John didn't look so hot. Sweat rolled down his gaunt cheeks. He looked down at his shoe then jumped back letting out a piercing squeal. He hopped around on one foot flicking the other in front of him. Finally, the shoe shot away hitting the far wall. As he flicked it off, a spray of blood came from the toe. The gunsels shrank back. They ducked as John hopped around like a maniac. You could eat the uncertainty and fear in the room. John stood panting, off-balance on one foot. He turned. A rivulet of Li's blood ran down his cheek. It could have been acid burning through paper. John's hand lunged into his trouser pocket. He dragged out a handkerchief and swiped at his cheek trying to rid himself of the cursed blood eating into his face. He swiped once, twice, three times. Finally, he threw the handkerchief on to the floor in disgust. He pressed his palm against his cheek and hissed. He turned and glowered at me with maniacal hatred.
John held a small caliber pistol in his right hand. He turned its snub barrel, pressing it into Jake's right ear. Jake didn't look so hot either. Pale at the best of times, his skin had turned practically translucent. I took another look at Mr. Li.
“Now is that any way to treat a fellow countryman?” I asked.
John mopped his face with his sleeve. The dragon pendant dangled outside his shirt. “A slight misunderstanding. But we settled our differences amicably,” he panted, his lips trembling.
“For you, you mean.”
“Li didn't understand his position here,” John answered.
“I guess he does now.”
“Exactly,” John replied. “And now, to business. Do you have the ledger?”
“Not yet.” John's finger tightened on the trigger. “Go ahead,” I said.
“Boychick,” Jake pleaded. That was the wrong thing to say.
“I don't care if you blow his head off.”
Birdie raised the 12-gauge, pumped in two shells and pointed it at John's head.
“Your brains'll look mighty fine splattered on the ceiling,” Birdie said.
“You will die too,” John replied but didn't move.
“You'll be the first and then maybe Quan over there,” I said and pointed the .45 at Quan's heart. His smirk froze.
“Fair point,” John conceded. He grimaced. “I want the ledger, the girl and the chauffeur and I want them now. I will not tolerate any more delays.”
“I've still got 24 hours,” I said. “Your terms.”
We stared each other down. It felt like looking into a cataclysm of darkness. After an eon, John broke away. “Twenty-four hours, no longer. If not for your father, then your brother. It would be a shame to have all of the Golds eliminated at the same time.”
I thumbed the hammer on the .45. “I think you're speaking out of turn, John.” I took a step back and motioned Birdie to do the same. “I'm not the one who's been cursed. Twenty-four hours.”
I took another look. Li's eternal expression looked like one of contentment. Slowly, we backed out of the room. Jake didn't take his eyes off me once. I could see he tried to figure it out. Would I have let him die? I didn't give him the satisfaction of leaving any doubt.
We walked briskly back to the Chevy. No one followed us.
41
My head pounded but it had subsided to a vigorous tapping inside my skull rather than the relentless drilling of a jackhammer. Some progress. “Where we headed?” Birdie asked.
“To see if we can find Henry.”
Birdie thought for a minute. “It's two o'clock in the morning.”
“I know, but we don't have a lot of time.”
“I need to stoke my fire,” he said and pointed at his belly.
“Right.”
On College Street, there was an all-night diner called Mars. Its slogan was “Food Out of this World.” I didn't know about that but the countermen whipped up hot food on the spot. Quick and cheap. Particularly famous for their bran muffins. It called out to the denizens of the night.
We took a seat at the counter. One other guy who'd seen better times, nursed a coffee. One of the night men sat at a booth in the back smoking and reading the paper.
“What'll it be, gents?” the counterman asked.
He looked to be about 50. He wore a dirty white apron smeared with grease and a paper hat. He had a sallow face and the heavy-lidded eyes of a boozer. A fag smoldered in an ashtray by his left hand.
“Four fried egg sandwiches and two large orders of French fries,” Birdie said. “And a large chocolate malted.”
“And you?” the guy asked. He didn't even blink. Not once.
“Just gimme an order of French toast, coffee and one of your famous bran muffins.”
The counterman nodded. “You got it.” He took a last drag of the cigarette then crushed it out. “Coming right up.”
He slapped down a saucer and a cup and poured out of a fresh pot. He rolled a couple of creamers my way. “To get you started,” he said.
He turned his back to us and began cracking eggs for the French toast. “You want those sandwiches toasted?”
“You have to ask?” Birdie boomed.
“I figured.”
I liked watching these guys work. They were models of efficiency. Took my mind off things. He sliced four slabs of egg bread, dipped them in the egg mixture then tossed them on to the grill. I almost felt the sizzle. The fries burbled in oil. He cracked six eggs beside the bread. In his right hand, he held a metal spatula. He shifted the spatula over to his left and filled four toasters with white bread and banged them down. With deft strokes, he slid the spatula under the French toast and turned the slices over and flipped the eggs in succession, lining everything up in a neat, sputtering row. He grabbed a plate, covered it with the French toast, sprinkled some icing sugar over top and slid it over to me.
A second later he set down a metal pot of syrup. “There you go,” he said. “French toast, hot off the griddle.”
The toast popped and he buttered each slice in turn, scooped up the eggs, ground on some pepper, sprinkled a little salt and put it all together in a stack. He lifted the fries out of the oil, drained them and dumped them into some grease paper. The sandwiches were neatly arrayed as he set the plate carefully in front of Birdie. The grease paper had done its work, and another plate, a platter really, appeared beside the sandwiches, along with a bottle of malt vinegar and the same of ketchup.
“Malted coming right up,” he said but before I could ask he refilled my coffee cup. He began to mix the malted ingredients up in a long, metal container. The French toast was the best I'd ever had–hot, crisp on the outside, soft on the inside–steam wafted up as I cut into it. I slathered on some syrup and dug in. The milkshake machine whirred away and a moment later, he poured out the thick, creamy liquid into a tall glass, stuck a straw in it and set it down in front of Birdie just as he was taking a bite of the second egg sandwich.
“Lemme know if you want anything else,” he said. I think the whole thing must have taken all of two minutes.
Birdie nodded.
“Sure thing,” I said, as he placed an enormous bran muffin, the size of a flying saucer, on the counter in front of me.
“Enjoy.”
He sidled down the counter, leaned back and lit another fag, then poured himself a coffee. He held up the pot and I nodded. My cup was refilled efficiently. He moved back down the counter, replaced the coffee pot, picked up his fag and took a long pull.
I looked over at Birdie. He had just demolished most of the third sandwich. Half the malted disappeared. “You let John shoot Jake?” he asked.
I pondered that for a second or two. “Yeah, I would have.” Birdie took a last bite of number three and picked up number four.
“That's what I figured.”
“You think that's cold?”
Birdie shrugged. “That's between you two. You know I got someone always looking over my shoulder.”
I began to peel the wax paper off the bottom of the muffin. I broke off a piece, it was nice and moist, and took a bite. I'd inhaled the French toa
st.
“I know. I just want to get Eli back. Jake's on his own,” I said.
Birdie chewed thoughtfully, took another slurp of the malted that just about emptied it and nodded. “Like I said…”
“You and your god will forgive me. I know that too.”
Birdie polished off the last sandwich. “Can I get a coffee, please?”
The counterman looked up. “Yessir, you can.” He grabbed a cup and saucer and a couple of creamers and poured out the cup, then set it down carefully in front of Birdie's plate. “Guess you were hungry, huh?”
Birdie grinned. “Famished but I'm feeling good now. Real good.”
“What do I owe ya?” I asked the guy.
The counterman did a quick calculation in his. “Six-fifty,” he said.
I laid down a ten. “Keep it,” I said. “You earned it.”
“Thanks. Anything else I can get you?”
I looked over at Birdie. He shook his head. The coffee in his cup had evaporated.
“That's it,” I replied. I emptied the cup, took a last bite of the muffin and stood up. “See you again.”
The counterman nodded. “Right. See you.”
I could feel his eyes on us as we left. Birdie usually made people nervous. Even so, the guy had been a pro and I appreciated it. No complaints about the grub.
A guy in desperate straits could count on his friends. I figured that Henry Turner was no different. Otherwise, my options had expired.
Reaching Cecil Street took five minutes, even less early in the morning. I'd heard Garcia kept a flat in the Local 183 building and I hoped he bunked there tonight. Cars lined the street but I found a spot half a block down. None of the houses had lights on. The dead zone–a time when few ventured out and those that did often regretted it. I rang the night bell, leaned on it heavily and heard its muffled ring from inside. After about five minutes of putting my weight into it, a light came on in the hallway. A rumpled Garcia appeared. A short lifetime later he'd unlocked the deadbolts and the door swung open. He held the baseball bat in his right hand and looked like he'd use it without a moment's hesitation. He blinked at us and finally, recognition flooded into his face.
“What the hell do you want?” he rasped. “Especially at this time in the morning.”
“Need your help, Garcia,” I said staring at him, willing him to understand what we needed.
He returned my stare for what seemed a long time. But then he nodded grimly. “You better come in.” And he stood aside to let us pass. When we'd entered, he took a quick look in both directions up and down the street, then bolted the door clicking into place a complex array of locks and bolts.
A moment later, we were seated in his office. “When I'm working late, it's more convenient for me to sleep here than go home.”
“Safer you mean.”
“Yeah. That too.”
I glanced at the family photo on his desk. “Divorced?”
“Separated.”
“You know why we're here?”
Garcia smiled and shook his head. “Enlighten me.”
The office felt small and cramped. Stale odours lingered. I stood up. “We need to find Henry Turner and we need to find him fast.”
“So?” Garcia knitted his brow.
“You know where he is.”
“Look, I've told you, I haven't seen Henry since he disappeared.”
“Tell us another one, Garcia. You're his pal. Maybe his best pal. Henry disappears but has the ability to reappear when he wants. He can leave his mother small gifts on her birthday for example and then he disappears again.”
“Yeah, so maybe he's really Harry Houdini.”
“I know you think you're protecting him but things are coming to a head. A young guy's life is at stake. An innocent party who did no harm to anyone.” My voice broke a bit and Garcia gave me a quizzical look. “I have to speak to Henry. I have to know what was going on and why he felt he needed to disappear. And why he couldn't say anything about it all these years. I know it's dangerous but it's going to be worse if we don't find him. Henry may have disappeared but his mother hasn't and there are parties out there who know that and won't hesitate to use her to reel him in. Do I make myself clear? Innocent people may die here. His mother is in danger. He doesn't have any options left.” Garcia's eyes narrowed. He chewed on his upper lip under the moustache.
“I made a promise,” he said but his brain was ticking over.
“Look Garcia, I understand. A man gives his word. Often it's all he's got. But if Aida Turner ends up dead, how you gonna feel about your promise? How will Henry feel?”
“How do I know you're not just trying to sucker me?” Garcia asked. “Henry told me that under no circumstances was he to be found. That no one, including Mrs. Turner should know where he is.”
“I know that but the circumstances have changed. Everything is cracking open. The family he used to drive for, The Fosters, the daughter, Alison–she's dead—murdered—a beautiful, 24 year-old woman and young wife, and there could be more to come. If Henry can help us prevent anything else from happening, don't you think he'd want to? Henry strikes me as a decent guy trying to do the right thing. He'd make the choice. He's sacrificed a lot. It's time to put an end to all that so he can come back and live in the real world.”
Garcia drummed the desktop with his stubby fingertips. “I don't know,” he said. “I just don't know.”
“Look,” I said. “You know we've been looking for him, covered a lot of ground. And then I got to thinking about him and you and where you worked before. Somewhere you can't be seen and a place that's difficult to find or even think of. You and Henry worked on those tunnels. I think you know exactly where Henry is and can lead us to him. I need you to do that now for all kinds of good reasons, least of all, Henry's own welfare.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“If we've figured it out then others probably have too. Those others include a Chinese gangster with a vicious posse. Come on, Garcia, don't you see? It won't be long before they go gunning for him–and he's on his own without any help. At least we…” and I spread the flaps of my jacket to reveal the mini-arsenal I carried and Birdie did the same. “…can even the odds a little bit.”
“You'd do that for him? You don't even know him.”
“Like I said, there's more at stake here. We need Henry's help to figure it out.”
Garcia slumped in his chair staring at his lap. “Goddammit,” he said. After a long moment, he raised his head, then nodded wearily.
42
Garcia rode in the back of the Chevy. I checked my watch: 3:17 a.m. Fatigue seeped into my bones but I knew I had to stay sharp and focused. Garcia directed us to the Rosedale subway station. Rosedale. A swanky address even if it was underground. We parked opposite the station. It was shut up tight for the night. The last train ran at midnight except on special occasions and certain holidays.
Garcia led us to a utility door. A key that looked more like an Allen wrench appeared in his hand. He fitted it into the lock and the door swung open. Garcia took a quick look around. He ushered us in closing the door behind us and locked it from the inside. He switched on a feeble light that revealed a metal staircase pointing downward.
“Come on,” he said.
As we descended, I shivered. It felt dank and distinctly colder. Birdie gave me a look, one of those that said 'what have we got ourselves into?' I counted 75 steps before we hit bottom and another door. This one was open. Garcia waited for us.
“This way,” he said.
He led us down a long, narrow corridor–concrete floor, walls and ceiling. The corridor veered sharply right and we followed that trajectory. After roughly 100 feet, Garcia stopped at another door. Out came the curious little key and it swung open. We stepped inside. A storage area. I spotted a rack of slickers, one below for boots and up above for hard hats.
“Grab a slicker and some boots,” Garcia said. He looked at Birdie. “You'll have to make do. You don't want t
o ruin your coat or your shoes. It's pretty damp down here. Water flushes down from the open grates and vents on the sidewalks.” He picked up a hardhat that had a light built into it. “You'll need one of these too. Not much light where we're going.”
I managed to find a slicker and a pair of boots that corresponded roughly to my size. Birdie squeezed himself into the largest he could find but still ridiculously small. Same with the hard hat. Garcia expanded the headband as best he could and handed it over after firing up the torch. We looked like odd-shaped glowworms.
“C'mon,” Garcia beckoned. “It's a bit of a hike.” I wondered when he'd done it last. He didn't look like he'd been very active lately but surprisingly, ambled forward comfortably.
The slickers helped with the dampness and chill permeating the air, but they sat awkwardly and the boots dragged. I began to sweat as we slogged through the next corridor. Disoriented, I couldn't tell our direction, how deep underground we were or how far we'd walked. Probably not too far. Less than a mile.
Garcia banged through another door with a push bar and we found ourselves on the edge of the subway platform. The entrance to the platform consisted of a metal gate. Garcia prodded it open with the toe of his boot and we went through to the platform proper. The conductor's booth and the newspaper kiosk sat shut up tight like the ticket taker and candy-floss maker of an abandoned fair ground. We strode to the end of the platform where we encountered another gate. The railing hung low and awkwardly, Garcia, stepped over it. We followed, descending a narrow set of steps to the floor of the tunnel.
“Walk in the centre, away from the rail,” Garcia said. “You can get fried pretty quick. It stays hot all the time.”
We moved gingerly into the centre of the floor. Slimy debris littered its bottom.
“Stuff blows in,” Garcia said, stopping for a moment focusing his headlamp by my feet. “People toss stuff on to the track and when the wind comes up from the trains or the grates, it blows on through and turns to mush after a while.”
He lifted his head up shining the beam on a grate I hadn't noticed and I could see the dripping of water from the surface. “When it rains heavily or we get melting snow, you can get a lot of water down here. The tunnel is built on a slant from the centre so most of it drains away from the rails. The water never gets high enough to short out the system.”
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