by J. D. Brink
I skip behind one looming dead elephant, hop from wooden tie to tie to keep my steps silent, and duck down behind another train car. Carefully, I set down my crumpling bag of books and pick up two nice sized rocks, one in each hand.
Stones crunch again under someone’s weight nearby.
Two more meet up with the first. Quiet, curt words pass between them. They’re mere yards away from me, just on the other side of the rail car.
I’m trying to slow my breathing, but my legs and lungs burn, especially with me squatting low here. I press my weight against the train’s steel wheels in an effort to relieve the strain on my ankles, and doing so pushes on the stones beneath. There’s a quiet but audible shift in the rocks.
My lungs freeze up, holding my breath. Did they hear?
The answer is a similar crunch of terrain at the front of my hiding spot, now only feet from me.
The big shadow that comes around finds me ready, though. My tight legs spring forward as soon as the man’s square head comes into view, and I’m leading with the rock in my right hand. I mess up his teeth and nose in one blow, and knock him on his ass. Then I break like a thirsty gazelle from waiting crocodiles.
My escape is cut short three strides in, however, as another body slams into mine. He tackles me to the hard, uneven ground and is already pummeling me with his fists by the time I can mount a defense. He’s definitely a more experienced fighter than I am; to be honest, I’m not much of a fighter at all.
My mouth stings, my cheeks ache. The back of my head crunches against the stones as big knuckles drive repeatedly into my face. I taste blood.
Then it stops. To allow us both to regroup, I suppose, to reassess the situation. The situation being that I’m fucked and they’re in charge.
Two-hundred pounds lifts off of me and takes a step back. Two more figures loom above. They’ve got me surrounded.
The back of my head stings where my scalp has scraped against the stones.
Not much left for me to do, physically, but I stay vigilant for an opening. Meanwhile, I’ll fight with the only thing I have left: my mouth.
I lean up painfully onto my elbow and launch a big red goober onto the nearest set of shoes. The faint railyard light shines across them: polished dress shoes, professional-like. A satisfying target.
“Look,” I say, feeling every move my face makes, “if this is about that brunette at the Dragon… I saw the ring. Left it at that. I think you better keep her at home, pal, ‘cause she’s the one out angling for a bigger fish. I turned her down.”
They don’t say anything right away, just stand around looming menacingly, three bulky silhouettes in rain coats and button-down shirts.
There’s something slick and sticky on my hand. “I think I’m laying in some grease here, fellas. Mind if we move to somewhere nicer? I’ll buy the first round. Promise.”
Another shoe kicks me in the ribs. Feels like a size twelve or better. Makes me reconsider the sarcasm, but I’m not that easy.
“This is some Popeye shit, big guy. Olive Oyl goes screwing around with Bluto and you blame Bluto. Maybe Olive just ain’t getting her fill at home, ever think of that?”
One them bends low, shoving his face down close enough for me to see.
It’s Jerry, the bartender from the Speakeasy, snarling at me. He’s the one who tackled me. Not the one whose face I smashed with the rock, which is a dire disappointment.
“Better get some spinach then, smartass. This ain’t about a woman. This is about you beating up on a poor old man. Not so tough when they come a little younger, are you?”
There are so many things wrong with that, it emboldens me to higher levels of mouthing off. Even though I know there’ll be ramifications for it.
“Jerry, didn’t recognize you. Nice to see you.
“First off, I wasn’t Popeye in this scenario. Secondly, Marvin never got touched. There was no beating up on an old man. You were the one who got his ass handed to him. And it was one guy –Edgar, my short, chubby little friend—who managed to do it. You, however, brought two more neckless playmates along, just to beat up little old me. So, what’s that say—”
The punishment comes. I grit my teeth and bear it, trying not to make a sound. But it ain’t easy.
“We’re going to get him,” Jerry promises, “don’t you worry ‘bout that. But first, the chicken shit that hides behind the fat weirdo and talks all tough. Jack the magician. Well, let’s see you magic your way out of this, asshole.”
I brace for the next kick, but it never comes. There’s a squeak of brakes and slamming of car doors. I open my eyes. High beams burn from a car off-scene that’s not far down the train’s length, parked on the other side of the engineers’ shack.
More crunching of stones under running feet. My three playmates try to talk their way into some kind of defense, but they’re only two words in when a new fight starts. Four more guys have come along, and not for the conversation.
The scuffle is pretty short-lived. Jerry and his tough guys don’t last long. Apparently, the combat scale of me against three six-foot thugs is about the same as those guys against these other four, even though they appear smaller in stature than Jerry’s posse.
When it’s over and Jerry’s on the ground begging to surrender, two of the winners turn to me. I lay on the stones, waiting to see if I’m friend or foe here. I might have been better off with Jerry.
Someone offers a hand and I take it. David Li, godfather of Chinatown, helps me to my feet. My back and ribs hurt in the struggle to stand, but I barely notice under the wave of relief.
“You’ve gotten yourself into trouble, Jack?” Li asks. His smile is as subtle as Mona Lisa’s, but if you see it then you’re on his good side.
“Apparently,” I say. “To be honest, I thought this was about a woman. Turns out he was sore about some of Felix’s business.” I drop the name, just to remind him. Professional matter, it says. And we’re all professionals here, right?
“Felix is a friend of mine,” Li says, his Mona Lisa widening just a little. “And you’re a friend of Chinatown, Jack.”
My balloon pops in a big sigh; I’m no longer able to put on the tough guy front. And knowing that they’re really here to save me, I don’t have to. “Thank you. I appreciate the rescue, sir.”
“These guys are operating outside common courtesy.” Li kicks one of the goons, maybe Jerry. It’s hard to tell when they’re all on hands and knees. “I’m sure Mr. O’Keefe will be disappointed to find how rude they’ve been.”
“That’s all a discussion for those at the adult table,” I say, raising my hands. “I’m just a small guy at the kiddie table.”
“Of course.” Li slaps a reassuring hand on my shoulder. It stings a bit. “Don’t worry about it, Jack. I’m sure the only ones not getting dessert will be these three. In the meantime, my driver will take you to get washed up.”
I want to say, No thanks, I’ll just go home and pack for my flight tomorrow, but you can’t turn down an offer of generosity from a triad boss right after he saves your ass from vengeful thugs.
They deliver me to the Lotus Blossom Tea House, one of Li’s more successful businesses: part spa, part brothel.
Well, mostly brothel.
The aged but elegant woman on duty at the front desk introduces me to a girl named Lan. She’s taller than I expect, and not the youngest girl employed here, which is a relief to me.
My room isn’t much more than twelve feet square, but it has a narrow bed, a small dresser which supports a collection of candle light, and a short but deep bathtub.
I sit on the bed, and it’s not entirely voluntary; my legs have collapsed out from under me more dramatically than expected. Lan turns the hot water on and then tends to me. I’m a little embarrassed to just sit here and go along, but after the night I’ve had, that’s exactly what I do.
First she collects my library bag, folds the excess plastic under its own weight, and stores it away in the dresser’s bottom
drawer. As the faucet quietly roars and the steam builds toward the ceiling, she undresses me, one article of clothing at a time. First my jacket comes off, and I grab it as she’s taking it away to confirm what my eyes are seeing. Its delicate brown suede has become splotched with dark shapes—either blood or train yard grease, or both.
“Goddamn,” I complain, “my lucky jacket.”
Lan just gives me an awkward smile, removes it from my grip, and hangs it in its place by the door. It’s then that I wonder if she speaks any English at all.
Next my shirt, one button at a time. It’s splotchy too—definitely blood.
My shoes comes off, then socks. She unbuckles my belt and I just sit there. When she removes my pants, we both find that I’m not as adverse to this as I’d like to think. She smiles again and cups me with her hand. “Bath first,” she says.
The hot water feels good. So good I can’t describe it. All the aches and pains of getting my ass kicked—literally—are partially cooked out of me.
Lan rubs my shoulders from behind and asks about the big tattoo on my back. She asks me if I’m a gambler. A fair assumption in these parts.
It’s been a couple days since Skunk colored it, but the skin’s still tender. Especially now.
“Jack of spades,” I say, nearly drifting to sleep. “That’s me. Jack of spades.”
I think I’ve got Skunk’s lotion in a jacket pocket. I’ll ask her to smooth it in for some tattoo maintenance.
Afterward…
Part Two
Fire Above, Mountain Below
Eight
Despite my long night, and maybe moving a little slower than usual, Edgar and I reach the airport on time. Our first flight is a hop down to LAX, then nine hours over the Pacific. Fortunately, I only sit next to him from Rails End to Los Angeles. After that, his seat is four rows behind me. And once the plane doors are sealed and his neighbors have no escape, friendly Edgar’s mouth starts running. I hope they didn’t plan on getting any sleep.
The woman next to me is probably in her sixties, but she looks good for it. Thin, short bouncy hair like lamb’s wool. She keeps to herself, though, thanks to the black eye I’m sporting on her side. Might as well have the whole row to myself for the next several hours.
From my window seat, I watch as everything on Earth, even the mightiest sky scrapers, shrink down to nothing. Los Angeles falls away, followed by the sandy streak of beaches. Then there’s just the great blue, its waves seemingly frozen from this height. Even that field of raw color eventually disappears as we enter the ceiling of mist. The plane penetrates the outer regions of Heaven and the clouds become a floor hundreds of yards beneath us. I half expect to see dead friends waving at me from there.
The plane tilts westward and the sun slides behind us. The wing reflects a glint of sunlight as we turn, and for an instant I see a bird of fire flying parallel with us, wing tips and tail like luminous streamers flickering behind it. A blink later, it’s gone.
Nine hours pass slowly, the hum of the plane vibrating all around me, and Edgar’s voice droning on from somewhere behind. I read more from my library books and practice drawing the I Ching trigrams on Felix’s yellow legal pad. I trace out Swan’s Wanderer several times, fire above mountain. I work my pencil down to a nub sketching images from my readings: an Asian dragon, bearded and serpentine; a phoenix gliding gracefully, like a long-necked pheasant all aflame; an armored samurai riding the back of a dragon-headed horse; a giant tortoise with a tree growing on its back. When my pencil gives out, I decide to catch up on the sleep I lost last night and don’t wake until the wheels hit tarmac.
Nine
When we finally reach in Saipan, having crossed several time zones and the International Date Line, our arrival is well into the next day. The air seems heavier, but with ocean and life rather than exhaust fumes. The sky is wide and deep. The trees and shrubs are brilliantly green and stretch tall.
Edgar appears next to me, his carry-on in one hand as he scratches at his ample belly with the other. “This does feel like a vacation,” he says.
I agree.
We arrive at the Seaside Hotel, five stories on the beach with an open-air lobby of brick and flagstone. I can see the sand and whitecaps as we approach the front desk. A woman in a green uniform checks me in and retrieves the package that’s waiting for us: the girls, which Edgar had sent overnight express days ago. He takes the plain brown package and asks about how to reach Tinian, the other island on our schedule. The woman explains with an accent that he can either take the ferry or fly via island-hopper. After spending an entire day’s time on a plane, Eddie opts for the boat ride, catches a cab, and is gone. He’ll go check into the room Felix reserved at the Dynasty Casino, check out the situation and learn the layout, and I’ll meet him there tomorrow.
In the meantime, my part is to survey this area and determine if doing our kind of business here will be treading on anyone else’s territory. If there’s some dominant organized crime syndicate that expects permission or a commission from folks like ourselves, that could be a problem. Of course, we could probably do our business and be gone with no one the wiser, but it’s best to be sure. I expect there to be local pickpockets and con artists preying on the tourists here, and some kind of trafficking, like opium—all under the shade of palm trees, in the backs of cabs, on darkened beaches. It’s unlikely anyone will notice or even give a shit about our artsy little tradeoff, but it’s better to be sure.
First, I toss my bag into my room—a spacious and comfortable twin bed setup with a beach view balcony—then I head back down to the lobby. The ambient wicker furniture invites me to sit down and I play a few hands of solitaire on a glass-topped table out of the wind’s reach. While my fingers dance with the cards, my ears are alert and my eyes are stealing subtle glances. I’ve set up my listening post, my watchtower, and this is as good a place as any in the daylight.
Nearby, the green-clad hotel staff complain to one another in a tongue I don’t recognize, though I can guess at the subject matter by their tones and wicked laughter; my ears, after all, are trained in the ways of stage magicians and confidence men. Most likely, the desk jockeys are spreading gossip about the cleaning staff, bitching about their shifts for the weekend, and setting up late night rendezvous in the broom closets. All trivial things. Tourists come and go in pairs or clans, litters of kids driving their parents crazy and vice versa. All-but-naked people wander in off the beach or head out to meet it. The cabbies gather along the horseshoe drive and hold mumbled meetings while they wait for their next fare. I hear no panic or nervousness in any of these voices, no signs of being threatened by word or presence. All in all, there seems to be no serpent in this immediate paradise.
All the while, I play cards by myself, wearing a stain-spotted jacket in sunny, eighty-degree weather. I’m not exactly camouflaged here, but that’s okay. If there are any syndicate thugs about, I almost want them to notice me. If they see me, I’ll see them. There’s no point in playing it too coy.
The water color of the sky becomes fiery as the sun sets. The air has cooled down, too, making the jacket more comfortable. Over the last couple hours, I’ve talked to cabbies, bagboys, desk girls, and fellow guests. Up until a few minutes ago, my instincts were proving true, suggesting that there’s no one we need worry about on these islands; at least from this daytime watchtower. But now I’m not so sure.
I picked up my first new friend about twenty minutes ago: a little native boy, maybe seven, who plopped himself down on the wicker couch across from me. We traded smiles and I asked him a few friendly questions, to which he would nod or shake his head, so I knew he at least understood English. I showed him a few card tricks and invited him to play Go Fish, though now it looks as if the boy could be bait for someone else’s hook.
Standing near the bottom of the stairwell is a large, rotund man with dark skin; a Samoan, I’d guess. He stands cross-armed, dressed in black shorts and a dirty blue polo shirt, with a disgruntled lo
ok on his round face. When I look up again to ask the boy if he has any nines, the Samoan looks away. He’s watching me, and I wonder if he might have sent this kid over to distract me.
Soon the Samoan’s head perks to one side, toward the stairs, as if listening. I can see a pair of polished dress shoes on the landing above him. The big man nods and the shoes disappear. The Samoan follows up after them.
“Sorry, kid,” I say, tossing my hand onto the table and getting to my feet. “I’ve got to go. Keep the cards. Maybe we’ll play later.”
I make the stairwell, stalk up to the next level, and peek into the hall. The Samoan is trudging away from me, his arms swaying with his shifting weight. He pauses outside a door to look around. I duck back out of sight. A second later, there’s a soft knock, a pause, and the click of a door closing.
Quickly, I dart up to where he disappeared and hover with my ear an inch off the door. Inside are two voices: one a deep rumble, the other barely audible. Neither is giving me discernable information, so I make note of the room—number 213—and casually take my leave.
The elevator arrives just in time and an elderly Asian woman comes off, shuffling out in no hurry. I slip inside, hit the button, and relax against the back mirror, patting my chest. My lock picks are there in the breast pocket and this hotel isn’t using magnetic cards yet.
I’ll be back later.
Ten
Night descends. It’s time to take my investigation out into those dark places where the shamed and guilty gather.
It’s likely that the Samoan is nothing more than a local drug-runner’s thug and no real threat to me, since I’m not trying to compete with them. That said, I don’t make the safe assumptions. After all, if that were true—that he and his mysterious partner are local—why would they have a hotel room? Anything’s possible, they could operate out of there, but it seems unlikely. Anyone with real money could do better than that.