The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril

by Paul Malmont

  “Lew,” she called. “If you go, my husband’s going to go with you, and he could die if he goes with you.”

  “Mr. Dent, sir,” the cowboy said as he pulled the tarp from the Evinrude and primed it, “your missus would like you to stay back.”

  “Well, Lew,” said Lester, sliding into the tender. The little boat tottered and bobbed under his weight. “Let me tell you why you need my help. That’s a two-stroke engine there. Makes a noise like a band saw. If you use that you may as well send them a card with your name on it that says you’ll be dropping by. You want on that boat, you’re gonna have to row for it. You’ll find oars under your seat.” He looked up at Norma. “I just gotta try and keep him alive.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Moments later, the knot untied, Lester let the line slip through his fingers as if trying to hold on to the Albatross, and Norma, a little bit longer. Finally he tossed the rope and Hubbard caught its wet coils deftly. Lester took up the tiller as the cowboy threw his back into the deep strokes needed to move the boat ahead. Lester turned his eyes forward, away from Norma’s toward their new direction. He never looked back.

  Issue 5:

  The Judge

  of the Dead

  Episode Thirty-Seven

  “WHAT DO you want?” Walter Gibson asked The Shadow.

  “To live,” The Shadow replied. “To survive.”

  “How?”

  The only answer was laughter.

  Walter Gibson woke up on the floor of the truck. It was moving again. He thought they were still in Manhattan but he couldn’t tell for sure; the canvas flap covering the back of the truck had been pulled tightly shut. His head was throbbing from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. It must have been the butt of a gun. He looked up at the Chinese soldiers holding tightly to the benches on either side of truck. The son of a bitch with the busted jaw smirked mercilessly at him. Of course, Gibson thought, if he had to be honest with himself, being popped in the head with the butt of a machine gun wasn’t the only reason his head was hurting. The opium probably had something to do with it as well.

  It turned out that he liked opium.

  He thought of some of the euphemisms his fellow writers had used for the process of ingesting it over the years. Smoke eating. Chasing the dragon. Banging the gong. They could call it whatever they preferred; for Gibson it was a little like kissing heaven.

  The peddlers in the den under the theater had known when to administer just the right amount so as to prevent the excruciating headaches which would occur if too much time elapsed between doses. Since he had entered Zhang Mei’s circle, warm hours had passed in languid hazy dreams of serenity and universal vision. Food became unnecessary and unwanted. Sips of tea quenched the parched throat. Random fleeting thoughts became great prophecies, and the slightest musings took on profound significance. During periods of lucidity he would scribble madly in his notebook, desperate to be able to recall the vast enlightenments which came upon him, keenly aware of Samuel Coleridge’s opium-driven experience of images “rising up before him” and the crushing loss of his mystical masterpiece, Kubla Khan, erased under the burden of sober reality.

  At other times Gibson would lie on his back and stare at the ceiling and try to picture Howard Lovecraft’s face, but he couldn’t remember exact details, even though the drug allowed him to recall so many more obscure faces from his past with impressive precision. He attempted to communicate telepathically with Sonia Lovecraft but he never received an answer. Helplessly he would find himself hallucinating that he was Lovecraft, buried in the cold earth of Providence, his eyes gummed shut, his fingernails and hair growing, his body frozen, waiting for the warmth of spring to begin the horrors of decomposition. His dry mouth, sewn closed, begged to cry out for justice. When these hallucinations ended he would swear not to take another puff of the sweet smoke. But only the smoke itself had the power to cloud those visions from his mind.

  Sometimes he would hear laughter, but not the cruel, portentous laughter of The Shadow. Robert’s laughter, the peals of joy of an excited young boy. It was years of laughter, years he had missed, and he realized that it wasn’t laughter, not Robert’s laughter at all, but his own sobs. He had other conversations with The Shadow, who warned him that the disloyalty of an agent would not be tolerated. He was not laughing. Then The Shadow’s face would melt into that of Zhang Mei, who would take an adjoining divan and continue with the story of his life. During these sessions Gibson would rouse himself to something resembling full functionality and diligently interview and transcribe the man’s words.

  Late one night Zhang Mei led him up the stairs onto the stage of the theater above. In the center of the stage stood a terrible statue, carved from wood and covered with gold. It was very old, Zhang Mei explained, and had traveled as far as he had. He gave it an affectionate pat, which echoed hollowly inside. Its face was fearsome and Gibson realized that the statue’s cold eyes followed him around the stage, as alive as those in one of Rozen’s paintings. Only this statue wasn’t a simulacrum of The Shadow; it resembled nothing more than Rozen’s recurrent Death visage. “I am the only priest he has left,” Zhang Mei informed him, and Gibson nodded and said he understood. “I give him my breath, which is his judgment.”

  At other times a strange American soldier, Colonel Towers, would appear and their sphere of intimacy would be burst. Gibson was possessive about his companion and felt that Towers had an untoward influence on him. Upon the occasions of his visits, Towers and Zhang would depart the theater, leaving Gibson in the opium den beneath it. When Towers was around, Zhang was considerably crueler toward Gibson, as well as to his own men who had accompanied him from Hawaii. “I am, as your expression goes, waiting for my ship to come in,” was his disdainful answer to Gibson’s eventual query about his excursions.

  Towers made it clear that he didn’t trust Gibson, but he knew that there was no way Gibson could escape the opium den unless Zhang gave the word. There were smoke men ready to plunge knives into him in an instant. From their mysterious outings Zhang would return alone hours later, angered and frustrated. Until his rages passed, Gibson would remain silent and investigate the deep inner workings of his own being. He spent a lot of time thinking about Litzka. He had begun to realize that the chances of his seeing her again were growing slim.

  Late on the night before the one that found him in the back of a truck, he had walked with Zhang through Chinatown. The streets had been cleaned and festooned with decorations in preparation for an upcoming parade. Zhang and Gibson seemed to pass invisibly by the small clusters of people. Gibson never caught anyone looking at the tall dark Chinese man and the short white man at his side; they slid by as if they were shadows.

  Bright red banners hung from the lampposts. Posters proclaiming solidarity with brothers and sisters back in China were hung in store windows. The mood in the streets was celebratory, in spite of the recent news which described defeat after defeat of the Chinese army at the hands of the Japanese. Though the fall of Beijing appeared imminent, the weekend’s festival would be a show of support for the homeland.

  “The kidnapping was my plan,” Zhang told Gibson, as they stood before posters declaring support for General Chiang Kai-shek, “to force the general to unite with Professor Mao against the Japanese. Chiang is smart. He quickly agreed to come to an understanding with the Communists and focus the fight against the Japanese. But he demanded that Xueling and I exile ourselves from China in order that he would not have to fear another threat from us.

  “I laughed at him. We were in the position of power. China was ours to save. But my brother agreed to the terms of his prisoner. No matter what I said, his mind would not be swayed. I made an attempt to kill Chiang, but he stayed my hand. I begged, pleaded, threatened; his path was set. He did not want to lead the army. He did not want the future of China to rest upon his shoulders. For him, the wars were truly over. Let it rest on mine, I said to him, but again, no. You understand I could ha
ve killed my brother then? But I did not. Instead, I did what Zhang Zuolin himself would have done. I retreated. And I formed a new alliance. With Colonel Towers.

  “Xueling had already exiled himself to Hawaii by the time I was prepared to leave. He took with him men who were loyal to me, who would wait for me. When I last saw the shores of China, it was a day not unlike this, cold and raining. I was on a ship bound for Formosa. I watched the horizon until the land disappeared. I was leaving behind the bodies of my wife and my son with no one to pay them honor or light the candles and incense for them. And I had been unable to avenge them upon Mi-Ying. I wept openly for all which I had lost beyond the horizon.

  “It is good that the general now recognizes Japan as the true enemy and fights with Professor Mao instead of against. But the time for victory slips away. There is not enough leadership. The Japanese war machine is mighty. There is not enough money for food or for arms.”

  He stopped and fingered one of the red flyers taped to a lamppost. “My friend, Colonel Towers, came to me in Taipei when all seemed lost. He knew of a way to defeat the Japanese. He knew where money could be found to supply an army. He knew of a weapon which could drive them from our shores forever.” He tore the flyer from the post. “He brought me hope when there was none.”

  Gibson looked at the photo printed above the Chinese text. He recognized General Chiang Kai-shek but the man next to the general meant nothing to him. He said as much to Zhang, who nodded.

  “Of course. Why should you know the face of the consul general? Why should you know his name? He is of no importance to anyone but himself. A mere diplomat.” He snatched the paper back, crumpled it up, and threw it into the gutter, where it unfurled slowly in the water from the melting snow. He added his own spit to the swirl. Then he began to walk again.

  “What’s in it for Towers?” Gibson asked.

  They turned the corner back to the street which led to the theater and to the opium den at the end of the alley. “Colonel Towers is a complicated man. He speaks Chinese like I speak English. We have taught each other much. Like many men, Colonel Towers dreams of being a wealthy man. A powerful man. The kind of man who can influence the course of history. Though he may be an American, he is a true citizen of the world and his ambitions do not obligate him to remain in America. He will be content to be wealthy wherever his wealth finds him.”

  “Will you make him wealthy?”

  “If he can deliver to me the power of my destiny, which I believe he can, then it will be within my power to do this for him. Yes.”

  A canvas-covered military truck had parked in front of the theater. The driver leapt out of the truck upon seeing Zhang and fell to his knees. Tears streamed down his sea-worn, weather-beaten face. Zhang fell upon him and the two men embraced and spoke rapidly to each other in their own tongue. Gibson was momentarily forgotten. For a moment the thought occurred to him, Run! He could disappear into the city. But he stood still and watched. He had never seen Zhang happy and he found it fascinating. He almost felt as if he shared in the man’s joy.

  Soon they were inside and the warmth of the drug filled his being once more with hallucinations of merciless Chinese statues, the red eyes of The Shadow, and the lost laughter of a little boy who loved trains.

  The activity lasted all day long. He heard scraping and bumping upstairs in the theater, big objects being slid across the floor. Men came and went. Zhang barked orders. Men responded. The sounds of commotion upstairs blurred into those from the street—the preparations for the parade. Finally, at the coming of night, he was roused from his stupor by Zhang. Gibson’s vision took a while to come into focus.

  “Come with me, my biographer,” Zhang Mei snapped, impatient at Gibson’s groggy ineptitude. “There is another chapter to be written tonight.” A pure formidable energy emanated from Zhang, and Gibson could see in his bearing the warrior who had slain so many men single-handedly at the battle of the river, who had led troops into battle under the banner of Zhang Zuolin. He knew in an instant that his secret sharer was gone forever. Zhang’s men hustled Gibson out toward the back of the truck. One of the men flipped down the rear gate of the trunk, while another swept back the canvas cargo door.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Two rusty old canisters—identical to the one he had found in the Providence Medical Lab, right down to their weathered army stencils—were lashed tightly to the bed of the truck. Hands propelled him up and on, the momentum knocking him against one of the drums. He scrambled away from them and picked himself up. The rest of Zhang’s company clambered in after him. They were solemn and resolute, and they eyed him with stern silence. On the floor was an open crate of machine guns. Another held cartridges for those guns. A third box remained closed. The last man aboard dropped the canvas over the back.

  He heard Zhang’s voice outside.

  “Zhang Mei,” he cried, “Zhang Mei! What are you doing?”

  But there was no reply. Moments later he heard both doors of the cab slam shut and the engine roar to life.

  He had no sense of where they were when the truck finally came to a stop. The men seemed restless, but they made no move to exit. Gibson felt a rumbling sensation vibrating against his tailbone on the bench where he was seated. It was a familiar sensation and for a strange moment he thought they had parked by the loading dock of the Street & Smith building. But the instant he had that thought, it introduced another which told him exactly where they were. The American Bank Note Company lay on the other side of the canvas wall.

  The gate of the truck was carefully and quietly lowered and the men filed off. One man remained in the truck with his gun in Gibson’s ribs. There was a crisp, efficient order to the distribution of guns and ammo. The third case was opened and gas masks were pulled from it. Each man put one on. Gibson stared as one of the two drums was carefully lowered to the street by anxious men. The masks gave them an insectlike appearance, with bug eyes and a drumlike proboscis hanging down to their chests.

  “Zhang Mei? What’s happening?” he said loudly. The men looked at him. Zhang Mei gave him a disdainful glare. He felt the muzzle of the gun poke his ribs, hard, and his heart began to race. Three men picked up the drum and ran with it to the front door of the building, and he knew the guards were done for unless he did something. “Hey!” he shouted, trying to warn the men inside. “Hey!” The guards in the lobby stirred.

  He felt something explode off the back of his head, and he sank to his hands and knees, bolt of pains radiating through his body like the energy waves broadcasting from the RKO Studios’ theatrical emblem. For a moment he thought he had been shot, but he realized that he had been cocked with a rifle butt. Nausea overcame him and through blurred vision he saw one of the men use an implement to rip the stopper from the drum. The guards were rising now; they looked startled. One of the Chinese men took a sledgehammer to the glass door, smashing it.

  White gas blew from the hole in the drum like a whale’s plume, and Gibson remembered the pressure it was under. The men rolled the drum through the shattered glass. In an instant the lobby was filled with white, billowing clouds which swallowed up the guards. With the glass gone Gibson could hear their coughing screams of wretched agony. The sound lasted only a moment. They had been given no time to raise the alarm. Anyone else in the building, especially in the floors below as the gas sank, would also be dead within moments.

  The drum exhausted its pressurized contents rapidly. While the lobby was still full of poison, Zhang Mei barked a command and the men followed him inside. The gas spilled out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk toward Gibson. He felt for his glasses—one lens was broken. Half blind, he dragged himself to his feet. The man who had hit him kept the gun trained on him in a way which let him know that he would not be given a second chance. The gas stayed low, like a heavy mist, and soon the truck was surrounded. Gibson snatched a gas mask from the crate and held it to his face.

  The gas swirled around his feet but rose no higher and soon it began
to evaporate into the air. Suddenly he felt the vibration stop. The printing presses had been turned off.

  After a lengthy period of inactivity the men emerged from the lobby. Still wearing their masks, they looked like ants pouring out of an anthill. They carried case upon case, which they stacked upon pallets in the truck. The addition of the cases made the truck sink under their combined weight.

  “Years ago the ruling coalition in Beijing, under my adopted father, placed an order for new currency from this place. It was bought and paid for by the Chinese people.” Zhang Mei was speaking up to Gibson from the curb. His voice was flattened by the mask. “When the coalition collapsed, it became unclear to whom this money should be released. Many claimed ownership, but none could prove it. And so here it has rested these many years.”

  “No receipt. No money. Holy Christ,” Gibson murmured. “It’s the greatest lost Chinese laundry ticket joke in the history of the world.”

  “And here is your punch line: Your government can never admit that this money has been taken. To do so would destroy all that is left of its global economic integrity.”

  “How much money?”

  “Enough to win a war. Enough to rebuild an empire after its invaders have been repelled. Enough to avenge my family. Enough to seat a new emperor in Beijing—one who will bring peace to China.”

  “But how much?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty million dollars,” Zhang replied. “Tomorrow night, after we celebrate with our brothers, we shall begin our journey home. Colonel Towers has arranged it so that we will not be pursued by your coast guard or navy.”

  The engine rumbled to life and the men climbed back on board, considerably more cramped. Zhang disappeared from Gibson’s view in the commotion of moving soldiers. That’s when Gibson made his break for it. He lunged for the rear gate, hoping to take advantage of the confusion.