The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril

by Paul Malmont

  Episode Sixteen

  “YOU KNOW, it’s almost not as heavy as you would think a coffin would be.”

  Someday, Gibson thought, how he and Hubbard and a perfect stranger ended up carrying Lovecraft’s casket through the dismal rain and icy mud at the Swan Point Cemetery to the Phillips family plot might make a funny story.

  Someday.

  Right now he was having too hard a time keeping his feet from sliding out from under him to think about a story.

  “You think there’s a latch on this thing?” the stranger wheezed. Gibson hoped he was not about to burst into one of his coughing fits. Not now. Not while supporting his share of the casket. “He’s not…Nothing can flop out, right?”

  “You feel anything shifting inside?” Hubbard snarled. “Just keep it steady.”

  Might.

  Gibson would have to begin the story when the stranger suddenly woke up coughing and gasping in the back pew of the Providence Chapel during Lovecraft’s service and nearly startled him and Hubbard to death. It was easy to be scared in the small chapel because even though it was day, the sky was dark, and for some reason the shabby chapel had lost its power. Until the stranger made his abrupt appearance Gibson and Hubbard had been the only guests in the dark, dark, very dark chapel, listening to the ancient minister evoke the prophets. Fortunately the stove had kept the room warm.

  Actually, the story really would have to start with Hubbard falling asleep, Gibson thought, as he slipped on a patch of grass and heard Hubbard curse quietly behind him. “Sorry,” he said, winded.

  “You all right?” If Hubbard was half the writer he was, then he probably exercised about half as much. And half of nothing is…

  Hubbard had fallen asleep and the church had been empty.

  That’s where it should start. The service had started with only him and Hubbard in attendance. Then the mustachioed stranger with the high forehead had awakened, coughing. But before that, the minister had begun the service. That was about the time Hubbard had fallen asleep, after muttering something about organized religion being a crutch for the weak-minded.

  He was coughing again now.

  “Pal, how about you? Are you all right?” Gibson asked him. He stopped, acting as if the coughing had interrupted his progress. In fact, he was grateful for the break. “You been coughing up oysters all afternoon.”

  The man inhaled, nodded, and began coughing again. The other two men juggled the coffin against his spasm. The stranger was much taller than Gibson, and the burden of the coffin tilted unfairly toward Gibson. Fortunately, nothing shifted inside.

  “Lung damage,” the man wheezed. “Tuberculosis.”

  “Now?” demanded Hubbard, leaning away.

  The man shook his head. Gibson could see exhaustion in the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed young, probably around Hubbard’s age, but he had put some miles on his lanky frame. He had the weary, defeated look of so many American men his age who had finally lost hope but hadn’t yet slid into despair. He cleared his throat with a mighty effort and regained control of his breathing. “It hit me a few years ago when I was in the navy. Had to retire and move to California. Nice and dry there.”

  “Retire?” Hubbard asked. “What’re you? Forty?”

  “Thirty.” Gibson could believe it if one gave the man the benefit of imagining him with a sleep, a shave, and a haircut.

  Hubbard appraised him for a moment. “Retired,” he finally said. “Well done.”

  The stranger shrugged. “Welcome to Easy Street.”

  “I’m ready whenever you are,” Gibson said. His arms were aching and his fingers, already stiff from a night of typing, were beginning to go numb. He knew they were going to ache too much for him to write tonight. Oh well, he could work on Blackstone’s magic trick.

  “Right,” the stranger said. He wore workman’s clothes—dungarees, a sweater, and a Salvation Army–issue peacoat.

  “Okay,” Hubbard grunted. They continued their slog toward the wrought-iron gate and the few plots beyond. “Aren’t your friends and family supposed to be your pallbearers?” Hubbard complained.

  “He was kind of a hermit. Lived with his aunts. Then one died. So, just an aunt. I wonder why she’s not here.” Gibson had half-feared and half-hoped that Sonia would make an appearance, but she hadn’t. It made him feel worse for Howard. “At least somebody he knew showed up, though. Right?” He indicated the stranger.

  “To be honest, I don’t even know who we’re burying,” the stranger said.

  Gibson stopped and stared at him. “Then who the hell are you?”

  “I helped dig the grave.”

  “You’re a grave digger?”

  “Well, I’m not the grave digger. I dug this grave. Look. I’m stuck in Providence, which is a strange land. I needed some cash. One thing I’ve learned is that graves always gotta be dug. Once we get this fella planted, I get fifty bucks, which gets me down to New York City.”

  “What’s in New York for you?” Hubbard wanted to know.

  “Not my ex-wife.”

  “Ah.” Hubbard seemed skeptical.

  They moved through the gate and set the coffin with a thud upon the slats over the grave. They all massaged their hands.

  “At least it has stopped raining,” said the stranger. Gibson nodded in agreement, although the skies were still dark and foamy. Along the path they had taken, the ancient minister was slowly approaching.

  Hubbard groaned and rotated his shoulder in its socket a few times. “I specifically became a writer to avoid working,” he said, grinning at Gibson.

  “You’re a writer?” the stranger asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied. “Ron Hubbard.”

  The stranger shook his head apologetically. Gibson noted that even in his destitute position he carried himself with the rigid dignity and force of a military officer.

  “Ever read Adventure Magazine or Two-Fisted Tales?”

  The stranger nodded and shrugged at the same time. “Sorry, pal. Never heard of you. Ever write for Astounding Stories? I read that.”

  “Great,” Hubbard sighed. “Look. You heard of The Shadow?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows The Shadow. You write that?”

  “No. He does.”

  “Seriously?” the stranger asked. “You’re Maxwell Grant?”

  Gibson ground out his cigarette. “Now there’s a name you’ll never find in the Irish sports pages. I’m Walter Gibson. Maxwell Grant’s a nom de plume.” He held out his hand and the stranger shook it. His grip was firm and steady. This man was no rummy or hophead, Gibson decided. Gibson waited for a few seconds after releasing his hand. The man seemed disinclined to provide any more information. “So what’s your name, pal?”

  “Driftwood,” he said, without hesitation. “Otis Driftwood.”

  Gibson smiled and was about to speak when Hubbard butted in. “I know that name! Are you a writer?”

  “Naw, I’m in high society. Can’t you tell?”

  “Yes,” Gibson said. “You’re obviously an opera lover.”

  Driftwood gave him a sly smile. “I’m kind of trying to keep a low profile these days. Trying to keep out of the funny pages, if you know what I mean.”

  “G-men?” Hubbard asked. “Revenuers?”

  Driftwood shook his head. “Business associates,” he said. “Like I said before, I was in the navy. I was a gunnery officer out of Annapolis. I got TB.

  “I’m from Missouri originally, but the hospital the navy discharged me to was in Arizona because it was hot and dry. After I recovered enough, I decided to move on west to California. Another fella who mustered out with me, a marine, said he knew of a silver concern in the San Jacinto mountains and wanted to stake a claim. But he needed some partners to help him finance it and work the mine. Well, I had a little discharge money, and some disability money coming to me. Plus I can squeeze a nickel till the buffalo shits.

  “We went to work. The high mountain air was good for me. I
mean, it was really hell at first. Like trying to suck air through a straw. But it really helped build my lungs and my strength back up. Turns out I wasn’t the only investor, though. My partner had dug up some real unsavory types in Los Angeles, gangsters or what have you. This was before we had headed up into the mountains. I don’t know why he went to them. I think maybe he owed them some money from some gambling debt, which maybe was why he had ducked into the marines in the first place. I don’t know. I sure as hell didn’t know about any of that.

  “I learned quick and in a few weeks I was running the operation on-site. Y’know how silver is mined? It’s not like panning for gold dust or crushing it out of rock. It’s really difficult. First you dig through the rock looking for the kind of ore that just might, I say, might, contain silver. Then, if you’ve been lucky enough to find it, that mined ore gets crushed and mixed with water into a slurry. Then you wash that over amalgamation tables which are coated with mercury. The silver sticks to the tablets while everything else—the tailing, it’s called—gets sluiced off into the river. So it’s not exactly like pulling big hunks of silver out of the ground. It’s slow going and the returns are small at first, but eventually the silver starts accumulating.

  “At first I guess they started harassing my partner because the mine wasn’t paying off. Then it wasn’t paying off fast enough. Then it turned out that it was going to pay off big-time. One week we banked fifty dollars in silver. The next week, nothing. A week later we banked ten grand!”

  Hubbard stared at him with wide eyes. Driftwood nodded.

  “That’s right. And it looked like that was going to be just the tip of the iceberg. Boys, there I am. I am thinking that I have got it made in the shade. My ship was come in. I am going to be living the life of Riley from here on in. I guess my partner felt the same way because he telegraphed his associates to tell them of the great days a-coming.

  “I was in the pit when he drove up. I could hear him talking to my partner. My partner starts putting up a stink and this is where I hear the whole story for the first time. My new associate wanted the mine. Not just my partner’s share. My share too. The whole tamale. So I started climbing out of the pit, figuring I’m going to add a little muscle to the mix, turn this fella around and tell him where to get off. Well, I didn’t even get to dust myself off before I noticed what he had brought as a bargaining chip. A Thompson sub. Ever seen what a machine gun can do to a man at close range?”

  The two men shook their heads.

  Driftwood ran a hand over his weary face. “It chews a man up. I took a few steps right back into the pit. The man lobbed a few spits of lead after me but it’s dark down there and there are places to hide. Finally the sun went down and I made it out of the pit and into the mountains, dodging wildcats and rattlesnakes the whole way.”

  “Jesus,” said Gibson. “How long ago was this?”

  “About three months ago,” Driftwood said. “I took it as a sign that it was a good time to see the rest of the country that wasn’t particularly California. Been shacking up in Hoovertowns. I got rolled in Boston. I haven’t shaved in a week and I’d give a tooth to make it with a woman. I’m diggin’ graves in the middle of winter and I ain’t a silver tycoon. But I am alive.”

  “Keep sinking lower and next thing you’ll probably be a pulp writer,” Gibson joked.

  “You don’t suppose this fella’s looking for you?” Hubbard asked. “Seems like he got what he wanted.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. I just figure to keep my head down for a little while longer. Never really been to New York, so that’s kind of where I’m headed.”

  “That’s where we’re from,” Hubbard said.

  “Not from here?”

  “No,” Gibson said. “Came up for this. He was a writer too, like us. And a friend of mine.”

  “That’s good. It’s good to have friends,” Driftwood said. “If I had died in those mountains my friends wouldn’t have even known it, let alone made it to the funeral. I think you owe it to your friends to at least let them come to your funeral. You think working in a graveyard has made me a little bleak? You know, I actually used to do a bit of writing myself.”

  Gibson nodded. “Really?” Everyone was a writer, he had found. The quickest way to find out about somebody was to ask him about his novel. Everyone was always writing one, or about to.

  “I used to write the newsletter for EPIC—End Poverty In California.”

  “You’re a red?” Hubbard blurted.

  “A socialist,” the stranger countered with indignant defensiveness. “If Upton Sinclair had won that election, California would have been leading this country out of this Depression this very day.”

  “As if the New Deal isn’t bad enough,” Hubbard replied. “Now why not just give abandoned factories to a pack of poor people and let ’em try to make whatever they want?”

  “Production for use is so much greater than that.”

  “Speaking of product,” Gibson said, looking down, “nice hole.”

  “Thanks. It gets easier when the torches thaw it out.”

  Hubbard wouldn’t drop the subject. “All I know is no one is giving me a free typewriter or free paper to do my work! And I’ve been as poor as poor can get,” he said. He put his hand on the casket as he shifted his weight out of a muddy spot.

  “Gentlemen,” the old minister croaked as he shuffled through the gate. “We are all there is.”

  “Isn’t Howard’s aunt coming?” Gibson asked.

  Gibson looked down at the headstone, which leaned against a tree, already prepared. He lifted the wet muslin from the cover to read the inscription. Under Howard’s name and birth date, and the blank spot that would be filled with the date of his death, was a simple epitaph:

  I am Providence.

  “Unfortunately the cold weather has restricted Miss Gamwell to her home,” said the minister, “but she has invited all the attendees to her house for a small reception.”

  Gibson looked at all the attendees and they both shrugged and nodded. “Sure,” he said.

  “Then let’s begin, shall we?”

  Then, without warning, Hubbard slipped and fell into the muddy grave with a graceless thud, and Gibson suddenly knew he had his ending.

  Episode Seventeen

  ZHANG MEI strode angrily down the street and the citizens cleared a path for him. He was a fearsome sight, tall in his officer’s uniform with his saber smacking heavily against his thigh. He only hoped someone would stumble into him; then he would take up his sword and vent his rage upon that unfortunate, clumsy soul.

  He hated Beijing. It was filthy. It stank. Rats and dogs ran with carefree abandon through streets that were slick with the grease and refuse which overflowed from the open benjo ditches. The constant smoky aroma of cooking horse flesh hung thickly in the air. The people were eating horses because the supply of pork and beef from the countryside was thin and constant harassment by pirates and foreigners such as the Japanese had made the seas dangerous for the fishermen.

  He hated the Beijing bureaucrats who swarmed over the palace. Their life’s work was self-preservation; many of the ministers and counselors had survived the regime changes of the past two decades, steadily accruing power for themselves until no gate could be opened or dish served without their say-so. To Zuolin’s face they were respectful and obsequious, agreeing with every decision, flattering every thought. They showed him all consideration due to the ruler of the various coalition factions occupying Beijing: his own men from the Northern Lands, the western provincials and Christians, even representatives of the popular Dr. Sun Yat-sen’s Imperialists from the South. Yet behind his back they schemed and plotted and undermined him at every move.

  His adopted father, accustomed to a martial life, seemed to accept their pledges to execute his orders without question. This was Mi-Ying’s province, and the thieving diplomat seemed to pull as many strings behind the courtyard as Zuolin did upon it. Mei’s dismayed warnings to Zuolin and Xuel
ing about Mi-Ying had been waved off—Mi-Ying’s actions were considered sacrifices necessary to attempting to bring order to China. If Mei had been emperor, he thought, these diplomats, even the Americans, but especially all the Chinese ones such as Mi-Ying, would learn to fear him before being put to death. Fear was the only way to control them.

  He passed under the Gate of Supreme Harmony, glaring back at the bronze lions guarding it, and marched across the square to Wenyuang, the Imperial Library. This was the heart of the bureaucracy. He had nearly as much contempt for the bureaucrats as he had for the diplomats. Of all the bureaucrats he hated, the one he most despised was Lu Zhi, the librarian who controlled the Sikuquanshu, the Four Treasures of Knowledge, the Encyclopedia of the Universe—what Mei most wanted access to in all of Beijing. The peace had brought him time to pursue knowledge beyond what his brother found useful. What he could learn from the Sikuquanshu! If only Lu Zhi would bend to his will!

  Although the librarian was neither the most powerful bureaucrat nor the most subservient, something in Lu Zhi’s nature disturbed Mei greatly and kept him from peace. He entered the vast building, the scrolls and paintings lost upon him in his wrath. Today he would settle the score with at least one of the irritating civil servants.

  He found Lu Zhi in contemplation of a new book in the publishing gallery. The sight made him quiver. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  “Lu Zhi,” he called. His blood was rising. The battle was engaged.

  Lu Zhi turned. “Master Zhang?” His visit was unexpected.

  “You have driven me mad,” he said to her. She was the most exquisite sight he had ever laid eyes on. “I have come to ask you to be my wife.”

  And, in another Year of the Rat, she said, “Of course.”

  Episode Eighteen

  “IS IT me?” Hubbard rubbed his hands on his arms. “Or is it colder in here than it was outside?”