The Chinese Jars by William Gordon

says it’s worth about thirty dollars,” said the interpreter.
    â€œThirty dollars for some grass. What times we live in!” exclaimed Charles.
    â€œJust a minute,” said Samuel. “You see that piece of paper holding one of the packets of bills? It has some printing on it. It looks like part of an address. It has the number 838 and nothing else.” He took his notepad out and wrote down the number.
    â€œIt doesn’t mean much,” said the examiner. “It was just used to hold the bills together.”
    â€œYou never know,” said Samuel.
    Charles puffed up as much as his tired frame allowed. “We’re going to take possession of this evidence in the name of the people of the United States of America. This document allows us to do that.”
    He showed the search warrant to the interpreter, who in turn showed it to Mr. Song.
    â€œYou are welcome to the entire contents of the jar,” said Mr. Song, through the interpreter, “because you presented the claim check. But the jar belongs to the shop, so you can’t take it.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Song, we must take it,” said Charles. “We’ll hold the evidence in it until we decide if a federal crime has been committed. If there is no reason to hold onto it, we’ll return it to you.”
    â€œThe material in the jar is not mine, it is yours,” responded Mr. Song through the interpreter. “But the jar belongs to Mr. Song’s Many Chinese Herbs, and it will not leave here.”
    â€œWe can pay you for it,” suggested Samuel.
    â€œIt’s not for sale,” replied Mr. Song, who by now had lost the proverbial patience of his race and was furrowing his brow.
    â€œI’ll give you a receipt for the jar from the United States government,” said Charles. He took a sheet of Justice Department stationary from his briefcase and wrote a detailed list of all the items he was taking from the shop. The interpreter read them off to Mr. Song.
    â€œIs this white man deaf or demented?” Mr. Song asked.
    But the interpreter thought better than to translate it. Instead he explained, “Mr. Song is desolate because if the people on the street see you leave with his jar they will spread the word, and he will lose his good reputation. How could the people confide in him if he allowed just any white man to leave his establishment with one of his jars underneath his arm?”
    â€œListen, Mr. Song,” interrupted Charles. “Here’s the receipt for everything. You keep it until the case is over. Then, everything of yours will be returned to you,” and he slammed the paper down on the countertop.
    Exhausted, Charles motioned to the examiner, the two marshals, and the interpreter that they should follow him out of the shop while at the same time he was cursing the albino, his assistant, and the infernal bells above the door that wouldn’t stop tingling.
    â€œCall me tomorrow, Samuel. I can’t think straight right now,” he said.

7
Rafael in a Muddle
    S AMUEL WENT to Camelot at an ungodly hour of the morning because Melba had woken him up with the bad news that Rafael had been arrested. He found Blanche effortlessly carrying cases of beer from the storeroom to the bar dressed only in a top, short pants and work boots. He tried to help her but the boxes were too heavy for him. Then Melba came out of the office. Samuel heard her. She’d been on the phone talking to important clients of the bar, trying to find someone who could help Rafael.
    â€œWhat happened?” asked Samuel.
    â€œI told him a thousand times to take that goddamned net off his head!” exclaimed Melba.
    â€œThey arrested him because of that?”
    â€œNo, they caught him with a stolen machine. I don’t know what kind, but it looks like it’s valuable. They searched the bar and his house. His mother was beside herself,” explained Blanche.
    â€œWhat can