The Dragons of Heaven

by Alyc Helms

  The door opened before I could even knock. Not an auspicious beginning.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Jack had shucked his coat and tie – or perhaps he never wore them when working from home. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. He crossed his arms and leaned against the jamb, still glaring. He couldn’t fool me. He’d been worried. His eyes flicked over the sling that kept my arm pinned to my side, and the glare softened.

  “Dammit Missy, why didn’t you call?”

  I had a host of excuses, but the truth was that I hadn’t been accountable to anyone but myself for ages. Calling him hadn’t even occurred to me – not an answer I could give.

  “I’m sorry?” I offered, knowing it wasn’t enough.

  He sighed, and his jaw clenched and unclenched, then he uncrossed his arms and stood aside to usher me in.

  “I was about to have dinner. Mac’n’cheese. There’s enough for you if you want.” Food was Jack’s main form of emotional expression. Mac’n’cheese. Comfort food. He had been worried.

  “You don’t strike me as the mac’n’cheese sort.” I followed him back to the kitchen, a cheery room with shining porcelain fixtures from the early part of the twentieth century. Yellow daisies dotted the white curtains over the sink. Jack stood in front of a retro white stove, scooping something out of corning ware. It did not look like any mac’n’cheese I’d ever seen. I sat at a little round table. Jack glared at me over his shoulder.

  “Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook just because I’m feeding you. What happened to you? Last I knew, you were staking out the theater. What happened to your arm?”

  Telling him I’d been shot would derail all other conversation topics, and I’d come with an agenda. “Things didn’t go as planned,” I said. “I pulled a muscle and got in the way of the good guys.”

  Jack set a plate in front of me. There was macaroni, and there was cheese, but that’s where the resemblance to the familiar boxed variety ended. Jack’s mac’n’cheese flowed out in a thick, creamy mass from underneath a cracked brown crust. The cheese was the color of fresh cream, with chunks of tomato and some thinly-sliced pinkish meat that I couldn’t identify.

  “Is this bacon?” I prodded at it with my fork.

  “Prosciutto,” he said as he sat across from me. At my look, he shrugged. “What?”

  “This is not mac’n’cheese. This is some frou-frou dish masquerading as mac’n’cheese.”

  “It is so mac’n’cheese.”

  “Really? What kind of cheese did you use?”

  “Look, just because the cheese wasn’t toxic orange and from a tin-lined pack doesn’t mean it isn’t mac’n’cheese.”

  “Nice evasion,” I said. “What kind?”

  “Gorgonzola and gruyere with crème fraiche.” He refused to meet my eyes.

  “Aha! I thought so!” I crowed. I took a triumphant bite, and damn if it wasn’t the best mac’n’cheese I’d ever tasted.

  “Nice evasion,” Jack parroted while I was lost in cheesy bliss. “So, mind telling me the real reason you’ve shown up three days late with your arm in a sling?”

  “I’m not cut out for this, Jack.”

  “Glory, hallelujah! The girl finally speaks some sense.”

  I ignored him. He’d been trying to get me to stop almost from the moment he found me. “I thought having super powers and being Mr Mystic’s granddaughter would be enough, you know? That the Argent Ace legacy was in my blood or something. But it’s not. I realize that now.”

  “No shame in walking away from this, Missy. Most people wouldn’t even have tried in the first place. It’s too dangerous. Your grandfather knew what he was doing. You don’t. Maybe he would have trained you if he’d stuck around, but…” Jack trailed off. Mitchell’s abandonment was a sore point with me, one we’d wordlessly agreed to avoid. Jack was convinced my grandfather had his reasons for leaving. I couldn’t imagine a reason good enough for what I’d had to go through after he’d gone.

  “You’re right,” I said into the awkward silence. I shook off the glums, conviction and volume returning as I spoke. “He did have training, and he didn’t get it by sitting around on his ass or jumping straight into the thick of things.”

  It was Jack’s turn to look wary. “I’m not going to like wherever this is heading, am I?”

  No, he wouldn’t. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

  “I’m gonna need money. And a passport. Oh, and my grandmother’s pearls. They’re still in the safety deposit box, right? I’ll definitely need those.” I straightened my shoulders, winced at the sharp twinge the movement caused. “I’m going to China.”

  THREE

  The Great Wall

  Now

  Tsung Investment Capital’s main offices were on the 36th floor of the Transamerica Pyramid in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. The reception area was all sleek lines, ebony moldings, and walls of dove gray with seating in leather-and-chrome. The receptionist wore the deceptive mien of a pretty girl in the bookish vein: dark-rimmed glasses and retro-librarian cardigan. It was a front. Cerberus guarding Hades didn’t do his job half so well.

  “I am sorry, Mr Masters, but Mr Tsung has only just returned from Shanghai and isn’t available to see new clients today,” she said, the steel beginning to show through the velvet of her voice. It was possible that I was being a level of pushy she hadn’t been trained to deal with.

  “I will be happy to wait as long as it takes. Your chairs are exceedingly comfortable. Could I trouble you for another cup of tea?” I wondered if she’d plied me with tea so Tsung could slip out while I was in the restroom. But I’d been plied by greater masters than her. I was betting that she’d break before I did. I’d seen her buzz enough people in at this point that I could probably figure out the mechanism if she would just abandon her post.

  She smiled at me, a very pointed sort of smile that would earn her a trip to the dentist if she kept it up. Before she could think of another polite way to tell me to piss off, another woman who could have been her older sister emerged through the guarded doorway.

  “Mr Masters? I apologize for your wait. Mr Tsung will see you now. May I take your coat and hat?”

  Only years of cultivating an unflappable mien kept my jaw from dropping. I hadn’t really expected anyone to cave. My stubbornness grew from my fury at the verdict on my motorcycle: unsalvageable. David Tsung wasn’t much of a target, but he was the only one I had.

  I touched the brim of my hat. The receptionist had offered the same, and rationally I knew it was only good manners, but it felt for all the world like they were offering to strip me of my armor before a duel. My hat in particular always left me in a quandary. Etiquette dictated that I remove it indoors, but I relied on the shadow it cast – augmented by my own powers – to conceal my face.

  “No, I’ll keep them, thank you.”

  “Of course. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Water?” More tea. Interesting that she didn’t offer coffee, but I presumed it was due to the international nature of the business. In most parts of the world, tea was the drink of the civilized palate.

  “Nothing for me, but thank you all the same.”

  We arrived at a conference room, one windowed wall exposing the interior to the view of anyone passing: an aquarium for the sharks of the business world. The assistant opened the door and ushered me through. The shark inside stood to greet me.

  “Mitchell Masters? David Tsung. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  David Tsung was Lao Chan’s new Cho Hai, the public face of the Shadow Dragons in San Francisco. Any official business went through him, and most unofficial business as well. As faces went, it was a good one. Mid-thirties, fit and handsome, Brooks Brothers suit, an MBA from Wharton, and regular mentions in all the major periodicals frequented by the Wall Street set. He wasn’t just the face of the Triad. His was the face of international business in the twenty-first century.

  I shook his hand, taken ab
ack by the enthusiasm of his greeting, and then sat at his gesture. Compounded with his assistant’s cordial treatment, I was starting to wonder if they knew my reason for being here.

  Apparently not. “It’s wise of you to take advantage of the current downturn to diversify your assets. I’ve taken the liberty of running a basic analysis of your holdings on public record.”

  He pushed a sleek bound folder across to me. I laid my hands on it, blinking down at the little logo in the corner: the silhouette of a turned shoulder and tilted-down fedora in profile. It looked too tailored to be stock art; had they made it just for me?

  If they had, it meant that newly-returned or not, David Tsung knew I’d be seeking him out, and he’d had enough time to put such a portfolio together. The information in the binder was either a lure or a warning. Be our ally, and we can make you rich; go against us, and we can destroy you.

  I pushed the binder back towards my host.

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr Tsung. I’m not here to discuss my investments, but rather to arrange a meeting with the head of your board of directors. I have urgent business with Lao Chan.”

  “I am sorry, Mr Masters. Truly sorry. Mr Chan is in the midst of some important negotiations and won’t be available until they are completed. It may take several days. I hope no insult is taken.”

  Of course he would hope that. It was possible he didn’t know about my motorcycle or the Dogpatch bust. Possible he’d been shunted off to Shanghai for that very reason. A Cho Hai wouldn’t get his hands dirty with a Triad’s illegal work, but he was vital for maintaining face. I’d assumed Mr Tsung had risen to such a prominent position at such a young age because he was being groomed to take over, but did that mean he was in the loop, or deliberately kept out of it?

  “No insult, of course,” I assured, trying to read beyond Tsung’s apologetic smile. “But Mr Chan did send me a clear message that we had urgent business.”

  I couldn’t come right out and accuse Tsung’s boss of attacking me. That would be rude. Lao Chan had done me the favor of not killing me, so by his reckoning, I should now be in his debt. I’d lived in China for years, and I still struggled with all the nuances of guanxi.

  David Tsung registered polite confusion at my claim. “I am surprised that he would take the time away from his current business to do so. Do you have a copy of this message?”

  No, you smug bastard. Because my vintage Triumph is a burned, twisted husk in some junkyard now. But I didn’t say that.

  “I’m afraid I neglected to bring it with me,” I replied.

  Tsung’s confusion turned troubled but sympathetic. He was so good at this that I wondered if his undergrad degree might be in theater. “You understand my quandary. I’m certain that if he has business with you, he will be in contact once this current matter is seen to. I’d advise you to be patient.”

  I rose. Touched the brim of my fedora. Stonewalling was stonewalling, no matter how politely it was phrased. “I suppose I have no choice, then. Please inform him that I await his convenience.”

  We shook hands, said our polite goodbyes, and the receptionist was kind enough to help an old man all the way down the elevator and out the lobby doors. There would be no lingering in the hopes of trailing her boss to some sort of clandestine meeting. And even if I could, stalking isn’t condoned by the vigilante laws. Not even a connection with Argent could get me out of that trouble.

  But like hell was I going to be patient. If Lao Chan had business going on that was more important than his vengeance against me for the Dogpatch incident, I wasn’t going to wait until he was ready to deal with me. I’d just have to get to him some other way.

  * * *

  “What am I doing wrong?” I wailed. I usually had my solo training sessions with Johnny Cho on Sunday mornings, but Tsung’s stonewalling had me so frustrated that I’d asked for a fit-in after his Lil’Ninja class. He was being extra hard on me for interrupting his Saturday afternoon.

  “You’re dropping your shoulder.”

  “No, I know that. I mean, what am I – ooof!” The world spun cockeyed. I sailed through the air and landed hard on the mat – hard enough that I had to struggle for breath for several moments.

  A face swam into view as I stared up at the roof of the studio, cocky grin under a thatch of spiky bleached hair threaded with streaks of azure blue. The bleached part was damaged and yellow as straw. I saw kids like him slumping around the manga shops all the time, but unlike most guys who tried to rock the Street Fighter aesthetic, Johnny Cho had the power to back it up.

  Johnny was a guardian of Chinatown. Well, San Francisco’s Chinatown. All Chinatowns had guardians. It was a legacy inheritance thing, though that didn’t explain how a Korean guy got the gig.

  Johnny hadn’t aged a day in all the time I’d known him, and a bit of asking around revealed that it might have been a lot longer than that. I sometimes wondered just how much of Chinatown’s history Johnny had seen. Sure, he looked like a cosplayer’s wet dream these days, but he wore the look, it didn’t wear him. I could just as easily see him in a changshan and a coolie hat. Not the braided queue, though. Johnny was a rebel to the bone.

  He offered me a hand up. I took it, knowing it might be another trap.

  It was. He yanked me off-center, but I was ready for it. I flowed with the momentum, faking a stumble. Johnny kicked out to give my ass a nudge – he subscribed to the school that said a little friendly humiliation was a necessary part of training. I spun about, catching his foot with my free hand and sweeping his supporting leg from under him. I threw his foot up, and he tumbled back. Almost as quickly, he kipped up to his feet, grinning.

  “That’s better.” He nodded his approval of my renewed caution. “Even if I did let you have that one.”

  “I’m distracted. Help me find Lao Chan, and I’ll do better.” We circled each other. It was my turn to lead-in, but I was more interested in talking than in sparring.

  He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “After what Mr Mystic pulled in the Dogpatch? You’re laowai, and you bring laowai into our business. I’m not going to help you with that.”

  “Our business?”

  “Chinatown.”

  “Come off it. You don’t like the Shadow Dragons any more than I do. They’re shipping girls, Johnny. They blew up my bike.”

  “I’m taking care of the trafficking. Sucks about your motorcycle, though.”

  All the sympathy of someone who could teleport most anyplace he wanted to go. I grounded my stance, dug in my feet, centered my hips. “I’ll make you a deal. I down you for real, you help me find a solid lead.”

  It was wishful thinking, me being able to take him down, but maybe having that carrot to strive for would improve my game.

  Johnny’s brows rose, but he nodded. “Sure. You down me before I down you.”

  “Now, wait a–” I didn’t have time to protest. He rushed me, shoulder catching me mid-thigh. He flipped me into a fireman’s carry as he fell back, so that I’d land beneath him.

  I hit the mat with a double oof, one for the mat, and one for him as he landed atop me. I was breathless for the second time in as many minutes.

  Johnny rolled off me, propping up on his elbows to wait while I caught my breath.

  “No fair! What was that? I wasn’t even ready,” I complained.

  “It’s called a teaching moment. The world doesn’t wait for you to be ready, and it doesn’t play by your rules.” He flicked my nose. “You need to review your Sun-Tzu. You aren’t ready to tackle Lao Chan. You’re definitely not ready for his boss to take notice of you. Don’t take the fight to them until you’re certain of your win.”

  He stood and offered me his hand again. I didn’t take it. I kipped up on my own, glaring. I grabbed a towel, wiping sweat off my face, then limped toward the edge of the mat. I still had a few aches from the motorcycle incident. I had been certain. That bust should have gone like clockwork, which meant there was an unknown that hadn’t b
een accounted for. And it gnawed at me.

  Johnny frowned. “We’re not done.”

  “I am. I’m distracted by this thing with Lao Chan, and having you condescend to me isn’t helping.” I flumped to the floor and into a series of cool-down stretches.

  Johnny sat opposite me in lotus, no longer the cocky street-punk that I could mouth back to. This was my sifu.

  “I said I was dealing with the trafficking thing. Come to our usual session tomorrow and I’ll see what I can turn up about where you miscalculated.”

  I looked up at him sideways from under one arm as I leaned over to touch my toes. “Take me with you?”

  “No.” He stood and snapped his towel at me. “And if you try to follow me, I’ll just hop around Chinatown until I lose you.”

  I beamed at his departing back. My sifu was a good sifu.

  * * *

  “Need a refill on potstickers and cheong fun,” I called as I rolled an empty dim sum trolley back into the kitchen and checked the next one to make sure it was fresh. Refilling carts was Andrew’s job. He was Doris’s eldest and heir to her dim sum empire. He took cart management very seriously.

  Johnny hadn’t shown for our Sunday morning session, which would have worried me more if he weren’t the biggest stick in Chinatown. Either he was avoiding me, or he was still busy “dealing” with the trafficking issue. Either way, all I could do was wait at the bottom of the kwoon stairs.

  Then Doris caught me waiting, and before I knew it I’d been roped into filling in for her daughters and nieces, who were off at some kind of Girl Scout Jamboree thing.

  Because the Pearl was family-owned, with Doris as chef and consigliore, it didn’t operate in the traditional fashion. There were no standard waitstaff, no outsiders coming in to rent carts, hoping to pocket the difference between what they paid and what they pushed. Instead, the kids of the extended family drew their spending money from what they could earn during the weekend rush. At least a dozen child labor laws were being broken, but nobody was going to mess up a good thing by reporting it.