by Fred Zackel
"He'll testify against you."
"With what? Hearsay evidence?" He shook his head. That was no problem in court. He had to whittle away his problems. "I should get my lawyer. This is slander."
"You split the cost, the up-front money, Jack brought it in and you unloaded it in Chinatown." I held up my hand. "That was fine for a while. Extra pocket money and all. But you got hungry and you went for the big time."
He had cooled. "What would that be?"
"Fifteen keys of coke. Raw coke. Pure coke."
"Fifteen keys." His nose twitched at that. "That's a lot of cocaine." He sharpened his eyes on me. "How much would that much coke cost?"
"A half-million dollars."
He lit a cigarette off the ashes of an old one. "You have to buy it before you can sell it. My share would have to be up-front, like you say. It would be half that, right? A quarter of a million dollars."
I grinned. "That's right."
"I'm a bookkeeper in a fish company." He stared and didn't blink. "I get a paycheck every two weeks." He could have been discussing the price of rice. He was already working on his legal defense.
"You're the bookkeeper," I agreed.
"You think I'm embezzling?" He smiled like an adult with a child. "That company's got serious cash flow problems. Do you know how long it would take to embezzle from a company that's having cash flow problems? You think there's a quarter million in petty cash? This is a fish company, not a bank."
"Dummy loans," I said. "A front for siphoning cash without fingering the till."
He shut up to hear the evidence.
"You fudged here and forged there until it looked like Tan Ng had loaned a half-million to the company. Dummy loans. The Big Money Boys bought them, maybe fifty cents on the dollar, and held onto them like claim checks. You got your cash advance. If anything went wrong, the fish company got screwed. Since it should be all profits, you could pay them back, retrieve the notes, and still never have to work again."
He looked up. "How long have you been at this?"
"Since Friday." I tried not to remember the weekend. "I just stumbled onto you. I was looking for Dani Anatole. Joey Crawford hired me."
"Is that all?" He lost composure. "Because she left him?" He looked like the Transparent Man. His secrets were floating away from reach.
"And you came at me with both barrels."
He knew now. "That was a mistake."
"You called your uncle and told him about me. He figured I was hired by Orestes Anatole to investigate his management. You talked him into hiring me to track down Lim Song. Then you called Lim Song and told him Tan Ng hired me. That way you could get me off on a wild goose chase, get Lim Song to take some heat off you, and save you the trouble of messing with either one of us."
His doodling kept on. His numbers grew larger, more dramatic. He couldn't decide whether to kill me now or later.
"Orestes never heard about the loans, but the Big Money Boys up in Nevada knew, and Orestes heard enough through the grapevine to hire investigators. They told him about me and he knew something was on. So he shut down the company and the fleet stayed in. And when Jack heard that news, he wanted his dope. He told you he was taking out the new trawler. You couldn't talk him out of it, so you woke me up and told me they were going sailing."
"But you said he was my partner."
"You couldn't trust him. You figured he was taking off for good, so you threw him to the wolves. Maybe I was with the pros. They'd burn everybody and there'd be no survivors. If I were with the cops, the Anatoles wouldn't squeal. They wouldn't suspect you fingered them. And there was always hope for a shootout."
"Why, if I stood to lose a quarter million dollars worth of pure cocaine?"
"Coke is risky. Mere possession is a felony. You wanted out already. You could afford to lose your investment if you could gain more by not getting caught doing it."
He choked a laugh out. "What would I gain?"
"Everything your uncle has. This organization of his, for a start. When you heard Dani and Jack were dead, you thought you were home free. That's why you're forging your uncle's books right now. You want them to match the Anatole books. If the loans are in both books, then somebody has to pay them."
"What about my uncle? What do you think he'd say about me forging his books?"
I almost hesitated. "Is Tan Ng your lawyer?"
"Yes, of course. Why?"
"That's going to look bad for you in court."
Maybe he was counting heartbeats. "Has anything happened to my uncle?" For an instant I thought I saw a spark of genuine regret. If it was, he got over it quickly.
"You sliced his throat," I said. "He's cold."
"My uncle is dead." He was thoughtful. "You say I murdered him." He shook his head at that.
"You had to kill him. He was going to let the books be examined. With him dead, it was your word against a corpse. You step into his shoes and inherit his whole organization. He had no son. You were a natural."
"When did I decide all this?"
"I don't know for sure. Probably last night when I was with your uncle. You overheard about the books. Or maybe it was when you were at the topless joint, looking for a pick-up. Anyway, it was there you called him up, told him where you were, told him to meet you there. And he came."
"My uncle. In a topless club."
"Nobody'd notice two men talking together in a topless club. As for your uncle, he likes his privacy. He'd understand that. That's why he came. You told him it was important. Maybe the band was too loud for the old man, so you both went up to a hotel room. You thought that with his reputation, the cops would see it as a gangland execution. Lim Song and his pals were always available to take the blame."
He was quick. "What makes you think they didn't?"
I shook my head. "Something you never would've thought of. The cops never saw it as a Chinese gang killing. They knew he was a chicken hawk when he was younger. They think it's a lover's quarrel." I had to ask. "But it wasn't sexual, was it?"
"He was always an old man," Louis said. He was depressed, but he could still fight back. "Why would the cops want me? I wouldn't meet my uncle outside our own house. Why should they come here? They have no proof."
I felt sorry for him. "They have your name as next-of-kin. That means they have to notify you. They need your statement about your uncle's death. They will find you. Maybe the same hunch that brought me here will bring them here. They'll take you down to the Hall of Justice soon enough. And then you'll match the description of the guy who rented the flophouse room. They'll run a routine check on you and they'll find out you're not his nephew. The real investigation starts then."
He tried a different tack. "I rented no room. Suppose I don't match this description."
"You don't think you'll match?"
"Some people think all Chinese look alike."
"Yeah, but you don't look like many Chinese."
"Maybe somebody else rented the room?"
"A gofer?" I shook my head. "You couldn't trust anyone with that amount of leverage on you. No, you rented it yourself."
"I rented no room," he insisted.
"Was Davey Huie one of your gofers?"
He was startled. "I don't know who he is."
"You should. You killed him, too."
He looked worried. "Why would I kill a stranger?"
"He was your lackey. He helped you with your little coke deal. He kept an eye out for your interests. He told you I talked with him, that Jack Anatole rescued him from Jardin's Saloon. He knew about the cocaine. Maybe my clients knew the stuff was coming in, but not where or how much. You couldn't let me find out, so yesterday morning you went over to his house. Maybe you gave him a joint to relax. You sapped him. Easy for a big boy like you. You jammed pure coke into his veins. It was short, fast and clean enough for you, like putting a dog to sleep. You killed him to keep yourself out of the limelight. If it backfired, Jack could always take the blame. He probably told you he wa
s the last man to see Davey alive."
He was busy shuffling some of his papers together. He came up with a .38 Colt revolver. He pointed it at me. "Is there more?"
I hate guns. "No, that's about it." I told myself it would be quick. I'd never see the flames from the barrel. I'd feel a flash of pain. At least it wouldn't be murder by torture. That's when you wait to die.
He stared at me. "Where do you come in?"
"I came to take you in."
"D'you really think you could?" he marvelled.
"I don't see any other way you can come."
He knew I was loonie. "Walk into a murder rap?"
I shrugged. It cost me a lot of guts. "Turn yourself in. Save the taxpayers some money."
"They'll go broke before that happens."
"Don't count on it. If the police don't find you, Lim Song will. And you know he'll come after you, if he finds out what the police want you for. He's got a lot of reasons after what you've made him do."
"My people can stop him."
"You're not your uncle's nephew. And when your own boys find that out, how safe are you going to be? You're going to need protection from your friends and your enemies. You have no choices. There's nothing you can do."
He still had one gun. "I can kill you."
"And make it three?" I shook my head. "I'm your only hope for staying alive. Turn yourself in right now. The longer you wait, the less time you have. It's late already. Things are in motion."
"Now what's that mean?"
"I called Lim Song," I said. "I told him everything. How you suckered us and played us against each other, so you could get control of the old man's business."
"You told him that?" He followed the lines to his future. "Why did you do that?"
"Revenge. Revenge against both you and Lim Song."
He stared. "Double-cross." He sighed, laid the gun in his lap. He was defeated for the moment.
I corrected him. "Killing two birds with one stone."
The outer door opened and I knew I was dead.
He was young and Chinese. He had a zapata moustache, and I didn't like his eyes. They were rattlesnake eyes. They were hard to read. They might go away. They might attack the nearest flesh. There'd be no forewarning. I wanted to leave before his fangs brushed against me.
He had four buddies with him. One had chipmunk cheeks. They could have been bored teenagers waiting for a ride home from Driving School. They could have been young men with customized campers and CB radios.
They were gangsters. Fear and terror were their favorite weapons, but tonight they carried guns. Lim Song had a Remington revolver. Chipmunk cheeks was empty-handed, but his jacket had suspicious bulges. The others had automatic rifles and a shotgun.
Louis kept his cool. "So you did set me up." He saw the death warrant in Lim Song's eyes. "A very nice job."
"Any time," I said. It didn't matter any more.
Lim Song didn't laugh. "We did not need a round-eyes to see your treachery." He indicated a young Chinese with a rifle. "He was out making collections. He saw Brennen at the Orpheus Hotel." He gestured towards another nervous face. "Then he was seen coming into this building." He looked at me. "We are sorry how you were treated."
"Sure." I didn't believe that for a minute.
"You will never interfere with us again."
"Sure. "That I believed.
Lim Song didn't like me. "You can leave now."
I was afraid to move. "I can?"
He was patient, like a snake. "We learned a few hours ago that you tried to save David Huie's life. For that, we let you live."
"Davey worked for you?" I asked.
"What he was does not concern you."
A goon interrupted his leader. "He might call the cops," he whispered.
Lim Song didn't care. "We won't be here that long."
I had to ask. "What'll you do when I leave?"
"Are you partners with this running dog?" Lim Song was suave as a snake, too. He sickened me with the scent of his poisons. "You don't want to stay."
But I didn't move. "The cops want him for murder already," I argued. "If you kill him, it'll come back at you. The SFPD will come after you. If you let me take him in, you'll be left out of this."
He waited. "Are you finished?"
I sighed. "Maybe more ways than one." I heard the rattle of chain on wood behind me. I looked at Louis Ng. Beef against stick? But the animal was at bay behind his uncle's desk. He knew there was no escape for him. "So long, dead man."
"I can handle myself," Louis said. His hands were below the table. He sat like a patient man.
I remembered he had his revolver in his lap. "Maybe you can," I told him. There would be bloodshed, and not just his. I knew I'd better leave now.
Lim Song stopped me. "My credit card."
I opened my wallet and gave it to him.
"Goodbye, Mr. Brennen." He turned away, finished with me, and started rapping hard in Cantonese.
Two goons came forward and took me to the outer door. One went out to the landing first and the other waited for me to follow. I had a hunch I wasn't going very far.
I reached the landing and looked back. The door was swinging closed after us. Lim Song got down to business. He gestured to Chipmunk Cheeks. "Break his legs first," he said.
And then all hell broke loose.
Louis Ng forearmed his desk and threw it at the goons. Lim Song caught the brunt and went down shouting in Cantonese. Chipmunk Cheeks went sideways, around the flank. Louis had his gun up. He shot a man. I heard him die. Then whirling sticks lashed out like lightning. I heard bone crack. There was another gunshot.
The henchmen on the landing ignored me, rushed past me inside. Louis shot one of them. He had a terrible scream. The door closed from the weight of his falling.
A goon was downstairs watching the front door. He had an automatic rifle, too. He came rushing upstairs. He saw me halfway up and tried to swing his rifle around.
There were railings on either side. I grabbed one in each hand and launched myself feet first down the stairs.
The goon should have fired a burst. He swung at my legs instead and missed. I flat-footed his face and we tumbled together down the stairs. I landed on top of him and he cushioned my jump.
Then I was on my feet again. He tried to grab me, to trip me, and I kicked his face. His nose exploded with blood. I took the stairs two at a time.
A white Dodge pulled up in front of the draft board. Four Chinese men piled out from the car, and a fifth man joined them from the shadows. I ducked back and hid in the draft board's doorway. They burst through the door, ran up the staircase and started shooting from the hip. Somebody started firing back. The plasterboard exploded with bullet holes.
I hit the bricks in a hurry. There was a phone booth across the street. I used a quarter and phoned Northern station. Speaking in pidgin English and faking a Cantonese accent, I told the duty officer there were dead men on Jackson Street. He asked my name and I hung up. There were longer pauses between the gunshots. They were taking time to aim now. They hadn't before.
I wanted out fast. I walked downhill and found a restaurant just below Grant. The restaurant was below the streets, down a flight of stairs. It was a real Chinese restaurant, one where the yellow man eats his dollar meals in peace. You must ask for chopsticks, the tea comes in tea bags, the menu is misspelled.
I found a booth near the back and sat with my back to the wall. A middle-aged Chinese waiter came and brought me a menu. I don't remember what I ordered.
The waiter went off to the kitchen as the sirens came down Jackson. The reflection of flashing red lights wavered across the tarnished steel doors to the kitchen. They could have been Christmas tree lights. There was more gunfire. It sounded now like firecrackers. No one went outside to see the excitement.
Someone had left a morning edition behind. I read the front page comics first. The Farallones were tomorrow's headlines. Ruth was center-page photo. She said she saved my li
fe.
I read the lead story again. Some facts were accurate, some were off-the-wall. I understood. The cops had their games to play. The news hawks had papers to sell.
The cops were upset because I'd lucked out on a coke ring. As if my feat had anything to do with ability, talent, good detective work. I got lucky. I knew it, they knew it, even the news hawks knew it. I was grateful. Only the lucky solve cases.
But the cops like tidy investigations. There was still one loophole left to fill, and then the puzzle would fit together like a pair of lovers. It was my job to find and fill that hole before the cop shop crowd got upset with an incomplete case. I needed to get myself off the hook with them.
I needed a confession before their investigation caught up with mine. I didn't care whether it was thrown out of court by a clever attorney or a sensitive judge. Cops are like elephants. They never forget.
The red lights still flashed against the kitchen doors when the waiter brought my bill and fortune cookie. The fortune inside said my salary would soon increase. I paid my bill and left a dollar tip.
Outside a bright white light overcame the blue Chinatown night. Black-n-whites filled both ends of the street. The public servants held back the public. Two more meat wagons arrived. The Instant Eyewitness News team had their van double-parked near my restaurant. A Chinese newswoman was talking into a camera.
The Tac Squad boys came down the staircase with their helmets off. They carried their rifles like hunters after nightfall. They went off into small groups and smoked cigarettes together. A stretcher came down the stairs. One of the boys made the Sign of the Cross.
The wind had grown brittle and cold, a popsicle taste against hands and face. The camera crew had trouble with the stiffening wind. It pushed their spots about. One shone up onto the windows above the street. They didn't want to take pictures of the frightened poor of Chinatown. Their color camera wanted blood tonight.
I found my car. I turned on the heater, then the radio to drown out the heater's whine. Some local station still played its Top One Hundred. If I wanted to hear last year again, the announcer sing-songed, I should tune in tomorrow. An Instant Replay would start at noon.
I drove down Clay Street to the freeway. The streets of the Financial District were still filthy with calendar sheets. Days thrown away. One by one they fluttered away.