© 1998
Juarez was in fine spirits. He meandered his way through San ffrancisco's Chinese market enjoying the temperate bargaining of inscrutable merchants whose restraint he could never copy; whose success he never quite understood. Their approach to business was, and always would be, foreign to him. Quiet and thoughtful their approach might seem, but he could see the cut and thrust of accomplished business practitioners. In these, as in all of Juarez' dealings, he saw adversaries who needed to be defeated.
He entered a small ill-lit shop, the proprietor of which sat behind a counter adjacent to hanging beads which separated the shop from living quarters. Set in a wrinkled face, the man's eyes were barely visible, hooded, half-closed. A peculiar aroma pervaded the establishment; an unusual smell, foreign, in as much as anything could be in cosmopolitan San Francisco. Juarez barely glanced in the man's direction, instinct telling him that there would be no pleasantries; little dialog; a seeming absence of English language comprehension until the time came for final dickering over an item's price.
Juarez peered around the poorly displayed but valuable pottery, tapestries and carvings. An excellent selection of Chinese vases and figurines held his attention for many minutes. The shop's artifacts were definitely many cuts above the junk flogged by most oriental importing emporia. A superb Changsha multi-leveled flower pot caught his attention. Lifting it gently into the range of his weak eyesight, Juarez studied the piece from all angles with incredible patience. The intensity of his inspection caused perspiration to condense on the inside of his glass lenses, close to his nose. With great care he put down the china ornament, extracted from his trouser pocket a perfectly white, immaculately ironed handkerchief. He fastidiously cleaned the glasses, wiped his face, repositioned his eyeware and pocketed the hanky. He lifted and reinspected the hundred-and-fifty-year-old piece. Almost as an afterthought he noted the fifty - six-hundred-dollar price tag, written in barely decipherable roman numerals, before carrying it to the shop's proprietor.
"I'll give you four thousand six hundred," Juarez offered.
There was no reply from the Chinese proprietor.
"There's a similar piece for four thousand five hundred, a few blocks away," Juarez lied.
The old man looked vacantly ahead, saying nothing.
"Cash." The prospective purchaser added.
The Chinaman appeared unimpressed. His silence continued.
"Did you hear me?" Juarez questioned.
Another short silence, a small movement in the wizened face. The head lowered slightly. "No think so."
Juarez squirmed, yet inwardly smiled. Price was not the issue. He could have bought most of the shop's inventory with cash carried by his man Hector, who hovered nearby.
"Okay. Four thousand eight hundred."
"You no understand. There no other in 'merica," the man said faintly.
Juarez thought, bullshit you old fart, and repeated, "Four thousand eight hundred."
"Take many men, much efforts, bring pot to 'merica. Fifty six hundred dollar. Very good price."
Juarez bit his tongue. "Four thousand nine hundred, and that's it."
The Chinaman raised a withered hand to his forehead. Softly, he spoke to the countertop, "I have rare special same piece also."
The man got slowly off his stool and shuffled through the beads which clicked about in his wake. There were rustles in the inner sanctum before he again disturbed the beads, emerging with a handsome vase which he set down before Juarez.
"It not quite so ancient. Hundred year. Fifty hundred dollars. Four eight to you." He wrote the amount on a piece of paper.
Juarez knew the game that was being played. He knew it intimately from his Mexican childhood when similar games were played with the wealthy Americanos. Switch, and switch again. The customer wanted a shirt, but elprimo seller would sell shorts, even when there were shirts available. It was a pride thing. The new piece was attractive, but Juarez wanted the tiered flower pot.
"Four thousand nine hundred for the first piece."
"Ah so. Understanding I am." The Chinaman looked at Juarez who had a funny feeling he was not controlling the proceedings. The Oriental said, "You no able to afford number one piece. Take very valuable number two piece for four eight hundred dollars. Special for you.
Juarez didn't know whether to laugh or shout. "Four thousand nine hundred for flower pot."
"So - so. Four eight hundred, no tax number two. Choice good."
Juarez exploded. "I don't want the vase. Five thousand then, for the pot, cash, no tax."
"Ah - good choice."
The old man took the proffered money from Juarez' bodyguard. Hundred dollar bills passed between the old man's bony searching fingers, one at a time, then held up to the outside light. Finally he inspected them under a UV light scanner, set out of sight against a wall. The money disappeared into the till, sale rung up.
The old man inquired, "Would sir care to have the gift wrapped?"
Juarez was stunned. In the blink of an eyelid, pigeon English had gravitated close to Queen's English. Juarez heard himself ask the obvious. "Have you ever lived in Hong Kong?"
"Sixty years," came the response. "Don't fret, the pot is genuine and a superb value at five grand, sir."
As he left the shop, Juarez grated, "A game to you, Chinese." Removing part of the wrapping paper, he commented to Hector as they walked away, "Look at the exquisite lines; the superb coloring tones. The firing. Consider..." His words were cut short as a long-haired character lurched into him. Juarez' grip on his new-found purchase loosened and the vase fell. Never a sportsman, he nonetheless performed a worthy juggle before catching the artifact close to the ground.
He had started fife in Mexico City, lived in Chicago's south side for years, he read the momentary tell-tale pressure on his jacket breast pocket before the vase fell. "Watch it," he roared. "Hector! My pocket."
There was a brief chase and scuffle before Hector grabbed the thief. Juarez, red with rage, walked up to him.
"Idiot. You chose the wrong mark. I should..." His words were cut short by a string of expletives from the punk. Juarez stepped back. He went quite pale and made a single, barely discernible, forward flicking motion with his forefinger to Hector.
Thirty yards further on, wallet in hand, Hector resumed station at his boss's side while narration of the pottery's attributes resumed. On the busy sidewalk behind them, a body writhed in its growing crimson pool. Desperately gasping for air, the slumped form's gurgling was incoherent to those good Samaritans who stopped to offer pointless assistance.