Blaze! Hatchet Men

by Michael Newton

  Chapter 7

  Gavin Farrell was a fat man. Not just "overweight" or "portly," terms applied as common courtesy, but fat. Though barely five foot nine, he tipped the groaning scale at three hundred pounds, straining the seams of clothing he had custom-made on Geary Street. His face was round, expanded further by a set of bristling muttonchops that may have been affected to conceal his triple chins, but which in fact only drew more attention to them. Even Farrell's feet were fat, encased in custom cowhide boots.

  At present, he was pacing his expansive office in those boots, smoking a stout cigar and muttering, "A fine kettle of fish. What will you do about it now, Kevin?"

  "Proceed as planned, sir," Kevin Gillan said.

  "As planned? It doesn't sound as if a single thing has gone 'as planned' so far."

  "It might not seem that way, sir, but we're moving forward, all the same."

  Gillan knew that he had to dance around Farrell, the proud, acknowledged—although unofficial—boss of San Francisco. Shipping magnate and importer, banker and political kingmaker, christened "King" by some, Farrell was no man to be trifled with. Once he committed to a scheme, he loathed bad news and stubbornly insisted on results.

  The penalties for failing him could be severe.

  "Perhaps I'm blinded by your promises," King Farrell said. "What is the progress you refer to?"

  "First, the tong war coming up in Chinatown. Second, the Native Sons are growing like a house afire, and—"

  "That's a poor analogy, Kevin. A house afire burns down; it doesn't grow."

  "Sorry. I meant to say—"

  "Move on."

  "Um ... right. And third, I'm ready to give Beauregard his sendoff, any time now."

  "Which, if I recall, was scheduled for today."

  "The shooter spoiled it," Gillan granted. "But the day's not over yet, sir."

  Seated in a corner, Captain Brogan cleared his throat and interjected, "Sorry to intrude, sir, but we just might have another problem."

  Farrell stopped pacing and turned to face the captain through a haze of fragrant smoke. "What other problem?" he demanded.

  "It's the Blazes, sir," Brogan replied.

  "The blazes? Are you drunk? What in pluperfect hell are you babbling about?"

  Gillan stepped in to save the copper. "Gunfighters for hire, sir. J.D. Blaze and his wife, Kate."

  "She's quite the looker, that one," Brogan said, then withered under Farrell's glare, muttering, "Sorry, sir."

  "Gunfighters?" Farrell looked baffled. "What have they to do with us?"

  "Beggin' your pardon, sir," Brogan chimed in. "They've turned up three times now: at Beauregard's last night; outside again, this morning; and an hour since, in Chinatown, meetin' with Chen Jinguang at Kwong Duck headquarters."

  Gillan rounded on Brogan, red-faced. "With Chen? When did you plan to share that with us?"

  "I just did," Brogan replied.

  "Why, you—"

  Farrell's voice cut through their squabbling. "Focus, the two of you." To Brogan, then, "What was the purpose of their meeting with the Chinaman?"

  "Can't rightly say, sir. Both of 'em told me some bullshit story about Chen naming the better spots to shop and eat in Chinatown."

  "And you accepted that?" Gillan was furious.

  "Nothin' that I could do about it," Brogan said. "Talkin' to a celestial in Chinatown hasn't been outlawed yet. We searched Chen's place from top to bottom, but we found nothin' to hold him on, much less the Blazes."

  "All right," said Farrell. "Why are they a problem for us?"

  "More like pests, so far," Brogan replied. "But if the Chinee wanted 'em to do a job for him ... who knows what it might be?"

  "Are you saying they're assassins?" Farrell pressed.

  "I wouldn't go that far, sir," Brogan said. "They walk a fine line on the right side of the law, so far as I can tell, but they're still dangerous. If you heed gossip, they've killed more men than smallpox."

  Farrell thought about that for a moment, puffing smoke, then said, "A pair like that makes enemies, the kind who carry grudges to the grave. Kevin, that sounds like something you can work with, eh?"

  Gillan was smiling, nodding, as he said, "Yes, sir. No doubt."

  * * *

  The cleanup crew had finished work at Beauregard's Emporium, and the place was open for business. Pushing through the bat-wing doors, J.D. could barely see the evidence of battle in the main barroom. Only the blank space where the backbar mirror had been blasted into smithereens suggested anything amiss.

  "They don't waste any time," Kate said.

  "Not when it's money."

  They approached the bar, ordered two beers, and stayed to drink them standing up. Before the barkeep turned away, J.D. asked him, "What can you tell us about signing up to join the Native Sons?"

  The barkeep cocked an eyebrow at them and replied, "Well, first thing, it's the Native Sons, not Sons and Daughters. Ladies aren't admitted—meaning no offense, ma'am."

  "And none taken," Kate assured him, with a frosty smile.

  "For men, unless they join up at a rally like we had this morning, someone who's a member has to vouch for 'em and guarantee their good behavior."

  "But the ones who join at rallies get a pass on that?" J.D. inquired.

  "No, sir. The Native Sons has got its own committee of investigation, lookin' into applications, checkin' references."

  "So, not just anyone can join," J.D. confirmed.

  "Course not. First thing, you have to be a white man, native born and Christian. That bit keeps the Jews out, see? You have to stand against pollution of the USA by foreign breeds and creeds, includin' Injuns."

  "So, a white America, far as the eye can see?"

  "That's it, in a nutshell," the barkeep said. "You want an application, go to Sandy Goodhue's law office on Lombard Street. He'll get you started."

  "Thanks," J.D. replied. "I just might do that."

  "You will not," Kate hissed at him, once the barkeep had moved on.

  "Don't worry. I'm not joining any bunch of lunatics," he said. "Not that they'd trust a new recruit with any of their secrets, anyway."

  "What, then?"

  "I'm not sure yet, but— Hey, what's this?"

  Kate followed J.D.'s gaze and spotted Emile Beauregard descending from the second floor, taking his time, resplendent in a white suit and a matching sling, cradling his wounded arm. The boss of Beauregard's Emporium moved to the bar and raised his good hand, whereupon the barkeep hurried over and produced a bottle they kept tucked away from prying eyes.

  "The good stuff," J.D. said.

  "The owner's private stock," Kate added.

  "Think I'll just go introduce myself."

  "And me," she said. "Remember who's in charge."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The very white man—hair, mustache, suit, sling, even his shoes—saw them approaching as he sipped a double bourbon. Setting down the glass, he turned to face them with a practiced smile. "Welcome to Beauregard's Emporium," he said, not quite the voice J.D. remembered from that morning's rally.

  J.D. introduced himself and Kate, then said, "I hope you're feeling better, Mr. Beauregard."

  "Merely a scratch. So far, my enemies have barely laid a finger on me."

  "Still, it must be tough," J.D. allowed. "Building a place like this and holding onto it, with all the competition on the Coast, and now the Chinamen. They seem to have it in for you."

  "They hate white men," said Beauregard. "And coming from a heathen land of despotism, ruled by emperors, they hate our faith, our very freedom."

  Frowning, Kate asked, "Why do you figure they sail halfway round the world to get here, then?"

  "Why, ma'am, isn't it obvious? They want what we have in the Land of Opportunity. Give them a salary, they send it home to import more celestials. We're being occupied by stealth, and most Americans don't even recognize it yet."

  "That's where the Native Sons come in," J.D. surmised.

 
"Are you a member, sir?"

  "Not yet, but we were at your gathering this morning, when you had your ... accident."

  "No accident," said Beauregard. "It was a foul attempt to silence me, but the celestials have failed. Now, if you would excuse me..."

  "Absolutely. Pleased to meet you," J.D. said.

  "Crafty or crazy?" Kate half-whispered to him as the man in white moved toward the barroom's exit.

  "I don't know yet," J.D. answered. "But I'm aiming to find out."

  * * *

  It was a fair hike back to Chinatown, but Kevin Gillan didn't dawdle on the way. Kot Bocheng may have been surprised to see him for the second time that day, but if so, nothing showed on his bland face.

  "What is it that you wish, this time?" the tong boss asked.

  "Two meddlers. White. The man's called J.D. Blaze, his wife is Kate. Not that you'd care."

  "What of them?"

  "They were in the bar last night, when your four men went down. Same thing this morning, at the rally."

  "Many other whites were also present, yes?"

  "But none of them sat down with Chen Jinguang in Chinatown this afternoon, far as I know."

  Was that a tiny ripple of emotion on Bocheng's face as he asked, "They met with Chen?"

  "I have it straight from the police. When they went in to raid Chen's place, they found the Blazes sittin' with him like a pair of long-lost pals."

  "That is ... unusual," Bocheng allowed.

  "Same thing I thought. And maybe dangerous, for both of us."

  "How dangerous?"

  "They're gunfighters and bounty hunters. Word is that they help the law sometimes."

  "And you believe they know of your activities?"

  "If you mean our activities," Gillan replied, "it's possible. Old Chen could tell 'em plenty, if he wanted to."

  "To undermine our plans?"

  "Wouldn't surprise me," Gillan said.

  "You have the means to deal with them," Bocheng replied. Telling, not asking him.

  "I do, but that might be too obvious."

  "And you prefer that one of my men take the risk."

  "Seems like the last thing they'd expect."

  Bocheng considered it, then said, "It can be done, but it will place you in my debt."

  "I didn't know that friends kept score," Gillan replied.

  "We are associates, not friends," the Chinaman corrected him. "We have a common interest in mercenary terms alone."

  "All right. So, will you do it?"

  "Where may they be found?"

  "They're staying at the Grand Hotel, a front room on the second floor, right over Market Street. It's hard to miss the woman. She's a spunky little blonde with big—"

  "Enough. They shall be found and dealt with suitably."

  "And soon," said Gillan.

  "If the opportunity presents itself. We do not want a repetition of this morning's error, eh?"

  "We do not," Gillan readily agreed.

  "Then leave the rest to me."

  "And if you fail?"

  "Fear not. I have a man in mind who owes his life to me. Today I will collect that debt."

  "What about the other item we discussed?"

  "I have it here," Bocheng replied. Opening one of his desk drawers, he reached inside, withdrew a paper bag, and placed it on the desktop with a solid thunk. "As you requested."

  Gillan took the bag without examining its contents, slipping it beneath his jacket as he rose to leave. "I'll be in touch," he said.

  "I have no doubt of it," Bocheng replied, still seated with his fingers interlaced atop the desk, no offer of a parting handshake for a mere acquaintance.

  Gillan knew he should be feeling better as he walked away from Chinatown, but Bocheng's certainty had not convinced him. On his end, there was a dirty job that still demanded personal attention, and it couldn't wait much longer. Time was wasting. He could feel it slipping through his fingers like beach sand.

  But they were close now, so damned close that he could almost taste it.

  Just another day or two, and he'd be well placed for completion of his master plan. It would surprise some folks in San Francisco, absolutely.

  And one fat man in particular.

  Chapter 8

  The walk back to the Grand Hotel was uneventful, thankfully. It gave J.D. and Kate a chance to talk about their busy morning and the strange job offer from the leader of the Kwong Duck Tong. There'd been no time for them to talk it out after police arrived, and J.D. saw a problem in the way they'd left it hanging.

  "Do you think he's marked us down as going for it?" he asked Kate.

  "He made the offer," Kate replied, "but since we never answered him, no court would see it as a binding contract."

  "Wasn't any court I had in mind," he said. "Tong hatchet men don't normally resort to lawyers when they have a grievance."

  "Hatchet men? Why do you call them that?"

  "Last night at Beauregard's," he said. "The five who came in late?"

  "Yeah? What about them?"

  "You recall the one who got away?"

  "He had some kind of sword, it looked like," Kate replied.

  "A cleaver, actually. In their fights, the tongs are famous for them. Not exactly hatchets, but they use those, too, from time to time. It's just a nickname someone hung on them, way back."

  "You're thinking Chen might take it badly if we don't deliver on the deal he offered? Even if we didn't say we'd take it?"

  J.D. shrugged. "I hate to sound like someone from the Native Sons, but who knows how they think? Maybe the same as any other criminal."

  "And most of those aren't fond of taking 'no' for an answer," Kate said.

  "Now you've got it."

  "Well, hell."

  "Maybe it's nothing," J.D. said.

  "I hate to think about it on an empty stomach."

  "Lunch?"

  "Long as it's not Chinese."

  It wound up being seafood. Kate ordered clam chowder and a lobster tail. J.D. went for the oysters Rockefeller—so-called because the rich sauce had reminded its creator of America's wealthiest oilman, John D. Rockefeller—and backed it up with stuffed fillet of sole. Add wine, and they had quite the banquet on their hands.

  When they had polished off the lot, J.D. rocked back and said, "I don't feel much like chasing anyone around, right now."

  "Not even me?" Kate asked.

  "How far'd I have to run?"

  She kicked him underneath the table, then said, "How about upstairs?"

  He smiled and said, "I reckon I could manage that all right."

  "Come on, then. Let's find out."

  They took their time climbing two flights of stairs to reach their floor, then slowed down further on the walk to reach their room. Again, they had the hallway to themselves, and Kate was ready with her Colt as J.D. keyed the lock and pushed the door open.

  Nothing.

  "I'm finding out that cities make me nervous," she advised him. "This one, anyway."

  "Not quite the honeymoon you hoped for, is it," he replied, as he secured the door behind them.

  "Oh, I'm not complaining about that part," she assured him. "But the rest of it..."

  "Is locked outside for now."

  "Well, then."

  Their undressing lacked the urgency of last night's rush, but Kate and J.D. didn't dawdle, either. Two short minutes saw them naked on the bed together, Kate about to mount him for a gallop, when she glanced up from his supine form and said, "Damn it!"

  J.D.'s eyes rose up her torso, to her face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "We didn't shut the curtains."

  "So?"

  "So, anyone across the street can watch us."

  "Let 'em," he replied, smiling.

  "J.D.!"

  "No part of you's embarrassing," he said. "And I'm just proud as punch to be here."

  She peered down at J.D. through a fall of golden hair. "You like an audience, these days?"

  "I never
thought about it, but..." He rolled his hips, the evidence of his excitement grazing Kate.

  "Oh, my. It does excite you," she observed.

  "No, you excite me," he corrected. "But a little twist of something never hurts."

  She clutched him tightly. "How about a little twist of this?" she asked him, grinning evilly.

  He feigned alarm and said, "In front of witnesses?"

  "All right, Mister. You asked for it."

  "And do I get it?"

  Guiding him inside her, Kate replied, "You bet my ass, you do."

  * * *

  Cáo Rongjin was thankful for the opportunity to clear his name. He was the sole Chee Kong survivor of the fight at Beauregard's Emporium, the night before, and had escaped without a scratch, also without a round-eye's blood to grace his cleaver's blade. In truth, he had survived to warn his master of the raid gone wrong, but even that quick thinking might lead some tong brothers to regard him as a coward.

  This day's errand should restore his reputation—or, at least, a part of it.

  He crouched atop an office building on the southeast side of Market Street, facing the Grand Hotel. The place he'd chosen offered clear views through the hotel's second-story windows, none of which appeared to have their curtains drawn at midday on this working afternoon. Most of the tenants, Cáo assumed, were out, but those he had been sent to deal with were engaged in love games, happily oblivious to anything outside their rented private world.

  Cáo watched them through a pair of small binoculars, the kind some round-eyes carried to the opera. Few whites knew or acknowledged that the first performances of operas in San Francisco were by Chinese companies, beginning in the early 1850s. Even now, the city's only opera house was located in Chinatown.

  No matter.

  With the glasses, Cáo Rongjin could watch his targets rutting, both stark naked, with the woman dominant. He did not understand their ways, and felt only the faintest stirring of arousal at the sight of her pale flesh, round breasts, and yellow hair. Perhaps, if she were bound and taught some discipline...

  "Wanglè," he warned himself, aloud. Forget that. He had not been sent to spy, but to eliminate.

  Cáo's tool for that job was a Winchester Model 1866, the "Yellow Boy" model nicknamed for its receiver's bronze and brass gunmetal alloy. The lever-action repeater held fifteen .44-caliber rimfire cartridges in its tubular magazine, with one already in the firing chamber.