The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril

by Paul Malmont

  “And Jesus answered, ‘Most assuredly, I say to you, unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not marvel that I said to you, “You must be born again.” The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone who is born of the Spirit.’”

  The organist began to play and she looked down at the words on her page: “Come, Oh, Come, Thou Quickening Spirit.” She felt Lester touch her hand and she smiled at him as he intertwined his fingers with hers. He was too shy to sing out loud, even in a great mass of people, but he enjoyed listening to her sing. The hymn brought tears to her eyes.

  On the steps she and Lester stopped to shake the pastor’s hand and thank him for the sermon. As they parted, a voice called out to them, “Excuse me!” They stopped and saw a couple, their age, a few steps up from them. A little boy in his Sunday suit held on tightly to his mother’s hand. Norma recognized both the mother and the son. The mother was new to the city and their church. Her husband had died and she had moved up from somewhere in the South to live with her sister. Norma could see that the little boy held something tightly in his hand. “We’re so sorry to bother you, Mr. Dent,” the mother said. “But last week one of the boys in Sunday school told him that you were a writer. Would you mind…?” She helped the little boy take a step toward them. He unfurled the object in his hand. It was the latest Doc Savage issue. “He’s such a big fan.”

  Lester grinned. “Of course,” he said. He pulled a pen from his pocket and took the magazine from the little boy’s hand. “The Sea Angel. One of my very favorites. What’s your name, son?”

  “Bruce,” said the little boy.

  “Okay, Bruce.” Lester scribbled down a quick message on the cover. “For Bruce—Remember to strive every moment of your life to make yourself better and better, that all may profit by it.—Kenneth Robeson.” Then he wrote, in parentheses, “Lester Dent.” He handed the book back to the wide-eyed youth. “That’s the first sentence of the Doc Savage oath,” he said gently. “Do you know the other lines?”

  The little boy nodded. “By heart,” he said and quickly rattled off all four lines of the oath so it sounded like one long sentence: “Let me strive every moment of my life to make myself better and better, that all may profit by it; let me think of the right, and lend all my assistance to those who need it, with no regard for anything but justice; let me be considerate of my country, of my fellow citizens and my associates in everything I say and do; let me take what comes with a smile, without loss of courage; let me do right to all and wrong no man.”

  Norma and Lester burst into proud laughter and Lester tousled the boy’s hair. The child’s mother thanked them profusely, embarrassing Lester. Then she politely pulled her little boy away.

  They stood alone on the steps; all the other churchgoers had moved on to the rest of their Sunday. The pastor closed the doors to the church. A strong wind rustled the bare trees across the street in Central Park. Norma sighed and Lester put his arm around her.

  “I’m getting better about it,” she said. “I really am.” She meant it. In the past week as she had put aside Dutch Schultz and turned to researching the golden statue she had seen in the theater, she had had to admit to herself that she just wasn’t feeling as bad.

  “I know,” he said with a reassuring pat on her hand. “Come on and let’s walk over to the Tavern on the Green. I’ll buy you a Manhattan.”

  She nodded and they began to walk.

  The Chinese men seemed to appear out of nowhere (although afterward she would recall that they had been lurking on the outskirts of her awareness all morning) and surrounded them before they knew it.

  “What the hell?” Lester said loudly. It appeared neither of the men spoke English. They were dressed in suits. The man in charge nodded his head politely toward a sedan, which Norma now realized had been idling in front of the church as they had come out. For a moment she thought that this was her retribution for breaking into the theater, until she suddenly recognized him. She felt Lester’s arm begin to slide from her body.

  “Wait,” she said to him. “This man works for Mr. Yee. He’s his cook!”

  The man nodded, recognizing Yee’s name, and gestured at the car.

  “Is something wrong? Has something happened to Monk and Ham?”

  The man gestured again to the car. She looked at Lester. He shrugged. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “I’m going.”

  “Then so am I.”

  They climbed into the back seat of the Buick. The two men slipped into the front seat and they pulled away from the curb.

  They drove downtown. Lester and Norma tried various ways to communicate with the men but were met only with patient smiles. Finally they gave up and watched the city pass by their window. In no time they were entering Chinatown. Norma could see the tall pagoda roof of the bank on Canal Street. The car pulled to a halt in front of a building she recognized as one that Lester had pointed out to her last week.

  “It’s the Hip Sing Association,” he said to her.

  The two men got out of the car and opened the passenger doors. Lester and Norma stepped out. It was as busy as any day in Chinatown. They were escorted into the building.

  Inside the small lobby stood Mr. Yee. He was elegantly dressed in a white Chinese jacket and pants. Instead of buttons the jacket had toggles made of knotted silk which slipped through loops. The lobby was festooned with regal decorations in advance of the upcoming unity parade which was to end here with a great feast.

  “Yee,” said Lester, “we’re being kidnapped!”

  “Oh, no!” Yee said, looking surprised. “My cooks refuse to learn English.”

  “Is everything all right?” Norma wanted to know. “Are Monk and Ham all right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m very sorry to have upset you like this. This is a very special day.” He snapped at the cook in a burst of spitfire Chinese which Norma figured probably translated along the lines of “…or at least it was supposed to be until you ruined it!”

  “Why?” asked Lester.

  “Because I am repaying my debt to you.”

  “What debt? You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You have been my friends for many years and you stood up against that policeman. He came in this week and actually put money into the China fund. For this I am so grateful and as a Hip Sing man I am able to show my gratitude by welcoming you into the brotherhood as my brother.” He looked at Norma. “I’m sorry the Hip Sing does not extend the same honor to women, but you will understand that my appreciation flows from your husband to you as well.”

  “Really?” She felt a little stab of disappointment.

  “Yee,” said Lester, “I don’t know about this.”

  She took his arm with both hands. “My husband is honored by this.” She turned her smile from one man to the other. “We both are.”

  “I didn’t know that a white man could join the Hip Sing.” Lester was still hesitant.

  “On occasion and only to a certain degree,” he replied, smiling at how well his surprise was playing out after all. “For example, you will never be called upon to marry a dead man’s wife or return his bones to China. Will you follow me upstairs?” As he spoke he handed Lester clothes similar to his. “You will put these on when we enter the temple.”

  “Temple?”

  “You will see.”

  The building had several floors. The doors on every floor were closed to them. The stairs were wide—a dozen men could easily stand shoulder to shoulder on the staircase—and the ceilings were tall. The air was fragrant with aromatic incense. The walls were lined with photographs and newspaper articles depicting the history of Chinese in America. Norma saw images of men working on the great railways, huddling together in alleys, gambling in saloons.

  They reached the landing before th
e last staircase and at last saw another man. A Chinese warrior stood, bare-chested, at the top of the stairs. He had both hands on the hilt of a sword with the biggest blade Norma had ever seen. The point of the sword rested on the floor. They looked up at the man and he looked down at them.

  “Mr. Yee,” Lester asked, “is there any pain involved in becoming your brother?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. Then he added, “Just death.”

  “What?”

  “It is merely a ritual death.”

  “Is that a better kind than regular death?”

  Yee led Lester up the stairs. “Please lower your head when I tell you to. But quickly.” Lester stood in front of the guard, who raised the broadsword to his shoulder like a batter.

  “Now!”

  The sword passed cleanly, with a whisper, over Lester’s bowed head. Norma breathed a sigh of relief. The guard smiled at them both.

  “Death is the necessary step on the road to enlightenment. Come,” urged Mr. Yee, “Mock Sai Wing awaits.”

  “Who’s that?” Lester asked.

  “My uncle. He is a very important man. Your newspapers sometimes refer to him as Mock Duck,” Yee said, with a proud smile. Norma made a mental note to remind herself to ask Lester why that name had caused him to stammer and go pale.

  The guard opened the large double doors and led the two men under the arch into the joss house, a temple on the top floor of the building. It was as if a treasure chest had been opened in front of her eyes. Light streamed into the room from all sides through floor-to-ceiling windows. Red banners hung from the ceiling and posters decorated the pillars holding up the vaulted ceiling. There was a large statue of Buddha at the far end of the room and incense burned before it, filling the air with the smell of jasmine. Norma counted a dozen men in the room. They were all dressed, as Mr. Yee was, in elegant white silk pajamas. The men broke apart and formed two lines as Norma and Lester entered. At the far end of the gauntlet they had formed stood an aged man. Norma recognized him as the old man who had been dining in the restaurant with them.

  Lester looked around. There was nowhere for him to be modest, so he disrobed and dressed in full view of the other men.

  “That’s some scar on your uncle’s neck,” she said to Mr. Yee.

  “Many years ago an assassin came right up to him in the street and shot him at point-blank range. And yet he survived. There is an old Chinese joke about Chinese men being bad shots. Not funny. But true.”

  Lester turned, dressed in black silk.

  “Very good. Black is the color of destruction. After you are destroyed you will then be given the white clothes of healing.”

  “Okay.”

  “They will ask you many questions and I will translate and then help you respond. Are you ready to stand before Shen Yi, the Sun-God, and receive his arrows?”

  “Ritual arrows, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am.”

  Mr. Yee indicated that it was time for Norma to leave. Frustrated, she took a few steps back, letting the guard close the heavy, carved doors. She stepped up and put her eye to the seam and found she was still able to watch. Lester’s eyes were sparkling with delight as he was escorted to the head of the gauntlet. Mr. Yee left him there and walked around to join his uncle at the end of the line. The men raised swords. As Lester walked down the line, each man lowered his sword and gently tapped Lester against the back of his neck. Norma breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the end and the last man. Then the two lines of men closed ranks behind him, blocking him from her view. She could see the top of his head nodding solemnly and hear his deep voice repeating Mr. Yee’s soft responses. But she couldn’t make out any details.

  She was put out. She and Lester were partners in so many things they did. She wasn’t used to being sidelined and didn’t appreciate having the strictures of five thousand years of culture applied to her. She was pleased that Lester would have a new experience, but she wished she were having it with him. So it wasn’t so much that she was bored or indifferent but more that she was a little jealous when she turned away from the ceremony for a few moments to look at the wall of old photographs behind her.

  Many of the photos were of men who must have been members and the places they came from. One photograph in particular caught her attention. She recognized it as San Francisco’s Chinatown, reduced to rubble in the aftermath of the great earthquake.

  Her self-pitying indignation was swept away by a great thrill at the sight. Sitting placidly, untouched amidst the devastation, as if the walls of the surrounding temple had collapsed directly outward only to reveal it and the devastation as far as the eye could see, was her golden statue. As small as it was in the picture, it still leered horrendously at her. The delicious tingles of discovery swept down from the crown of her head. She wanted it. She wanted to go back to the theater and bring the world to see it. She wanted to grab Lester and show him, but he was in the middle of drinking some symbolic blood. At least, she hoped it was symbolic.

  The ceremony ended with a great “Ho!” resounding from the room, which Mr. Yee later told her translated as “Good!” The great doors opened and she was invited to enter. Lester was beaming with pride. The men surrounded him and clapped him on the back. He changed back into his church clothes. Then, as a single mass sweeping her husband along, the men headed downstairs to celebrate.

  Norma motioned for Mr. Yee and when he came to her she showed him the picture.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That is Tai Yi Jiu Ku Tian Cun,” he replied. “The Judge of the Dead. The highest ruler in hell. He is carried forth by ten monks who represent the ten Lords of Death. Upon death all souls must appear before Tai Yi and be judged.”

  “Well, that Tai Yi,” she said, unable to say the rest of the Chinese words, “that’s the statue I found in the theater. I guess I didn’t describe it well enough for you. That’s my treasure.”

  He pursed his lips for a moment. “He is not a treasure to be found. He is an omen of great death and destruction. He is not something you should ever hope to see for real in your lifetime. He judges men and gods alike.”

  “Well, of course. I’d never want to see him for real. He sounds very unpleasant. But I’m talking about this statue, not the real god. This is a statue made of gold. Like this one in this picture of San Francisco thirty years ago. I’m sure of it. I’d love to take another look. I’d just love to! To just know.”

  His gentle dark eyes grew cloudy with worry for her. “You must not go back to the theater. You must not look for Tai Yi. Tai Yi comes when there is misery and sorrow and troubles, and many dead to judge. Look closer at the picture, Mrs. Dent. You say it is just a statue. How would you know a god if you met one?”

  Episode Thirty-Two

  “DEAR EDITOR,’” The Flash read to Driftwood from the latest issue of Astounding Stories, “‘This is to notify you of the official commencement of the Iowa City Science Fiction Advancement League at the Iowa University Law School. We wish to express our utmost appreciation to the publishers of Astounding Stories for the creation of such a worthwhile literary genre, adding many hours of enjoyment to the average Iowa law student’s hectic life. The ICSFAL consists of seven full-time members—six students and one faculty member. In particular we wish to stress our admiration for the scope and detail of John Campbell’s essays on the latest knowledge of the solar system. They are accurate and exciting and full of insight into OUR UNIVERSE NOW. Your articles show that good science writing can be as entertaining as good science fiction writing. Also, we are an organization wishing to grow and support science fiction, our fiction, and we are looking for new members in the Iowa City area who wish to join us or like-minded organizations across the country who share our mission and would like to establish larger communications. For us the living, I am, Randolph Farmer, Iowa Law Commons, Iowa City.’

  “And there’s three other science fiction club announcements just like it.” He
tossed the latest issue of Astounding Stories onto the table, where it began soaking up the dribbles of beer. “I’m telling you, Otis, there’s a real gold mine in this science fiction. Something huge is happening here. It’s bigger than Walter Gibson money or even Edgar Rice Burroughs money. I’m talking about publisher money. Tycoon money. A law student doesn’t have time to scratch his own ass or chase girls, but he finds time to get a group together in a dormitory basement and spend an evening talking about rockets to the moon?”

  “They’re crazy?” Driftwood suggested. He picked up the magazine and thumbed through it. He had been staying at The Flash’s hotel. The Flash had fronted him some cash until his disability checks were forwarded from California. The Flash didn’t know exactly why he was trusting this stranger (after all, what kind of name was Otis Driftwood?) but he had taken a liking to the fellow and wanted to lend a hand up. Driftwood was a caustically cynical and suspicious son of a bitch, but he was funny and The Flash (who wasn’t funny at all but admired people who were) enjoyed his company. After a morning spent writing he had gathered up Driftwood and hit the newsstand for the latest issue; then they had made their way to the White Horse for Dutch courage.

  The brutal cold spell which had followed them down from Providence had lifted somewhat, though the warmth of the fireplace was still welcome. Few people had drifted in this afternoon: two boys barely old enough to drink were rifling through some papers in an open portfolio at the bar, and a tired drunk, whose head was slumped down on his chest, was drowsing near the drafting door.

  “In the beginning was Hugo Gernsback and he begat Amazing Stories.” The Flash sighed wistfully. “Now there’s a guy who could have had it all. What he must take to bed with him at night!”

  “What happened?”

  “He saw it all coming and he reached for the brass ring and missed it, that’s all. Old Hugo was the ed on Amazing Stories and he saw that the mags that sold the best were the ones that had a science fiction story in them. Usually it was just a Welles or Verne reprint, but every month he’d have some new stuff. Well, a competitor to Amazing Stories was Wonder Stories, and it was on the verge of folding. Old Hugo scraped together every dime he had and he bought out the old Wonder Stories title and he started to publish mainly science fiction stories and it really took off.