by Tim Maleeny
It was a rubber chicken.
“I brought that as a present to Freddie,” said Cape over his shoulder. “Figured the guys in the kitchen could do wonders with it, especially with the right sauce.”
The guard threw the chicken back at Cape but caught himself before following through with his fist. He’d clearly been given orders.
“Should I have brought cat instead?”
The guard grabbed him by the collar and turned him to face the door, then twisted the knob and shoved him forward. Cape raised his hands in time to avoid opening the door with his face.
It was dark inside, the only light coming from an old lamp with a green shade sitting on a desk. The cloying smell of incense filled the room, and thick tendrils of smoke curled in the subdued light. Behind the desk sat Freddie Wang, his long gray hair sprouting from a high forehead, his dark eyes squinting through the smoke as Cape stepped forward.
“I hear you died last year,” said Freddie, his voice like dry reeds cracking in the wind.
Cape shrugged. “I heard that, too,” he said. “Turns out I just had a bad case of food poisoning….I think I got it at this restaurant, as a matter of fact.”
Freddie cackled, which quickly turned into a wracking cough. A gnarled right hand moved into the pool of light and snatched a lit cigarette from a carved wooden ashtray, then scuttled back out of sight like a cockroach. As the tip of the cigarette glowed red in the darkness, Freddie’s cough subsided.
“If you got food poisoning here,” he said slowly, “you’d stay dead.”
Cape nodded but didn’t say anything, moving to sit in one of the two straight-backed chairs in front of Freddie’s desk. As he turned to sit, Cape noticed a stolid-looking man lurking in the shadows behind him and to the right. He had long black hair pulled tight into a ponytail and hands that looked too big for his body, jutting out from the sleeves of his suit like oven mitts. Although they came in all shapes and sizes, Freddie always had protection.
“So what you want?” asked Freddie testily.
Cape noticed Freddie’s accent came and went depending on his mood and realized taking a seat without being asked had irked his host. Freddie didn’t like visitors.
“I want your wisdom,” said Cape pleasantly.
“Fuck you,” said Freddie. “You think you kiss my ass, tell a joke, I tell you stories?”
“Nah,” said Cape. “I think that if you tell me stories, then I leave you alone.”
“You make threat?” Freddie leaned into the light. His face stretched painfully as he stared at Cape, the wrinkles unfolding like a broken accordion. His left eye was droopy and faint, its inner light all but extinguished, but his right eye glowed like a black sun. Cape caught himself leaning forward unconsciously, as if he were getting sucked into Freddie’s gravitational pull.
“I want to know about the refugees on that ship,” said Cape evenly.
“Fah,” spat Freddie in disgust, leaning back in his chair. “You talk to cops?”
“I have,” said Cape, “but I won’t talk to them about you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Freddie’s half-lit face contorted again, revealing a mole on his right cheek sprouting three prominent hairs. “I look worried, gwai loh?”
Cape shook his head, smiling. “No, Freddie. You look great-you look like a lingerie model. They say aberrant facial hair is all the rage this year.”
Freddie coughed violently in response, then gagged before summoning a wad of phlegm from the back of his throat. Leaning forward, he spat it expertly into the center of his ashtray. Running the back of his right hand across his mouth, he took another drag on his cigarette before his breathing returned to normal. Cape sensed the bodyguard moving closer, but Freddie waved the man off. When he spoke again, his voice crackled as if a fire had started somewhere deep in his chest.
“You talk to cops about me,” he wheezed menacingly, “I eat your eyeballs.”
“So that’s what’s in hot-n-sour soup.”
Freddie squinted through the smoke, his baleful right eye unblinking.
Cape shrugged. “Deal.”
“You know what’s on boat?” asked Freddie. “Besides dead Chinese?”
“Nope.” Cape shook his head. “You?”
Freddie shrugged but didn’t answer, looking from Cape to the bodyguard, then back again. Freddie loved playing the part of the Asian gangster, and Cape sensed this was one of those obtuse conversations in which Freddie spoke in half-truths and riddles, as if the constant threat of surveillance hung over him like so much cigarette smoke. Few professional crooks had stayed in power and public view for so long, so maybe the paranoia was justified.
“You think that’s important?” asked Cape, trying to keep the conversation going. “The cargo?”
“Not to me,” replied Freddie. “But many people lose money when ship crash.”
“On the cargo, or the passengers?” asked Cape.
“Cargo insured,” replied Freddie. “Passengers, maybe not.”
“Did you lose money, Freddie?”
“Me, I have plenty insurance.” Freddie smiled broadly, his teeth yellowed from smoke.
“So you’re saying the refugees’ families paid for their transport, or they did themselves-and that money’s gone,” said Cape, wanting to spell it out. “But someone like you keeps your share no matter what.”
“What you mean, like me?” asked Freddie defensively.
“The snakehead,” replied Cape, trying out the word and watching Freddie for a reaction.
Freddie shook his head, a series of popping sounds like hiccups coming from his throat. Cape realized he was chuckling.
“You get lesson in smuggling?” asked Freddie.
Cape shrugged.
“Too bad you not get lesson in thinking,” said Freddie caustically. “No snakehead here, gwai loh.”
It was what Cape expected him to say. Freddie may have to talk to him, but he didn’t expect to get a full confession. “My mistake,” he said amiably. “So what were you saying about the cargo?”
“Had to go somewhere,” replied Freddie. “Maybe people on boat headed to same place as cargo.”
Cape nodded but remained silent. This was probably as far as Freddie was prepared to go, at least on the record.
“We done here?” asked Freddie pointedly, confirming the suspicion.
“Sure,” said Cape. “If you say so, Freddie.” He stood but didn’t move away from the desk.
“You used to live south of Market Street,” said Freddie. A statement, not a question, maybe reminding Cape he knew where to find him.
“Yeah.”
“Lots of warehouse space there,” said Freddie idly.
“Some,” said Cape, noticing how Freddie had leaned back into the light so he could read his expression. “Some have been turned into lofts, though. You know, residential space.”
“People living in warehouses,” mused Freddie.
Cape met his gaze and nodded. “Imagine that.”
Freddie chuckled softly, then faded back into the shadows.
Cape turned to leave, suddenly realizing the bodyguard that had been standing behind him was no longer there. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he heard Freddie cough behind him.
“Last time you here,” Freddie called out, “you came with friend.”
Cape turned at the door. They both knew whom Freddie was talking about. Cape had only seen Freddie before with Sally at his side for protection. Even Freddie wouldn’t mess with a girl raised by the Triads.
“Lots of people killed on that boat,” added Freddie, his voice charged with an undercurrent of satisfaction.
“You have a point, Freddie?”
“You alone now, gwai loh,” said Freddie, chuckling. “Better watch step.”
“You making a threat, Freddie?” asked Cape evenly. “You did your favor for Yan, and now that we’ve had our little chat, I’m fair game-is that it?”
Freddie stayed in the s
hadows, saying nothing, his claw of a hand reaching for the ashtray.
“Or are you just worried about me?” added Cape.
“I look worried?” asked Freddie, the red tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.
“No, Freddie,” replied Cape. “You look fuckin’ great.” He turned the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked, but it swung open with a rush of cool air. The smoke from the office billowed into the short hallway, making him realize how claustrophobic he was feeling. Cape descended the steps two at a time, thankful for the cool of the night fog as he left the restaurant behind him.
His car was where he’d left it, without a ticket on the windshield. A minor victory in the scheme of things, but at this point Cape wasn’t taking anything for granted. The neon from the restaurant reflected off the side panels of the old convertible, colors twisting in a lurid dance along the contours of the car. It looked like it was riding low. As he crossed the street, Cape noticed something behind the left rear wheel. Squatting down, he picked the object up and studied it in the murky light.
It was roughly the size and shape of a Walkman, except without the outer casing. Wires ran from a red interior to a blank LCD screen and AA battery. Squinting, Cape saw that the red area looked soft and malleable, like Play-Doh, and behind the battery was a thin wire that looked like it could be an antenna. Next to the battery was a small switch, which Cape decided not to throw, but he did move the box closer to his car to test a hypothesis. Feeling the pull of the magnetic base, he had absolutely no doubt about what he was holding.
It was a bomb.
Cape glanced back at the restaurant, but the front door was closed, the lights on the first floor turned out. The rest of the street was just as quiet, save for the occasional car cutting across a block away. Taking one more look behind him, Cape slid his key into the trunk, popped the lid, and saw right away why the car was sitting low.
The bodyguard with the oven mitt hands stared at Cape with a surprised look on his face. It was an expression that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon, since his eyes were dead and unblinking. The face locked in a rictus of shock. The angle of the head reminded Cape of a marionette. He wasn’t a pathologist but was pretty sure the guy had died from a broken neck.
Cape blew out his cheeks and stood for almost a full minute staring at the corpse in his trunk. One half of his brain told him to call the cops while the other half made a compelling argument for kicking in the door to the restaurant and demanding answers from Freddie.
Instead he shook his head, trying for a moment to embrace the madness that had taken over his world. Cape tossed the bomb onto the body and closed the trunk, then walked around and got behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb he glanced in the rear view mirror, but the fog had grown so thick it was impossible to see more than a block away. He pulled his collar up and muttered to himself as he drove deeper into the fog, Freddie’s rasping taunt chasing him down the street.
“You alone now, gwai loh.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Hong Kong, 11 years ago
“He is yakuza.”
Sally’s eyes never left the photograph. When she finally blinked, the picture distorted, and Sally realized she must have tears in her eyes. Yakuza. The word seemed to reach Sally from very far away, as if she were swimming under water and Xan was calling to her from the shore. Only when Xan repeated himself a third time did Sally tear her eyes away long enough to return his stare, giving him a look of pure defiance.
“He’s in the Japanese mob,” said Sally. “So?”
“So,” replied Xan patiently, “that is something you should know. This folder was not given to you lightly, little dragon.”
Sally gritted her teeth and nodded, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. She’d waited ten years for this opportunity; she could wait another ten minutes.
“I understand,” she said. “Please continue, Master Xan.”
“He is not very important,” replied Xan, “but his uncle is-that’s why we know who he is-and also why he didn’t go to jail after his truck collided with your parents’ car.”
The room started to spin and Sally closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her breathing, ten years of training and discipline struggling against a lifetime of pain and longing.
“We have an understanding with the yakuza,” explained Xan. “Sometimes we do business together, and other times we compete for the same business.”
Sally opened her eyes and nodded, not saying anything.
“But we do not attack them directly.”
Sally felt her heart stop.
“Then why did you show me this folder?”
Xan looked almost paternal. “I said directly, little dragon,” he said. “That means your task is to watch this man for one week, take photographs of his meetings-we are interested in one meeting in particular. And then…”
“And then?” Sally held her breath.
“Then this man means nothing to us,” said Xan, “or to anyone else.” He paused, watching her carefully as he spoke. “Then you must make a choice, little dragon.”
Sally didn’t hesitate. “I already made that choice,” she replied, “when I stepped through the black gate.”
Xan nodded. “We always have choices, Sally. Remember that.”
Sally bowed her head, her thoughts rushing by too fast to register.
“There is one more thing.”
Sally looked up, worried by the change in Xan’s tone. “Yes?”
“You have mastered most of the fighting arts,” said Xan. “But many will not be at your disposal on this trip.”
Sally remained silent but looked puzzled.
“The bow, throwing darts, even poison.” Xan’s tone was one of warning. “These all leave a signature, Sally, for those who know the signs.”
“What are you saying?”
Xan leaned across the desk. “If you want to kill this man, little dragon, you will first have to get close to him. Closer than you would like.”
Sally swallowed hard and stared at Xan for a full minute before answering, her eyes now completely dry. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, as if she had aged a hundred years since this meeting began.
“When can I leave?”
Chapter Twenty-four
San Francisco, present day
“I’d like ten bags of ice, please.”
Cape had stopped at the Safeway in the Marina district, which was open twenty-four hours even though most people finished their grocery shopping by eight. At nearly eleven o’clock, Cape was one of five people in the store.
He smiled pleasantly at the young man behind the checkout aisle, who had been reading one of the tabloid newspapers they kept near the registers. Apparently Oprah had gained weight again.
The young man nodded at Cape, the beads woven into his hair jangling with the motion. His name tag said Rex.
“Havin’ a party?” he asked as he tapped the keys on the register.
“Something like that,” said Cape, glancing at his car through the glass front of the store.
“You want some beer?” asked Rex, his purple fingernails paused above the keys. “Maybe some chips? We got these sour cream ’n onion chips you wouldn’t believe, man, especially after you been partyin’ for a while.”
Cape turned back from the window, his smile evaporated. “They pay you on commission, Rex?”
Rex backed up a step, then snorted. “No, dude, just tryin’ to help you out.”
Cape nodded, grabbing a pack of gum from the rack beside him. “Just this,” he said, trying to keep an edge out of his voice. “And ten bags of ice.”
“Whatever,” said Rex, punching buttons. “You got a club card?”
Cape shook his head. “No, I’ll just pay cash.”
“It’s not a credit card,” replied Rex. “It’s a club card. You type in your phone number, and you get all sorts of free shit. Like, tonight, you might even get a discount on the ice.”
Cap
e stared at him, wondering if he should go back to his car and get the gun from his glove compartment. Rex stared back, confident in the flawless logic of his suggestion.
“Thanks, anyway,” said Cape evenly. “Just the ice.”
“You still want the gum?” asked Rex. “’Cause I already rang it up. I could void it, but then I’d have to call my manager, and-”
Cape held up his hands. “I want the gum,” he said emphatically, picking it up off the conveyor and handing Rex a twenty before he could say anything else. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Rex smiled and shrugged, pleased at his catch. “No sweat,” he said, handing Cape his change. “You need help out to your car?”
“No,” replied Cape-a little too quickly, he thought. “I’ll manage.”
“Peace,” said Rex, turning back to his tabloid.
Cape used a cart to move the ice to his car, then did a quick scan of the parking lot before opening the trunk.
The expression on the dead bodyguard had not changed. He looked just as surprised that Cape had bought ice as he had looked when Cape first found him. The bags almost filled the trunk, and Cape figured they’d keep things under control for at least a few hours.
Getting behind the wheel again, he fished his cell phone from his jacket and made a short call, then turned out of the parking lot and headed toward Golden Gate Park.
Chapter Twenty-five
Tokyo, 11 years ago
It was raining hard by the time Hideyoshi Kano left the nightclub.
Lighting a cigarette as he stepped under the awning, his face was lit by the blazing neon sign across the street. Fifty feet of blue neon twisted to form two giant characters in kanji above a red neon sign in English, which read “Happy Donuts.”