“Sounds like a good arrangement. You think he’d know something about the man I’m after?”
“Wing Ko’s got eyes and ears in just about every nook and cranny in Chinatown. At the very least he can tell you where to start looking.”
“Why would he do that?” John Henry asked. “I’d be a stranger to him. Surely he wouldn’t want to spill a lot of secrets to somebody he didn’t know.”
“I can’t make any guarantees,” Sawyer said, “but he’ll be more likely to talk to you if I send one of my men along with a note from me asking him to help you.”
“You’d do that?”
Sawyer shrugged.
“We like to stay on Uncle Sam’s good side, at least as long as it doesn’t hurt our own cause. I’ll write the note, and Wendell can take you to see Wing Ko.”
“Officer McCormick?”
Sawyer chuckled and said, “Yeah, I know, he looks like he just fell off a hay wagon, doesn’t he? But he’s smarter than he looks, and he’s ambitious.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Come back here this evening,” Sawyer said. “Wendell will have the note and be ready to take you where you need to go.”
“Any suggestions what I should do in the meantime?”
“Ever seen the ocean?” Sawyer asked.
* * *
John Henry got himself a hotel room so he’d have a place to leave his war bag, then rode a horse-drawn trolley out to the end of the line, where a short walk brought him to a beach. In front of him the Pacific stretched out to the horizon, and it was an awe-inspiring sight. John Henry wouldn’t have imagined there was that much water in the world.
The thought of sailing out onto that ocean in a ship, sailing so far that nothing but water was visible everywhere you looked, made him vaguely nervous. Some men were destined to travel the seas, he supposed, but he wasn’t one of them. He was a land animal at heart.
There was something tranquil about just standing there at the water’s edge, though, and watching it roll onto the beach in endless, gentle blue waves. The peacefulness of it washed through him. For a time he could forget about all the violence and trouble that usually filled his life.
After half an hour of standing there, he shook himself free of the ocean’s hypnotic hold and went back to swing up onto another trolley and ride back to his hotel. Maybe he would return someday when he didn’t have a job to do, he told himself . . . if that day ever came.
After eating supper in the hotel dining room, he walked back to the police station and met Wendell McCormick in front of the building. The young officer was waiting for him.
Wendell was dressed in civilian clothes this evening, a gray tweed suit and a dark gray hat. He patted the breast pocket of his jacket and said, “I have that note for Wing Ko from Captain Sawyer.”
“You carrying a gun, Wendell?” John Henry asked.
Wendell moved his jacket back to reveal the checkered grips of a short-barreled revolver holstered on his left side in a cross-draw rig.
“We shouldn’t run into any trouble tonight, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to be ready for some, anyway.”
Sawyer had said that Wendell was pretty smart. The gun was evidence of that, John Henry thought.
“Lead on,” he told the young man. “You’re the one who knows where we’re going.”
They took a trolley to the edge of a district where the streets seemed narrower and more twisting, whether they really were or not. Buildings were crammed in along those streets, and there were no sidewalks.
John Henry had seen a few Chinese people back in Indian Territory, but never this many in one place. They were like the ocean in that respect, something totally foreign to his experience. They clogged the streets and they all seemed to be in a hurry, although John Henry had no idea where they were going.
When he asked Wendell about that, the young man shook his head.
“I don’t know. The Celestials are a very busy, industrious race. Except when they’ve been smoking opium. Then you never saw anybody move any slower.”
John Henry saw a few white faces in Chinatown, but not many. Most of those he saw were furtive, telling him that the white men had come here in search of vice of some sort. If they had realized that he and Wendell were lawmen, they probably would have ducked their heads and hurried out of sight.
He supposed that he and Wendell looked like hombres in search of women or drugs or some other illicit thrill, too, because no one paid much attention to them.
Wendell seemed to know where he was going. John Henry was glad of that, because after the first few turns they made, he was lost. His frontiersman’s instincts were next to useless in a place like this where buildings and people crowded in on him and the air was full of strange and somehow sinister smells and a man couldn’t even see the stars when he looked up. Lines strung over the streets between the buildings were hung thickly with laundry.
Wendell opened the door into one of the buildings and told John Henry, “Wing Ko owns this restaurant and is usually here. If he’s not, someone should be able to tell us where to find him.”
“Do they know you here?” John Henry asked.
“Some of them do,” Wendell answered somewhat cryptically. “Have you already eaten?”
“Yeah, at the hotel.”
“Good. You might not want most of the things they serve here. The Chinese have, ah, different ideas about what constitutes delicacies than we do.”
John Henry wasn’t sure what Wendell meant by that, and he figured it would probably be smart not to ask.
The restaurant was crowded, as everywhere else in Chinatown seemed to be. Tables were small. Lanterns hung from the ceiling and cast a smoky glow over the room.
John Henry frowned as he saw that some of the diners had colorful birds with them in wicker cages that they could pick up and carry around. Some Chinese custom, he supposed, that he had never seen the like of before.
“Wing Ko’s private room is back here,” Wendell said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the discordant strains of music that were coming from somewhere, although John Henry couldn’t tell exactly where. The young man led him toward an arched doorway that was closed off by a curtain formed from close-packed strands of beads.
Wendell was just about to push through the curtain when a sudden commotion broke out in the room beyond. Men shouted angrily, and sounds of struggle could be heard. Wendell pushed his coat back with one hand so that he could reach his gun while his other arm swept the beads aside.
Both lawmen burst into the room. John Henry saw a big table with an inlaid marble top. Around it men were fighting, some with fists, others kicking at each other, others using knives or hatchets. On the other side of the table, atop a small dais, a man wearing a green and golden silk robe sat in an ornate chair, watching the battle with apparently only casual interest. John Henry realized that some of the men were trying to protect this man from being attacked.
Then one of the men involved in the ruckus burst through the defenders and leaped toward the man in the thronelike chair. He let out a strident shout and swung a hatchet high above his head, obviously intending to bring it down and cleave the skull of the man in the chair.
John Henry’s instincts as a lawman took over. He wasn’t going to stand there and watch cold-blooded murder being committed. He did the first thing that came naturally to his mind in a situation such as this.
He slapped leather.
Chapter Nine
The speed of his draw made the Colt seem to leap from its holster into his hand. He couldn’t fire from the hip; the room was too crowded for that.
Instead he raised the revolver and took aim during the split second in which the hatchet man’s hand paused at the top of its swing. The Colt blasted, and John Henry saw the hatchet fly from the man’s fingers as the slug tore through the back of his hand and exploded out the palm. The would-be killer howled in pain as he stumbled and fell to his knees.
/> The seated man leaned forward then. His hand seemed to float out, not in any hurry at all, and lightly strike the wounded man’s neck. The man collapsed, either dead or out cold.
The sound of the shot had made everybody else in the room freeze. John Henry heard a lot of clattering and the rush of feet behind him as the diners in the restaurant fled. Obviously none of them wanted to be caught here.
The tableau held for only a moment. Then the men who had been attacking turned to flee. John Henry and Wendell were blocking the door. John Henry knew he could cut down some more of them, but if those knives and hatchets started flying, he and Wendell wouldn’t have much of a chance.
“Let them go.”
The order came from the man on the thronelike chair, and to John Henry’s surprise it was given in English. He nodded to Wendell, and both of them stepped aside to let the men rush out. The defenders left behind closed ranks around their leader on the dais.
“Wing Ko,” Wendell said to the man. “You know me. Wendell McCormick. I work for Captain Sawyer.”
The man on the chair nodded. He was middle-aged, clean-shaven, with sleek dark hair and a round, friendly face. To John Henry he looked like he ought to be running a laundry somewhere with a wife and a passel of kids, but he realized that wasn’t fair, any more than it was fair when people thought his father’s people, the Cherokee, were no different from the Sioux or the Comanche and ought to gallop around wearing war paint and feathered headdresses.
Wing Ko spoke in Chinese to his protectors. They cleared a path, and he beckoned to John Henry and Wendell.
“Please approach, my friends,” he said. “The troublemakers are gone. They will be dealt with in suitable fashion later.”
Despite Wing Ko’s pleasant expression and mild tone, John Henry thought that last statement sounded vaguely sinister. “Suitable fashion” could mean just about anything, very little of it good for the men toward whom it was directed.
John Henry saw the remnants of a meal scattered around the big, fancy table. He figured there had been some sort of negotiation taking place here . . . and it had gone badly.
That was really none of his business, though, legal or otherwise. He was just here to see if Wing Ko could tell him where to look for Ignatius O’Reilly.
As John Henry and Wendell stepped forward, some of the men around Wing Ko’s chair tensed. They were all clad in white, pajama-like trousers and embroidered tunics of various colors, and their dark hair was twisted into short braids that hung down behind their necks. Several of them held hatchets.
“Holster your gun,” Wendell whispered. “Wing Ko has given us leave to approach, but his guardians still don’t like anybody coming near him holding a weapon.”
John Henry grunted and pouched the iron. He said, “Makes sense, I reckon.”
The guardians, as Wendell had called them, relaxed slightly but remained vigilant. John Henry and Wendell went around the table and stopped in front of Wing Ko’s chair.
“Who is your friend, Wendell?” Wing Ko asked.
“This is Marshal Sixkiller,” Wendell said. “He’s a deputy U.S. marshal.”
“A federal lawman, eh?” Wing Ko smiled and nodded to John Henry. “An honor to make your acquaintance, Marshal.”
“The honor is mine, sir,” John Henry said.
“You are an excellent shot.” Wing Ko gestured dismissively at the unconscious man still lying on the floor practically at his feet, and went on, “This unworthy one would not have harmed me, but still it was exciting to see a demonstration of such skill with firearms. My people invented them, you know.”
“Seems like I’ve heard that,” John Henry said.
Wing Ko pointed at the unconscious man again and nodded, and a couple of his retainers dragged the man through a side door and out of the room. John Henry wondered if they were going to kill him, then decided that it wouldn’t pay to speculate too much about that. He was in the middle of hostile territory right now, and the best thing he could do was concentrate on the job that had brought him here.
“I assume you’re the reason for my young friend being here tonight, Marshal,” Wing Ko continued. “Have you come to ask a boon of me?”
Wendell said, “Honorable sir, if I might . . . ?”
Wing Ko nodded. Wendell took the note from his pocket and handed it to him. Wing Ko unfolded it and glanced at it briefly.
“You will pass along my greetings to your esteemed captain Sawyer and tell him that I was honored to offer my assistance to his guest?”
“Of course,” Wendell said.
John Henry felt himself getting a little impatient. There had been enough of this oblique, overly formal give-and-take. He was a straightforward sort of hombre and wanted to get down to business.
Thankfully, the next thing Wing Ko said was, “What can I do for you, Marshal?”
“I’m looking for a man who might have been in Los Angeles as recently as a week or so ago,” John Henry said. “His name is Ignatius O’Reilly.”
Wing Ko smiled again and said, “Not a common name, I am sure. Also, not one that I have ever heard before. Why do you think I would know this man, Marshal?”
“He’s reported to have a fondness for opium.”
“Ah.” Wing Ko nodded. “And Captain Sawyer told you that I was the one to ask about such things.”
John Henry inclined his head in acknowledgment of that point.
“I do not deny that many of my countrymen have a fondness for the smoke of the lotus, and I am, above all else, a businessman. As such, when there is a demand I seek to supply it. But I know nothing of this man O’Reilly.” Wing Ko spread his hands. “So in the face of this ignorance, what can I do to assist you?”
Wendell said, “Captain Sawyer thought you might put out the word to your places. You’ve got eyes and ears all over, Wing Ko. Someone might have seen or heard of the man the marshal is after.”
“This is true,” Wing Ko admitted. “You have told me his name, Marshal. Can you tell me what he looks like?”
John Henry repeated the description of O’Reilly he had been given. Wing Ko listened attentively, nodding now and then. When John Henry was finished, he turned to his men and spoke in rapid Chinese. A couple of them hurried from the room.
“I have instructed that O’Reilly’s name and description be spread throughout Chinatown,” Wing Ko said. “If he is within these environs, we will know soon. In the meantime, you and my young friend may wait here, Marshal. I have other business to attend to.”
“Thank you,” John Henry said.
“Yes, thank you, Wing Ko,” Wendell added.
Striding serenely, Wing Ko left the room through the side door, followed by all of his guardians except for two men who stayed there, obviously to keep an eye on John Henry and Wendell. From the side of his mouth, John Henry asked the young officer, “Now what do we do?”
Before Wendell could answer, the curtain of beads rattled behind them, and a woman’s voice said, “Now you sit down, enjoy a drink, and wait for the search my father put in motion to bear fruit.”
John Henry turned. The young woman who had spoken stood there with the slim hands she had used to part the beads still raised. She was tall, elegantly slender in a dark blue silk gown, and had long, straight hair the color of midnight. She was also exceedingly beautiful when she smiled.
“I am Wing Sun,” she said, “also called by some . . . the Black Lotus.”
Chapter Ten
John Henry heard Wendell swallow hard. Evidently the young police officer was just as impressed by the woman’s beauty as he was.
Wing Sun came into the room, her movements full of sensuous grace as she walked. A man carrying a tray with a bottle and glasses followed her. He set it down on the marble-topped table and backed off.
There were three glasses. Wing Sun poured what looked like wine from the bottle into each of them, then handed a glass to John Henry and another to Wendell, taking one for herself.
Up close she was e
ven more lovely. Her eyes were so dark that they appeared to be almost as black as her hair, and her skin was flawless.
“To the success of your mission, gentlemen,” Wing Sun said as she lifted her glass.
John Henry drank. The wine was potent. He wasn’t a big drinker, so he hoped Wing Sun wouldn’t be offended that he took only a sip and then set the glass back on the table.
“I didn’t know Wing Ko had a daughter, ma’am,” Wendell said.
“I have only recently arrived from China,” she murmured.
John Henry told her, “You speak English very well for a newcomer.”
“A missionary to our land, a man who was a doctor as well as a minister, taught me. I knew that someday I would follow my father here, and that when I did, I would need to know the language.”
“You speak it very well,” Wendell said.
Wing Sun smiled indulgently at him.
“Your friend just said that,” she pointed out.
“Oh. Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” she told him with a shake of her head. She turned back to John Henry and went on, “I was told that you saved my father’s life from one of the treacherous assassins sent by Ling Yuan.”
“Well . . . your father claimed he would have stopped the fella himself.”
“Perhaps he would have. Perhaps not. We will never know, will we? The important thing is that Wing Ko lives.”
“Who’s this fella Ling Yuan you mentioned?” John Henry asked.
Wing Sun’s face hardened into a mask. A lovely mask, to be sure.
“Ling Yuan is a dog who believes that he should run things here in Chinatown instead of my father. He sent emissaries here tonight, to discuss a truce, he said. And my father, in his boundless generosity of spirit, welcomed them, dined with them, only to discover that they were snakes. Assassins sent to kill him, even if they lost their own lives in the process.”
“Bushwhackers, I’d call ’em,” John Henry said.
A low, musical laugh came from Wing Sun’s gracefully curved lips.
“Bushwhackers,” she repeated. “An American word I have not heard before now. A harsh word, as well. It suits them. Yes, Ling Yuan’s men were . . . what would you call them? . . . dirty bushwhackers.”
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