By the time they reached his home in Pacific Heights, Chan was sweating and feeling light-headed. Hank Lee offered a supporting arm as they walked from the street to the front door.
“Look,” said Hank, pointing to the lānai, “a letter.”
Chan saw the letter sitting in front of the door. Hank bent down and picked it up. “Hmmm, it’s addressed to a David Han. The address is right. They just left off the C.”
As they stepped inside, Chan explained. “That’s the third one. Maybe Mrs. Watson got it again by mistake and brought it over.”
“Mrs. Watson?”
“My neighbor. She had one the other day and brought it to me. I got one that day, too. The other two were charge card offers.”
“This one looks like one of those, too,” said Hank. “They’re getting popular, these charge cards.”
He helped Chan to his bed.
“Hank, I need some aspirin to cut this fever. It’s in the cabinet above the kitchen sink.”
While the coroner retrieved the aspirin, Chan opened the envelope. Sure enough, it was a very short application for a MasterCard.
“I don’t get it,” said Chan. “What is it with these charge cards? Why is everyone so bent on piling up debt.”
Hank handed him the aspirin and a glass of water. “Well, a lotta folks want to have things they can’t have, and paying over time is a good idea for them as far as they’re concerned. You know, it’s called instant gratification. That’s a real thing.”
“That’s a real problem, is what it is,” said Chan, lying down. “I’ve got my Shell gas card, and that makes me nervous enough.”
“I don’t have one of these you can use everywhere yet,” said Hank. “I’m too old for long-term debt. I could be dead before I can pay it off, so my wife and kids would have to deal with it. I don’t want to saddle them with that.”
“Yes,” said Chan, drifting off. “We have to take care that we don’t pass on the price of our bad habits to our kids.”
Hank watched Chan fall asleep and then went out to make some tea. After the water boiled, and as he was stirring his tea, he heard a loud cry. He ran to Chan’s room and found him lying on the floor, calling out.
“David, David, what’s wrong.”
Chan kept mumbling and seemed unable to wake up.
Hank managed to sit him up against the bed. “David, wake up!” He began shaking him.
Suddenly Chan awoke. He gasped for air. “I’m burning up. The fire.”
“What? No, David, you’re okay. There’s no fire.”
Chan’s body relaxed. “The fire, Hank. I know why I was there. At Pier 13. Someone knocked me out when I went to check out Jasmine Komine’s apartment. I was about to knock on the door, and someone hit me over the head. They took me to the warehouse and set it on fire.”
“Who, David? Who hit you?”
Chan shook his head, now fully conscious. “I don’t know. I don’t know why they took me to the warehouse of my dreams. But they took me there, and I was supposed to die in that fire.”
Hank nodded. “Okay, David, okay. Let’s get you back in bed.”
After he’d settled Chan in, Hank Lee went to the phone to call Chan’s partner.
“Eh, Hank, what a coincidence,” said Kelso. “I was just gonna call you guys. How’s da boss doing?”
“Well, it’s my shift. I’m watching him right now. He’s not well, but he does know now, he thinks, how he got to the warehouse. He says when he was about to knock on Jasmine Komine’s door – sorry, what he thought might be Jasmine Komine’s door – someone hit him over the head and took him there. He says he was supposed to die in that fire there. Specifically right there. If he’s correct, then it sounds like whoever did it, did it to make some kind of point.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Kelso.
“Because it’s not random, right? Why not just kill him on the spot outside Komine’s door? Or anywhere else, for that matter? Why take him all the way over to Pier 13, a place he dreamt about? There’s got to be a reason, right?”
“Yeah, that’s true, Hank. Eh, so Hank, get this. I tracked down that Jason Li‘ikini in California. He’s alive, all right. Just got off the phone with the guy. You never gonna guess who was the guy taking care his house.”
“Who?”
“Harry Wong.”
Lanning Lee 