Chapter 1 — The Garden of Reflection

This sealed urn contains nothing but the mortal ashes of the late Mr. Steven Wong.
—Roger Cerdeña, Funeral Service Director, Pasay City, Metro Manila

There is no marker where the Paper Fan’s ashes are buried. The Schlipfs, Kosakas, and Holts are remembered with bronze plaques, but the Triad official has only an empty square of fescue to show for his life. “You’re sure this is his plot?” I ask Kein Battistone, the Forest Lawn Cemetery’s family service counselor.

Kein takes a step forward from where he stands discreetly behind me. Hands behind his back he bows slightly as he says, “Absolutely, Mr. Gould, that’s his plot, I’m positive.” He pulls from his breast pocket a photocopied map, shielding it from the rain with his palm. “Wong, Steven Lik Man. 1992. The Garden of Reflection. Row 2–C, Plot 582.” He kneels and pats the forlorn-looking bare spot. “Steve’s urn is right under here, I can assure you.”

I consult my own map and scan the terrain. Everything is as Chuck “the Chink” Gough drew it after Steve’s death. I’m eight paces east of a pretty copse with a pond in the middle. Orange carp are nuzzling the surface of the black pool and starlings squeal among the maples. Chuck the Chink, who is actually a white man, was part of Steve’s crew at the height of its ride. “I know Steve’s happy in that Garden of Reflection, Terry,” he told me. “He liked the birds and the fish, ya know. Also, the family’s got a great fucking view when they pay respects.”

I orient Chuck’s scrawled word “mountains” against the checkerboard of plaques marching up the hillside to the view, but white clouds hide the Coast Range. It has been warm and sunny for several days leading up to this ninth anniversary of Steve’s death; then, last night, an Aleutian wind blew in, laying down a sad gray shroud over Vancouver.

Kein has turned his eyes to the hidden mountains too, and appears to be thinking of something pleasant. He’s a young goateed fellow, his khaki shirt good-naturedly adorned with a Bugs Bunny tie. He seems like the kind of person I can talk to. “Key-in and Bat-a-stone,” he told me in his office, explaining how to pronounce his name. He’s done me a big favor, leading me through the thousands of graves in the rain to find Steve.

“Is it common when the family buries ashes that they don’t put a marker down?” I ask.

“Is it common?” Kein replies. He massages his goatee in thought. “Well, the marker takes two or three months to make, and then the family usually assesses their financial situation. Sometimes a family says they can’t afford it, and it just gets left there without a marker. There’s lots of different reasons. May I ask how you know Steve?”

I hesitate — a Chinese man in a trench coat has wandered up and is standing 30 feet away, looking down, a bouquet of flowers hanging from his hand. He leans forward and places the flowers on the grass, cups his hands and brings them to his forehead in a pronam. I’d thought about flowers myself, but when it came to paying for them at my local supermarket I broke into laughter. I gave them to my wife instead.

“I’m a journalist,” I tell Kein, when the man has strolled away. “I used to write about Steve — I’m writing about him now. But I’ve never been to his grave site.”

Kein looks at me curiously. “What did he do that you’re writing about him?”

“Oh, he had an interesting life,” I say. “And an interesting death.”

“Ohhh-kay!” Kein nods and narrows his eyes, surveying my pad, camera, and shoulder pack with new understanding. “So I guess he was murdered then, or —”

“There were things that went on.”

“Well, it must be drug-related. We get them allll the time. For us it’s like a common occurrence. That’s a reason there wouldn’t be a marker here. If he did something wrong, or if his death in some way involved criminals, then the family’s leaving it unmarked, because they don’t want the people to know where he is.”

“To tell the truth, Kein,” I say, “he was on the run.”

“There you go! That tells me a lot right there. The family doesn’t want anybody to know where he is.”

I ponder Steve’s blank patch, thinking of his parents, brothers, and nephews, not to mention his half a dozen mistresses, one of them married to a billion-dollar gambling racket. “It’s already been nine years,” I say.

“Well then, he must have had some heavyweight people after him. Maybe the family’s waiting a nice round ten years. Enough time for the people who were after him to forget. But then, you obviously haven’t forgotten him,” Kein laughs.

“No, not me,” I say, and snap a picture of the grass, stomped flat by the family of the Schlipfs. “I’ll never forget Steve.”

As we walk back towards the paved path I stop, dig my wallet out and give Kein my card. “Maybe you can let me know if Steve has any visitors.”

Kein tsks his tongue in regret. “I don’t know if I can do that for you. But some inside information I can give you is that we have only three spaces left here. Three hundred and ninety dollars.”

“Is that a good deal?”

“A deal!? Are you kidding? Whispering Pine is two thousand.” He points across the lawn. “Heartland is five thousand. So for this location, yes, you’ve got a real bargain. In fact, in fact — ” he says, checking his map, “you can have one right here if you want it.”

“Ten steps from Steve,” I say, looking down between my feet. If I could collar him that way, I’d do it in a second.