind of our Nevada move, the phone lines crackled with so much gossip they could have caused a power failure all their own. It went on, not just for months, but years. It’s sort of quieted down, but it’s not a dead issue. And now Uncle Ho was coming to our town.

The relatives would have to be told. First, of course, that he was alive and then that he was coming here to gamble, at the invitation of the casinos. It was easy to see why Mom was upset.

She looked at my father and reached for the letter. He handed it to her and pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.

“It’s in English,” she said.

Dad laughed. “Did you think I’d suddenly learned to read Chinese?”

Neither of them had ever learned to read the language.

“How is it that your Uncle Ho knows English?”

I was careful not to laugh. Actually, Uncle Ho was my father’s relative. It’s a bit complicated. He was the youngest son of my father’s grandfather’s youngest uncle. It’s easier to say in Chinese.

My father shook his head. “I don’t know any more about Uncle Ho than you do. I never met him. All I know are the stories. You’ve heard the same ones I have.”

“Maybe he had someone write the letter for him,” I said.

This time my mother eyed me with approval. “That’s a possibility. You were right about something else, James. It looks as though your Uncle Ho is one of those whales. He’s going to be put up at one of those fantasyland hotels on the Strip.”

Now he was my uncle.

She looked at my father. “At least that means he doesn’t expect to stay with us.”

This didn’t sound like my mother at all. It seemed a little inhospitable for the legendary Uncle Ho to come all the way from Shanghai and not stay with us, if only for an overnight. We had a guestroom with its own bath, so it isn’t as though we didn’t have the space. But I kept my mouth shut.

My mother handed the letter back to my father. “He’s arriving tomorrow. You didn’t tell me that.”

The level of electricity between them had just shot up. I decided to make myself scarce. I put my Coke can in the recycling bin, mumbled that I’d be back later and went out the side door, grabbing my basketball out of habit. It was hot, but I was used to it. The court was about three blocks away. Some of the guys were bound to be there. A few shots and another pickup game wouldn’t be bad. Then I’d run home and get cleaned up again in the outside shower. I didn’t remember much about Chicago, but in terms of climate the change had been a great trade.

At supper that night we sat down to the stir-fry and steamed rice and Dad gave me the news. “We’ve decided to meet Uncle Ho’s plane. His flight from Los Angeles gets in at four tomorrow afternoon. We’ll let him decide if he wants to spend time with us.”

Somehow I didn’t think Uncle Ho would be satisfied with a quick hello at the airport, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent us the letter. But my parents were feeling their way, and there was no point in my adding to their confusion.

“How will we recognize him?”

“Your mother thought of that. We’ll take along a sign with his name on it, put it on a stick and hold it up. That way he will be able to find us. Maybe you could take care of the sign, James.”

“Sure. What should it say? Uncle Ho?”

My mother was quick to answer. “No. Mr. Ho.”

“Got it.”

The other thing they decided was not to call the relatives just yet. “It’s better if we wait until Uncle Ho gets here. There will be more to tell them after that.”

It’s hard to remember exactly what happened that next day, except that there were more surprises. We left for the airport with lots of time to spare. My parents were nervous. I was curious. When we got there, parked the car and started for the terminal, I was carrying the sign. There weren’t a lot of people around. Sunday can be a sleepy day. A lot of people go to church, although it was a little late in the day for that.

I was the first to see him, seated on a bench off to the side of the terminal entrance, in the shade of some eucalyptus trees. He was holding a sign with his name on it. He saw mine. We waved our signs at each other. His baggage was alongside him, not very much-a small suitcase and two square boxes, tied with heavy cord. A bamboo pole was threaded through a loop at the top of each box. They were identical, cube-shaped, the size that could hold a basketball.

My father apologized for being late, even though we were early. He explained we thought the plane wasn’t due for another half-hour.

It turned out Uncle Ho hadn’t come by plane. Someone had driven him from Los Angeles.

“Where are all the others?” my mother asked.

Uncle Ho looked puzzled. “Others?” he repeated.

“Your traveling companions. Your letter said you were coming with a group.”

He nodded. “They will come later. They are taking a trip to the Grand Canyon.”

Through the years, without really knowing it, I’d formed my own image of Uncle Ho-someone sort of ancient, drawn in charcoal, stepping out of the pages of an old storybook. Since yesterday, I had been trying to recast him as a high roller, wooed to Las Vegas by big gambling interests. I couldn’t get it to work. And now, here he was, in the flesh. What I saw didn’t match anything I had imagined.

It was hard for me to get a fix on his age. His hair was thick like mine, but streaked with a lot of silver. He wasn’t real old, but he sure wasn’t young. He would have been ordinary looking if it weren’t for the scar that ran from the center of his forehead down to his left eyebrow. I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d got that. It must have been some gash. Blood must have poured into his eyes.

The pajamalike pants and gray quilted jacket he was wearing sure made him look more like a peasant than a millionaire. But a lot of Chinese dress that way. Besides, during the Cultural Revolution, Uncle Ho had been a peasant. He’d been sent to the countryside to work in the rice fields. According to all the stories I’d heard, he had died there, drowned in a ditch. It wasn’t an accident.

I was a bit surprised by what my father said then, but Mom wasn’t having any trouble with it, so I guessed they must have worked it out.

“Uncle Ho, we would be glad to take you to your hotel, but if you would like to come to our house, you are welcome.”

Uncle Ho stared ahead for a minute and then responded with a nod. “I would be glad to go to your house.”

My father motioned to Uncle Ho’s suitcase. I picked it up. Uncle Ho reached for the bamboo pole and brought it to his right shoulder, balancing one box in front of him and the other behind. Another charcoal drawing slid across my mind.

My parents led the way. Uncle Ho followed and I took up the rear. We were an odd little procession.

At the car my mother suggested Uncle Ho sit up front with my father. I helped him with the seat belt. We didn’t usually drive along the Strip, unless we had to, but Dad thought it was a good idea to show Uncle Ho where he would be spending his time when he hooked up with the rest of his group.

As we approached the skyline of hotels, archways and towers,brightly lit even in broad daylight, Uncle Ho leaned forward. He nodded. “I have seen many pictures in travel brochures. But it is different, when it is real. It reminds me of when I went to Beijing for the first time and saw the Forbidden City. It can be described, but it cannot be imagined.”

Our house was in one of those residential communities that have a tidy look about them, uniformly landscaped plots, planted with cactus and shrubs indigenous to the desert, and groundcover that doesn’t need much water. Ours was a two-story with a two-car garage. On the first floor there was a large family room, kitchen and dining area, and my parents’ bedroom. The second floor had three bedrooms.

My parents left it to me to take Uncle Ho upstairs. I carried his suitcase up first and then came down to help him with the two boxes. He took one and I reached for the other. I’d been expecting it to have some weight, but it was so light, it almost flew out of my hand.

Uncle Ho chuckled. “It flies like a bird, even when the bird is not there.”

I’d already spoken more Chinese that day than I had in a year, but even so I thought I’d misunderstood him. I replayed what I thought he’d said, and it came out the same way. I didn’t get it.

I led the way into the guestroom and showed him where the light switch was and how to work the blinds. I opened the empty bureau drawers, the closet and the door to the bathroom. I demonstrated how the shower worked and decided I didn’t need to show him how to flush the toilet. If he had traveled this far, he knew what that was all about.

“I don’t know your name,” he said to me.

“It’s James.”

“That is short, like my name. Ho.”

There were a lot of questions I would have liked to ask him, but it didn’t feel right just yet. I said he probably wanted to unpack and take a rest. He should come down when he felt like it, or I would knock on his door when my mother had supper ready.

Back downstairs I saw that my parents’ bedroom door was closed. I could imagine the questions they were asking each other.

When we were seated at the dinner table that night my father explained to Uncle Ho that he and my mother had to leave for work early the next morning. “James is on vacation from school this week, so he will be here to take care of you.”

Uncle Ho nodded. “My needs are simple. I will try not to be too much trouble.”

An awkward silence began. It didn’t look like Uncle Ho was about to initiate anything and my parents had the idea that it was impolite to ask questions. We’d heard so many stories about Uncle Ho, I thought it would be great to hear his side of things.

I began slowly, wary of my parents’ reaction and a little uncertain of my language skills. I apologized in advance for mistakes I would make.

“You are doing very well,” Uncle Ho said. “You have a question to ask me, I will try to answer it.”

That put me on the spot. If I clammed up now, it would be a great loss of face. The relatives talked a lot about that.

What I really wanted to know was how he had gotten to be a Gambling Master, but I sure couldn’t start off with that.

“I was wondering where you lived when you were my age. And what sort of things did you do?”

“And you are how old?”

“I’m sixteen.”

Uncle Ho nodded. “We lived in Shanghai then. I also went to school. I was studying mathematics, but my family was poor and I needed to earn money. I raised crickets. Fighting crickets. I learned how to be a cricket handler and then to manage cricket fights. Many people came. They paid admission and they placed bets. The profits were good.” He stopped there, and I could see he was waiting for my next question.

I wasn’t sure just what to ask. I sure didn’t know anything about crickets, so I went with the obvious. “How did you get interested in crickets?”

He chuckled. “Many children in China have crickets as pets. They are good companions. You can keep them close to you at night and listen to them sing. They are small and fit in a box you can put in your pocket. There are many different kinds of cricket boxes. Some are made from dried gourds, others from bamboo, clay, and fine woods. It is said that the last emperor kept his cricket in a box inlaid with ivory and gold. Antique cricket boxes are collector’s items now.”

We heard a lot more about crickets that night, with Uncle describing a cricket fight. “Fighting crickets are very aggressive,” he said. “When two rivals enter an arena, they will jump at each other’s heads, biting sharply, until one is vanquished.”

I heard my parents leave for work the next morning and rolled over, looking forward to sleeping in. It was spring break. Then I remembered Uncle Ho. I set my alarm to sleep another hour.

When I got up I saw that my mother had slipped a note under my door. “Try to find out when the rest of Uncle Ho’s group is supposed to arrive, and what hotel he will be staying at. I’ll try to get home early, but it won’t be before five. Dad and I are driving in together, so you can use my car. You might want to take Uncle Ho on a little sight-seeing tour.”

Uncle Ho’s door was closed when I headed downstairs, but he heard me and opened the door.

“Hi, Uncle Ho. How about some breakfast?”

“I would like to show you something first.” He motioned me into the room.

He had slept in the twin bed close to the window. The quilt was neatly folded back. But it was the other bed that got my attention. Two birdcages sat on top of the bedspread.

I had understood him. “It flies like a bird even when the bird is not there.”

“I will need your help,” he said. “I must find a shop that sells birds.”

Okay. What’s a birdcage without a bird?

“The name of the shop is Fragrant Hills,” Uncle Ho said.

It just so happened I knew the shop. It was in a strip mall nextto a computer store where I’d had a summer job last year. A Chinese woman owned it.

“Fragrant Hills. I know where it is. But you just got here. How come you know about it?”

He smiled. “I will tell you when we get there.”

Okay. He wanted to be mysterious.

My mother had set two places at the breakfast table and left English muffins out on the counter, along with a bowl of fruit and a canister of tea. I turned on the kettle and reached into the fridge for milk and a carton of eggs. I thought I’d scramble some and toast the muffins. I told Uncle Ho what I had in mind.

“I will have whatever you have, but only a small portion,” he said.

He walked to the window then and looked outside, squinting. “The sun is very bright. It makes the sky look very big.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way, but he was right. Nevada has big skies.

Over breakfast I tried the same thing I did the night before, only this time I asked him about birds, not crickets.

“When I was a small boy in Shanghai, I liked to go to the bird market with my grandfather. He kept his birds in the bamboo houses you saw upstairs. He was very old and I often went with him when he took them for a walk.”

“What do you mean, took them for a walk?”

Uncle Ho chuckled. “I will show you when we go outside.”

Breakfast didn’t take long and we left the house by the side door. Uncle Ho had a birdcage in each hand, held by the rings at the top of their domes. He grinned at me and set out past the garage door for a stroll down the driveway and back, swinging the cages at his sides. “Birds like the air. It makes them think they are free.”

We got into the Toyota then and I set out for the store named Fragrant Hills. I’d looked it up in the yellow pages to be sure it was still there. Small businesses in Vegas come and go.

There were no customers in the shop when we arrived, but with all the twitters and birdcalls it was a lively place. All kindsof birds were flitting about in large and small cages, and in mini-aviaries suspended from the ceiling. Along one side there were shelves stacked with boxes of birdseed and whatever else people might want to buy for their birds.

At the far end of the shop a woman was seated behind a counter. She reminded me of one of my older aunts, who had been a dancer, and wore her hair the same way, pulled back from her face into a knot high on the top of her head.

The woman was bent over a ledger, a pen in her hand, but looked up when we entered. She stared at Uncle Ho uncertainly and then a look of disbelief moved like a wave across her face. Her hand flew to her mouth, suppressing a cry.

Uncle Ho placed the birdcages on the counter and leaned toward her. She was transfixed as he began to speak. His voice was soft and tentative at first and then gathered speed in a waterfall of words. Her hands rose to her throat and a whisper of wonder passed her lips. “Ho,” I heard her say, again and again throughout their exchange, but I understood nothing else of what they said to each other. They spoke in a dialect that was strange to me.

Uncle Ho moved one of the birdcages close to her and she reached for it, clasping it with both hands. Beginning at its dome, she ran her fingers over its intricate webbing, feeling her way, until she reached the base. There she paused and began to explore in detail. She seemed to find what she was looking for, and I saw her ease one small finger between two narrow bamboo struts. She looked up at Uncle Ho. He nodded. She pressed down hard. A drawer sprang open.

A shallow cry escaped her and she bent her head to stare at the contents of the drawer. When she looked up, there was a mixture of wonder and fear in her eyes. Frantically, she pressed her finger down again. The drawer closed, hiding what was there. What I had seen looked like a collection of dried-up brown peas.

I stepped aside to let her by as she ran from behind the counter, headed for the front door. She bolted it and pulled down the shade.

I looked questioningly at Uncle Ho. A smile was playing at the corners of his eyes. “Madam Jia has put up a sign saying the shop is closed. Her home is behind that curtain. She has invited us to go there.”

I followed them down a short corridor, lined with more shelves of bird supplies, to a door the woman unlocked with a key hidden in a jar. It opened onto a sitting room, bright with the light from a window that looked out onto a small garden. She motioned for us to sit down, and then looked toward Uncle Ho.

“I have told Madam Jia that you are a member of my family and that I stayed at your home last night. Jia and I are friends from a long time ago. Our grandfathers knew each other. As children we played in the alleys of the bird market in Shanghai. We made plans to have a bird stall of our own some day. Although they did not have names then, Jia said we would call ours Fragrant Hills.”

He smiled at the woman. “Our lives have taken different paths. I am glad you chose that name for your shop here in the United States, or I might not have found you.”

Their glances held for a moment and then Madam Jia turned to me. “Forgive us for having spoken in the language of our childhood. We will not do that from now on. Ho has many things he wants us both to know.”

“Actually there are not so many, it is just that they are complicated. You already know how I gained entry into the United States. I was invited by one of the big casinos. I am sure you are both wondering how that came about.” He smiled at each of us in turn.

“Even after so many years there are those who still speak of my days as a Gambling Master. Time and repetition of the story have magnified the truth, but that is what is believed. When the casino agent approached me, he referred to that reputation and assumed I was a wealthy man. At first I thought I should tell him that had been a long time ago, but as I listened to him I realized that my old standing would enable me to get to this country, and so I said nothing to contradict him.”

“So, it is true that you have come here to gamble?” Madam Jia was leaning forward, staring at Uncle Ho.

“Life is a gamble,” Uncle Ho said with a soft laugh, and then nodded. “It is true, now that I am here, I am expected to gamble. I know very little about the kind of gambling that goes on inside the glittering palaces on the wide boulevard you call the Strip. The only gambling I know is the betting that takes placein cricket fights. I will not find a cricket fight here, I am sure. Casinos do not like winners, so they are hoping I will lose. That might not be very difficult.”

I thought of the “whales” story again, and the big bucks the casinos expected their high rollers to play. It didn’t sound like Uncle Ho had that kind of money. It was scary to think what might happen if he reneged on his part of the bargain. The days of backstreet murders were gone, but there was still a lot of talk about those times, when a cheat could be found in an alley with his throat cut.

Something else was bothering me. It was those brown peas. I’ve seen enough old movies set in Macao and Hong Kong and Shanghai, to know something about opium dens. If those little brown pellets had anything to do with the poppy, I was in big trouble.

I set the opium thought aside for a minute and went back to my other worry. “Uncle Ho, do you have any money to gamble with?”

“If by money, you mean American currency, I do not have that. All my wealth is there.” He nodded toward the birdcages.

Madam Jia’s impatient voice startled me. “Ho! I cannot wait any longer. How did you manage to hide them all these years? You were in prison for so long, and then you were sent to the countryside. I thought you had died there.” Tears sprang into her eyes.

“You must not be sad,” Uncle Ho said. “Those times are in the past. I am here. Did you ever think that would happen?”

“Years ago I used to dream…” Hastily she shook her head, chasing the memory away. “But enough of that. I am not the little girl you chased in the market alleyways. I have lived many years. You must tell me, now. Where did you hide them?”

“I am surprised that you have not guessed.” A look of mischief sparkled in his eyes. It was clear Uncle Ho wasn’t about to be hurried. “Do you remember the caves?”

“Of course, I remember the caves! How could I forget?”

Uncle Ho turned to me. “In Shanghai there was a small mountain range near where I lived as a boy. I climbed there often with my friends. The paths were steep, with giant boulders and tall pine trees that gave off a fine fragrance when the windblew. We were always looking for treasure. We found pinecones. It was a child’s game.

“We wouldn’t let Jia come with us. She was too small, and she was a girl. But she was curious.”

Madam Jia leaned back into her chair, a quiet smile lighting her face.

“I should have known when I told Jia that we had found some caves, she would not be content to be left behind. Without our knowing, she trailed after us one day, but once she entered the caves she lost her way.

“Jia did not come home to her family that night. No one knew where she was. The next morning her grandfather came to my house and spoke to my grandfather.”

“Ho found me,” Madam Jia said, her eyes sparkling with the delight of memory. “He guessed what I had done, and he came for me. I was in a cave that had many niches carved into its sides. Before the light was gone, I counted them, from right to left and back again until I reached the top. There was one large niche all by itself. It seemed it was as high as the sky. I called it the moon niche. When Ho found me I told him that if we ever had any treasure to hide, that would be a good place.”

Uncle Ho nodded, and their glances held for a moment, sharing an old memory. “It was many years later, when the country was under Mao’s grip, that I thought of those caves. The government had been watching me and I knew one day they would come to my door and I would be thrown in prison. It had happened to many of my friends.

“I might die or I might live, but if I were to live I was determined to save my treasure for that day. I chose a dark night and made my way back to the hillside of my childhood and hid my winnings in the niche Jia had given the name of the moon.

“It would be a long time before I would return to that place and to Shanghai. I hardly recognized the city of those early years. New and towering buildings were everywhere, old ones had been torn down, streets and alleyways I had known were gone. At the foot of the hillside that led to the caves, bulldozers and cranes were in place, waiting to level the land and collapse the caves.

“I was dressed as a peasant, with a bamboo pole across myshoulder, the day that I climbed the steep hills for the last time. I found the cave I was looking for and came out on the other side, so that if someone were watching they would simply see an old man taking his birds for a walk, and not guess what treasure he had.”

Madam Jia brought her hands together at the end of Uncle Ho’s story and rose from her chair.

“The time has come for us to see your treasure. I will bring the water and the bowls you asked for.” She nodded toward a long table in front of the window. Sunlight splashed on its light blue cloth cover. “We will do our work there.”

She asked me to come with her into the kitchen. She put a large basin in the sink and began filling it with hot water and gave me a stack of dishtowels and some soup bowls to take to the table. When the basin was full I carried it there. She followed with a large sieve.

I thought about asking a few questions then, but it looked as though I’d have some answers soon. And besides, they were both having such a good time.

I stood to the side as Uncle Ho sprang open the drawers in each of the birdcages. In small handfuls he dropped the brown pellets into the sieve which Madam Jia lowered into the water. It gradually turned muddy.

“They must soak for a while,” she said.

We changed the water several times, until it finally became clear and the pellets were no longer brown. Uncle Ho counted and separated them, and Madam Jia carefully spread them on the dishtowels to dry in the sun streaming in through the window.

There were twenty-nine star sapphires, thirty-six rubies, and forty-seven emeralds, sparkling in the sun’s bright light.

Uncle Ho was a rich man.

“There were many men who did not have the money to pay their gambling debts,” Uncle Ho explained. “They paid me in gems. That gave me the idea to convert some of my other earnings into what you see here. I wrapped them in bird droppings so no one would know what they were.”

He turned to Madam Jia then. “I think it is best to wrap them now, in soft cloth, and put them back in the birdcages. It has been a safe place for many years. I will take them with me toJames’s house and think about what I should do next. But I must decide before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.

“I must be at the airport then to rejoin the group.”

“Were you supposed to go with them to the Grand Canyon?”

“Yes, but after we arrived in Los Angeles and passed through immigration, I slipped away. Since there were only six of us, it is certain that I was missed. When I join them, I will just say that I lost my way in the airport in Los Angeles. It is a confusing place.”

Maybe they’d believe him, and maybe they wouldn’t, but what I wanted to know was what happened after that. “And just like that, you found someone to drive you here? How did you manage that?”

Uncle Ho smiled. “I will tell you that at another time. We must go now.”

I got up and said goodbye to Madam Jia and told Uncle Ho I’d wait in the car for him. Madam Jia let me out through the garden.

It wasn’t long before the front door of the shop opened and Uncle Ho appeared with a birdcage in each hand. Madam Jia held the door for him. To anyone who might be watching she was just saying goodbye to a customer, not someone she had known a lifetime ago.

It was well past lunchtime when we got home. Uncle Ho said he wasn’t hungry and wanted to rest for a while and think about what he should do next. I helped him upstairs with the birdcages, aware of how much wealth I held in one hand.

I made myself a sandwich and thought about all that had happened since my parents had left for work that morning. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and went into the family room and turned on the TV. It was set to the local news channel. A bulletin came on, obviously a follow-up to a story they’d been monitoring all morning. One of the local anchors was reading an announcement.

Two helicopters collided and crashed in the Grand Canyonshortly after dawn this morning in a surprise lightning storm. There are no survivors. The bodies of both pilots have been identified. The passengers were Chinese tourists, traveling in a group. Their final destination in the U.S. was Las Vegas. There is some question as to whether there were five or six passengers on board the flights. Only five bodies have been found.

I sat there, staring at the screen, thinking I should probably call my parents, but I couldn’t imagine telling them all of this over the phone. I thought of Uncle Ho. I wasn’t ready for that either.

Another bulletin came on.

The families of the pilots have been notified of their deaths. Authorities have released the names of the six Chinese tourists who were scheduled to be aboard the two helicopters. As a special service to our viewers in the Chinese community, their names can be found on our Web site.

I went up to my room and sat down at my computer. The Web site listed the names in Chinese with English transliterations beside them. There were six names. Ho was one of them. I went back downstairs and flipped on the TV.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew my mother’s hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake. Dad was standing beside her. The TV was still on.

I sat up and stared at them. For a minute I thought the whole thing had been a dream.

“We heard the news as we were driving home,” my mother said. “It’s dreadful. I wonder if it’s the group Uncle Ho was traveling with.”

“Where’s Uncle Ho?” I asked.

“We just got home. I guess he’s in his room.”

“I’ll go check.”

I started up the stairs. All sorts of questions were chasing around in my head. One thing was sure. The next time the relatives got together, I’d have an Uncle Ho story to top them all.