by Matt Elam
And sometimes, they’re one in the same, I thought.
O’Farrell ordered me my favorite mixed drink: Amaretto Sour, to which I did not object.
“It’s been a while, McLoughlin,” he said, his voice gone raspy from all the yelling and cigarettes.
“It has.”
He took a long draw from his cancer stick and then placed it in an ashtray. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re not here to drink and be merry with ol’ Mickey?” he said.
“I need to find a woman who’s gone missing.”
“Well, if it’s my mother, tell that bitch thanks for nothing!” O’Farrell erupted into laughter.
I laughed too. It was fucking hilarious.
“No. I’ve found your mom, and I assured her she did the right thing by ditching you,” I said without blinking.
That one almost put Mickey on the floor, he was laughing so hard.
The waitress came back with my drink and I took a steady sip of the wonderful concoction.
O’Farrell had settled down now and was studying me.
I took another sip, totally unfazed by the man’s steel blue-eyed stare.
I took a third sip. The little things in life.
He shook his head and smiled big. “You are one cool fucking customer, man. Unbelievable.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Now, tell me more about this missing woman of yours.”
I gave him everything that Bai had told me about her best friend.
O’Farrell rubbed the stubble on his chin, deep in thought. After a few beats, he said, “I may have a few birdies out there whom might have heard something about this young lady.”
“A name?” I said.
“Perhaps.”
“I’m gonna need that name before I leave tonight, Mickey.”
“Awfully demanding, aren’t we?” said O’Farrell, still calm, but tightening up a bit in the throat.
“Yeah, well. Time is not on my side at the moment,” I shot back.
O’Farrell’s smile turned wicked.
I didn’t like it one bit.
“What is this intel worth to you, Jo?”
There was always a price. Especially with Mick OFarrell.
“What do you want?” was my answer. I figured if it was cash Mickey wanted, I could hit the Red Lotus up for a loan.
“My cousin’s kid is staying with me for a month. He pointed over two tables to where a younger group in their twenties or so were seated. “You see that tall handsome lad there with the short brown hair?”
I nodded when I saw him.
“He’s the Ireland and UK national boxing champion in the light heavyweight division.”
“That’s great, Mickey,” I said. “It’s in the blood.”
“Since he’s been here, he’s fought LHK’s Golden Glove champ and knocked him out in the second round. He’s also fought two kung fu guys from two different Triads, and took em’ apart in the first round. One was a knockout by lead hook, and the other, a technical knockout.
“Okay. And what does this have to do with me paying you for some information?”
“Well, smarty pants, figure it out.” The wicked smile returned to his face.
“He whistled to his second cousin and drew him over with hand gestures. The young man stood up and walked toward our table. He was a good-looking guy. He was about my height, but more of an ectomorphic build, sinewy and ripped. I was more a pure mesomorph - medium bones with large muscle bellies.
“Quinn Collins, this is the man I was telling you about earlier,” said O’Farrell. “This is Johnny Jo, the Kung Fu King!” he roared, like an MMA fight announcer.
The young guy eyed me up and down and then stuck his hand out and said: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. You’re apparently a big deal here in Little Hong Kong?”
As I shook his hand, I couldn’t tell if he was stating it as a fact, or asking it as a question. So I stopped worrying about it, and started on my second Amaretto Sour.
Mick O’Farrell’s eyes were ablaze now, but determined. He leaned forward and placed both of his elbows on the table.
“It’s very simple, Johnny. You beat my cousin, and you get your information.” His eyes flashed. “But if you lose to Quinn, then you’re going to owe me a favor.”
The guys I knew who owed Mick O’Farrell a favor were either pushing up daises now or in prison.
“Mr. Jo, since you’re old,” poked Quinn, “I’ll even let you have two free shots at me, if ya like.” He smirked and waited for my response.
With no emotion in my voice, I said, “Kid, all I need is two shots. I hit you. You hit the ground.”
A bunch of ooohs came from neighboring tables.
Quinn smiled in defiance.
I ordered my third Amaretto Sour.
“It’s settled then,” said O’Farrell. “Prepare the ring!”
Twenty-Three
DONALD JINX EXITED OFF I-210, and turned right on Fairbanks. His AI unit was reading back the available information on the person of interest in the Eisenhower shooting.
While he mentally took in the data, he was also thinking about how lucky the LHKPD was to have a forensics staff like Dr. Kwok and his technicians.
“First name, Christopher. Last name, Morgan,” said the AI. “Former military service. Branch: United States Army. Morgan was dishonorably discharged after one tour to Siberia, two thousand forty-two.”
Jinx’s jaw tightened involuntarily. He had no love for this new generation who he felt constantly disrespected the uniform. The Siberian versus UN war was a bloody one, however, and Jinx believed he made the right decision by having Detective Rodriguez back him up on this house call. He looked in his rearview mirror to make sure Rodriguez was still behind him. He was.
Jesus, Rodriguez. Any closer and your fender’s up my ass, he thought.
Quinn Collins was decked out in full boxing attire. He wore silver trunks with green stars running down the sides.
As for me, I took my sport coat and white t-shirt off, and went barefoot with jeans.
We walked to the center of the ring where an announcer and referee -also dressed like a pro - were awaiting us.
I looked around and saw that the place was packed full of patrons.
The ref was saying something about low blows and a clean fight, and this, that, and the other. I was only half listening.
Quinn took a half step forward and did his best stare down routine. We were very close in height so our eyes locked up, pupil to pupil. I had to admit, the kid looked like a tough SOB, and if I were an amateur, I’d probably be scared right now. But I was no amateur and when I was born, the Creator forgot to put fear in me.
I hope Bai’s okay, I thought.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, old man?” said Collins, general curiosity in his voice.
“I was born ready, motherfucker,” I said. That slip surprised even me.
“Okay, then,” said the young man, smiling.
We touched gloves and Collins went back to his side, where his two corner men were waiting. I went to an empty corner.
O’Farrell entered the ring, and tried to shove a mouthpiece in my pie hole, but I pushed him away.
“What? You don’t want a mouthguard, Jo?”
“No.”
O’Farrell thought it was the funniest thing he’d heard in a while, and went to tell his cousin about it. Quinn looked at me and shook his head in disbelief.
I just shrugged. “Whadya gonna do?” I mouthed in my best Italian gangster voice.
The bell rang, and we both made our way to the center of the ring. Quinn Collins in a standard orthodox stance and me in a southpaw stance.
As promised, Quinn put both hands behind his back and offered me a free shot.
Without hesitation, I launched a lead vertical fist punch, twisting my hips and trunk ninety degrees in order to torque the blow and increase length of my arm.
Bam. It sent the young guy flying. If the ropes hadn’t caught him, he’d still be b
ack pedaling.
Those in attendance who weren’t watching, were doing so now. The joint exploded with a mixture of noises
Quinn was shaking the hit off and moving from the ropes when I approached him.
“Where’s my second hit, kid?” I said, smiling.
Quinn growled and threw a double jab and cross combination. I slipped twice to my right and once to my left, and the strikes missed their mark. I circled right and Quinn aggressively cut me off. Not wanting to get caught by his rear hand, I threw a chain punch, using three centerline punches from Wing Chun. He stepped back once, and then pivoted offline.
He growled again and launched a four-punch combination. They were fast, but again, I slipped, patted the cross, and bobbed and weaved under and away from the hook.
Quinn smiled at me, but I knew the lad was frustrated. I don’t know what he was expecting. Perhaps that I’d come out in a long drawn out stance like the kung fu star, Sammo Li, Jet Li’s great-grandson? Or maybe he thought I’d try to swat at every punch he threw?
Nope. Sorry. This cat uses a mobile vehicle to fight his kung fu.
Quinn had a great double jab. But I felt he favored it too much.
Again, Quinn Collins cut off the ring. I danced on my tiptoes, staying in reach-no-reach zone.
He threw the jab.
I parried it.
The second came and I timed it perfectly, slipping to the right and connecting simultaneously with my left cross. It rocked his head back.
Ooh! yelled the crowd.
Again, the young man was able to shake it off.
Damn these gloves, I thought. They were so big and padded that they were scraping against Quinn’s guard, and taking some of the bite off my punches.
Quinn came in brawling now, throwing looping punches, but not necessarily careless ones. He may have been dazed and a bit angry, but he was still a damn good pugilist. He unloaded a massive uppercut and I leaned back, just enough for his glove to brush my bottom lip.
I hugged him up. And looked at the clock. Forty-five seconds left.
Maybe I’ll go another round with this guy.
The referee pulled us apart and indicated he wanted separation. As he placed his hand on Quinn’s left shoulder, Collins went with it, and his right shoulder rotated forward, sending another big uppercut my way.
Whack. I stopped it with a gum sao. Pressing palm, two inches from under my chin. Oh, I was pissed now.
Quinn saw me rushing forward and threw the referee between us. The old geezer looked like a deer in headlights.
Whoosh. I swam the ref’s shoulder and threw a left cross - left my hand out there - and followed with a left backhand. Quinn slipped the cross, but was tagged in the ear with the second strike.
His knees went wobbly. I moved in and bent low at the knees and torqued my left shoulder clockwise. I uncoiled and launched a rocket of a hook toward Quinn’s temple.
That night, Quinn Collins would suffer his very first defeat in the ring at the hands of the Kung Fu King, at Whelan’s Pub.
Mick O’Farrell was kneeling over his unconscious cousin when I hovered over him and said, “Now, how bout that intel, Mickey.”
Twenty-Four
DONALD JINX CAREFULLY MADE his way to the front door, making certain he surveyed the neighborhood before closing in on the POI’s place of dwelling.
He wrapped on the door twice, and watched his breath pierce through the air like a jet’s chem trails.
Damn. I need to move to Florida when I retire, he thought.
No answer, so this time, he knocked three times, with a little more power behind it.
The door swung open, and a tall white male with disheveled hair and a thick beard stood in the doorway.
“What the fuck did I tell you Jehovah’s Witnesses about disturbing me when I’m playing War of the Gods?,” said an angry looking gamer.
Jinx took a quick peek at his suit under his coat. Well, I’m throwing this thing away.
“Christopher Morgan?” asked Jinx.
“Yeah?”
“Sir, my name is Detective Jinx, LHKPD, and I’d like to - ”
Morgan took off, hurdling his couch and heading deeper into his home.
“We got a runner!” yelled Jinx.
Detective Rodriguez was just walking up the driveway.
Jinx jabbed his pointer finger into the air. “Cover the back!” He sprinted through the house and tried to follow the path he thought Morgan had taken.
Right. Dining room.
Left. Kitchen.
As Jinx ran, he had a sick feeling in the pit of his gut that the person of interest had gotten away. Morgan looked fast, and Jinx’s old six-minute mile mark was all but a memory now.
Back door is open! As he bolted through the opening, he almost tripped on the large object on the ground. He spun around to see Morgan’s unconscious body laying there with me standing over him.
“What are you doing here, Donnie?” I said, puzzled.
“I should be asking you the same thing,” said Jinx, panting heavily.
“Christ, man, did you run the LHK Marathon before coming here, or -?”
“Ha ha…” Jinx managed. “Fuck you, Jo.”
“Come on, little buddy, let’s see if this asshole has an oxygen tank for you inside,” I teased.
When Christopher Morgan came to, his hands were cuffed behind his back, and the three of us were surrounding him.
Morgan shook off the cobwebs in his head.
“What’d you hit me with, man?” said Morgan, staring at me.
“It’s more like your face hit my elbow.”
Jinx interjected. “Why did you run, Morgan?”
Morgan didn’t answer.
“Maybe you’d be more comfortable in a jail cell,” growled Jinx.
Morgan shook his head. “Look, man, I ran because I was scared, okay?”
“Scared?” said Jinx. “I told you I was with the LHKPD, didn’t I?”
Morgan snorted. “That’s what the last group of guys said when they offered me and my crew the job.”
“What job?” asked Jinx.
Morgan hesitated.
Jinx asked his question again.
“Listen, man, they told me no one was going to get hurt,” said Morgan, now with fear in his voice.
“Who promised you that?” said Jinx.
“The LHKPD guys. They said it was a sting operation or undercover deal, or some shit like that, and they couldn’t involve the department, so they needed to find professionals like me and my guys to award the contract to.”
I looked around the living room, observing a half dozen old pizza boxes and empty beer bottles littering the place. There must have been at least ten thousand dollars worth of gaming equipment set up in a Frankenstein-like fashion.
Some pro, I thought to myself.
Rodriguez tapped on his mobile, taking notes.
“So, what was the mission?” said Jinx. His voice had softened. Time to play the good cop role, I imagined.
At first, Morgan went silent. I thought he was going to do the whole: I want my lawyer bit, but he didn’t.
“They gave us these whacked looking assault rifles and told us to pull up next to these gangsters who were meeting in town, and fire these blanks at them.”
“The fake cops told you to do this?” asked Jinx.
“Hey, man, I don’t know if they were fake or not,” said Morgan, shaking his head. “I mean, their badges looked as real as yours do.”
Jinx continued probing. “What did you mean by whacked looking rifles?”
“It was like that ancient movie that had like five or six sequels,” said Morgan. “Remember? It had imperial dudes and shit like that and guys with laser samurai swords.”
“Star Wars?” I said.
Morgan snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “That’s it! Yeah! I mean, the barrel was ridiculously thick, the stock couldn’t be adjusted, and the scope was retarded. It was almost as big as the fucking rifle.�
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“Arius,” said Jinx, into his mobile. “Look up images for the E-11 Blaster used by stormtroopers.” A few seconds went by. He tapped a button and a holographic image appeared. “Is this what you used?”
“Pretty damn close,” said Morgan, nodding.
“That E-11 Blaster was actually derived from the old British Sterling submachine gun. The scope design was taken from a World War II tank, however.”
Morgan just stared at Jinx.
Both Jinx and I were Star Wars junkies. He favored the clones with their projectile weapons and space grenades, while I dug the Jedi knights and their tools and tactics.
“And they said the ammunition was fake?” Jinx continued.
“Yeah, but that crap in the magazines didn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“How so?” inquired Jinx.
“The rounds were made of glass or crystal or some shit like that, man.”
“You’re positive?” said Jinx.
“I’m not a dumbass, man. I was a sergeant in the military and did a tour, okay?”
“Well, getting mixed up with this kind of shit is not exactly smart,” scolded Jinx.
Morgan looked away.
“Plus,” I added. “if you had gotten your bachelor’s degree and passed OCS, you could have been Captain Morgan,” I said, placing a foot up on the couch and striking the pose.
No one responded. These assholes had no appreciation for intelligent humor.
Christopher Morgan went on to tell us how when they pulled up next to the LHK Tigers and fired their strange blanks, huge holes emerged in the gangsters’ chests.
I also got the information I was looking for. One of Morgan’s guys was tight with a member of the Blue Mantis Triad. Apparently, Bai’s best buddy, Tina Wattson, was messing around with Benny Tang.
Jinx was ready to take Christopher Morgan downtown when something zipped through the air and splattered Morgan’s brain matter all over the carpet floor.
Twenty-Five
PRIOR TO THE SHOT, I had heard a pair of footsteps outside. It was impossible to tell who they belonged to, however, so I had ignored them. I did hear the initial bullet leave its chamber, even though their was a suppressor used.
I immediately tackled Donald to the ground and used the momentum of the takedown to whip my legs toward Rodriguez’s chest, spinning him clear around, and knocking him to the ground as well.