by Simon Swift
I first met Weeny Jung Ping through my mentor and former boss Terry Shadow. We had been doing a surveillance job for the better part of a month on behalf of one of the smaller New York gangs. It was the usual stuff, one faction were worried they were being taken for a ride by another and wanted certain members of the posse followed and their movements logged. It was none of our business what this information would eventually lead to and we tried not to think about it, in a way justifying it to ourselves through ignorance.
This time, however, my ignorance was tested to the limit. Some how I had got isolated from the rest of the surveillance detail and found myself alone with a very dangerous mobster as my quarry. I had been following him for miles in and around lower Manhattan and were now deep in the rabbit warrens of Chinatown. I was young and inexperienced and I had not realized that for the last couple of hours the mobster was well aware that he was being followed and wanted to know why. He cast out the line and reeled me in, cornering me in one of the many narrow alleyways.
The cobbled alley was deserted as I edged further into murky darkness. I had not seen my subject for the last few minutes and was wondering to myself if he had escaped my notice, maybe through one of the fire exits that led out to the mist filled alley. I checked on a few of the doorways as I slowly moved down the path but they all seemed solidly closed and I could feel the tension rising. Before I had chance to think about what to do next I found a gun pushing into the back of neck and I turned around to see the mobster smiling a nasty, gap toothed grin.
The next few minutes seemed like some of the longest of my short life; the mobster asked question after question each of which I gave the same answer, "Fuck you!" to which he replied with either a kick to the shins or a slap around the face. Eventually he got so pissed that he kicked me to the ground and cocked his weapon. I was down on my knees looking up right down the long barrel of his Magnum .45 awaiting death with a mixture of fear and resignation when out of the mist came a small, wiry figure that let out a shrill high pitched scream and flew through the air. The gangster was knocked to the ground and the gun disappeared into the blackness. I then felt myself being lifted onto my feet and pulled through a door that had opened from nowhere and to safety.
My saviour had been Weeny Jung Ping who had claimed to have heard the commotion and decided he didn't want a murder outside his business. I never did ask him the real story and he never offered me one but over the next few years we kept in touch and became quite close friends. I became a better detective and Weeny became a little more open about his own secretive world in which he did jobs for a variety of different people, from the feds to the many networks of intelligence agencies around the world.
A small, huddled figure walked past my car and disappeared into the shop. Before I could switch off the engine and get out of the car the figure had reappeared and was sitting in the passenger seat next to me.
"Keep the engine running Eezy, we're going for a little drive."
It was Weeny Jung Ping. He was a small man, maybe only five feet two and can't have weighed more than 130 pounds, with a taut, yellow face and jet black hair that was greased back. His features were very small apart from his lips which were long, thin and colourless, his ears almost too small and his nose thin and smooth. He had grey eyes with long, lazy lashes that made him always look tired but kept the secret of a sharp intelligent mind.
He rested the gun on his lap and smiled warmly as I fired the engine and pulled out onto the main thoroughfare. We were heading north along the Bowery, past Confucius Plaza and up through Little Italy. The street was busy with morning traffic and the sidewalks full of workers and street sellers. Weeny remained silent, lighting a cigarette and putting it between my lips, and then lighting another for himself.
"You're gonna need that," he said as we continued our journey, but didn't add to it as I looked quizzically across at him.
The gun was still ominously placed on his lap. He made no attempt to hide it or to keep it close to his grasp, choosing to just leave it their menacingly. He surely noticed me looking across at it as I didn't try to hide my curiosity but decided against asking him direct. I would find out soon enough. If I knew anything about Weeny Jung Ping it was that he would only tell you what was on his mind when he was ready.
We took a right turn onto east Houston Street and kept going right until we hit FDR drive which was the main street on the east side of Manhattan. The East River Park was to our right and then the murky waters of the East River and beyond that Long Island. Dilapidated warehouses and run down housing estates littered the wasteland that was the northern part of East River Park. Wang directed me into the spider web of narrow lanes that took us into this area.
Normally when I rendezvoused with Weeny Jung Ping I would be 80 percent certain of coming away alive. The 20 percent doubt was not through any fear or suspicion of my friend but the company that he sometimes kept, although even throughout our acquaintance he did always have an edge. To some this edge would be intimidating, frightening even, to others it would be baloney and they would right it off with a shrug of the shoulders and hearty chuckle, sometimes at their peril. I did neither, I was simply aware of its presence.
For some reason, as we meandered further away from the busy part of town where we had met, and into the deserted stretch of the East River Park's worst excesses, I only put my chances at fifty-fifty.
Weeny tapped my shoulder as we reached a battered old building that had long since stopped being any use to anyone. It was three storeys tall and made of uninspiring grey breeze blocks, with boarded up windows and cracked gutterings that were drip drip dripping dank, smelly water. I killed the engine but Weeny shook his head as I started to get out of the car.
He took the gun in his right hand and leant over to me. "Sorry about the cloak and dagger, Eezy, but I gotta take precautions."
I nodded and raised my arms as he padded me down, pulling out my own weapon and emptying the clip before putting it back in my holster.
He lit another pair of cigarettes and took a deep breath. The sun was shining warmly through the windscreen and the temperature was rising…
"Did you read the papers whilst you were away?" he asked.
I shrugged and waited for him to reach into his inside pocket and pull out a piece of newspaper cutting that was folded in half and in half again. He slowly unfolded the cutting and handed it over. It was from the Times, a piece from page eight with the headline, "CHINESE BARTENDER SLAYED AT HOME" I looked at the picture and recognized the dead man, it was the former bartender of the Dragon Bar, Woo Wang.
I thought of Woo Wang. He had been the bartender at the Dragon Bar for as long as I could remember. He was a big, broad-shouldered ex-boxer, with a square jaw and cauliflower ears. Never one to shy away from a confrontation. Many times I had seen him reach for his gun, which was always handy behind the bar. In the old days he used his bulk and strength to dispel any disputes. He was a truly frightening beast of a man, and there were plenty hoodlums who had found themselves tossed from the Dragon Bar. Very few took it any further. If they did they would get a good beating the next time. Woo Wang would give you one chance, first he would be gentle, then he would take offence.
It was after he ejected a crazy one night that he had to up the security. A little guy that wore renaissance hats was a real pain in the ass. He pestered all the ladies and challenged anyone who warned him off. Eventually Wang had to intervene, but the crazy wouldn't go quietly. Standing his ground and opting to trade blows with the ex-fighter like a true maniac. He was of course no match for the monster bartender, but just as he was about to be thrown out he pulled a rod.
At first everybody laughed. It was quite a usual occurrence for some no good punk to pull a rod when he was getting a beating, but then they would leave quietly. Not on this occasion -Woo Wang took one step forward and got a hole in both feet. As he fell to his knees the crazy gave him a big kick in the face and made a quick getaway.
Ever since tha
t nasty confrontation, Wang chose to use the threat of a weapon. It would never be loaded and he would always stay behind the bar. The simple threat would usually be enough.
The newspaper article suggested that it was a disgruntled punter that had committed the murder. I doubted it. There were several people, men and women that had been thrown out by Woo Wang, but none of them were to blame. I was sure of it. So was Weeny Jung Ping.
"First Woo, and then our mutual acquaintance Dyke Spanner."
"Are you telling me there's a link?" I asked.
Weeny said nothing, simply fluttered his long lashes and smiled.
"I don't know just how well you knew Woo Wang, Errol, but he was a very good friend to me. More than a friend, in fact. He was my eyes and ears at the Dragon Bar. As you know, I have not taken alcohol for ten years now and I have not entered the Dragon Bar for more than three, but the truth remains that it is an extremely useful place to have a contact. Much good information can be gleaned innocently or otherwise from within its grubby interior."
He was right; the Dragon had long been a meeting place of many undesirables making it vital to anyone in the information business. He continued...
"It was Woo that first alerted me to the dealings of Dyke Spanner."
There was an engine in the background. It sounded like a battered old car, growling and spluttering and it was appeared to be getting closer to where we were parked up. Weeny's ears pricked up and he gripped the gun a little tighter.
I watched him, smiling. "Dyke Spanner's dealings?"
"Before he was killed there was no doubt in my mind that Dyke was up to something big. I don't know how big or what exactly it involved but it was a jump into a league in which he did not belong."
I shrugged. "What? Are you talking about something criminal? Are we looking at blackmail, extortion, robbery, what?"
The engine stopped and a car door opened nearby. Weeny took a good look around and raised the gun slowly before resting the barrel on my forehead. He pressed it down hard, cutting into the skin and looked around again, a deadly serious look upon his face.
"I apologize again for the inconvenience, Errol but this may answer a few questions for me. I shall keep talking and you try not to be too nervous okay. I hope very much that I won't have to pull this trigger and if I do so I promise you it will only be in response to a most unlikely betrayal by your good self. Do you follow?"
I nodded. "Carry on! What dealings?"
"Like I said, I don’t really know. He was getting involved with a big man very adept at those three examples you have given. A shady character, known as The Coward or rather colloquially, The Portly Gangster. My information suggested that Dyke had something that they wanted, maybe it was illegal maybe it wasn't, whatever the truth he was in no rush to sell."
"Who is this portly gangster? Is he one of the really big boys?"
"Again I am not sure. I thought that maybe you would be able to tell me this information."
"Me?"
"Your name was spoken many times, by both Dyke and the cutout. Woo never saw the portly gangster but he kept a close eye on the meets right from the first time they made contact. Apparently Dyke refused to do business unless you were alongside him, this he insisted upon even though he and the cutout were lovers."
"The cutout was a woman?"
"A very beautiful woman. Although I have long since learned not to trust another man's judgment on the fairer sex."
Weeny relaxed the gun on my forehead a little and smiled reassuringly. There was no sound around us, everything was deadly silent. Weeny sighed and lowered the gun. "Errol, I have to ask. Did you kill Woo Wang?"
"No, I did not," I answered immediately. "Why would you think I did?"
"One night after a shift at the Dragon Bar he was warned off. Presumably by one of the portly gangster's henchmen that had noticed him taking too keen an interest. A real dandy who wouldn't have been out of place in the back street bars of Bangkok, but still a tasty piece of work. He wore bright clothes and had the most terribly greasy black hair. I too have been constantly followed since Woo shared his information with me."
"Weeny, I swear that this has got nothing to do with me. Whatever it is, I sure as hell want to find out, but at the moment I know less than you. That's the truth."
Weeny smiled and threw the gun on the dashboard.
"I am glad that that is the case, Eezy. I always thought that it would be but I am still very pleased." He shrugged and gave me a hug. "Of course I believe you."
I gave a sigh of relief. Weeny had tested me the best way that he knew how. If I had been working against him for this portly gangster then I would have been sure to have a shadow. By putting the gun to my head he was testing my validity as a lone wolf. No guardian angel would have been able to stand by and let him threaten me like that, however cool.
This meeting was not turning out the way I had expected. Even if I hadn't been summoned to a meet, Weeny Jung Ping would have been exactly the next person that I would have wanted to see. Now my curiosity was even more aroused. It was now a good bet that if I could find the portly gangster I would find the killer of Dyke Spanner. And if my name had been as involved as Weeny said that it was, there was a good chance that they would be trying to find me.
"It appears that the next move has been forced upon us, Errol. There can be no question, you have to meet him."
"Maybe you're right, maybe not. If I agree, how do you propose to arrange a meeting with a man that we have no idea where to start looking for?"
"How else but through the cutout? You surely know where to find her."
I looked at my friend and shrugged, "I do?"
He smiled a killer smile. "Sure you do, I watched you come out of her apartment yesterday."
The real estate agency was a small, understated office deep in the back roads of the financial district. There was a large potted plant in the far left corner of the room and little else to take notice of. One large desk was manned by a young, heavily made up brunette, with fake tan and bright red lipstick. She had a desk full of files and a brimming multi-tray system and the walls were covered with pictures of various establishments either for sale or for let. Apart from the springy carpet and the constant ringing of a telephone from somewhere out of sight in the back room there was nothing else of interest.
The assistant smiled and stood as I entered and offered a small, warm hand to shake. I took it in my own and kissed it before sitting down and waiting for her blushing face to regain its composure.
"Good afternoon sir, how may I help you?" she asked in a businesslike tone.
"The house in the East Village, the old, three storey one that's in today’s Post, I would like to take it up on an immediate six month lease. I am in rather a hurry, so would like to sign the contract right away. I have a bankers cheque with me now."
The girl smiled as if I had just told her I wanted her to perform advanced brain surgery and started flicking furiously through some files.
"Please excuse me, sir. I will be just a moment," she said, and disappeared through to the back room.
I could hear her talking softly, presumably on the telephone as there was no other sound, apart from her tapping something irritably. I stood up, flicked the sign on the door around so that the closed sign was showing to the outside, and took a quick look at the files she had been perusing. In the third file, I found a picture of the house I was asking after, the house that was still being advertised in the papers as for let. There was a note attached to the photograph of the house, it said…
THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR GENERAL LEASE. IT HAS BEEN PAID FOR UNTIL MARCH 19. ANY ENQUIRIES SHOULD BE DISCREETLY PUT OFF.
And there was a telephone number at the bottom of the note. I put the file back and waited for the girl to return.
When she returned, five whole minutes later, she was wearing an even more confused look on her orange face and shrugged as if that would answer all my questions. Another two minutes later she added, "I am so
sorry, sir. The house in question has already been let. I would be happy to arrange another viewing; would you like to look through some of our brochures?"
"When was the house taken? It is still advertised in today's Post." I tapped the paper for effect.
She cleared her throat nervously. "I am sorry, sir. I am not at liberty to say."
"Okay, thank you very much," I said, smiled graciously and kissed her shaking hand again, before turning around and walking out of the door.
Ava sounded cheerful until I filled her in on the previous night's events. I assured her that I was okay, but asked her to keep a watchful eye on Claudia even though the case was officially closed. She seemed quite happy to do so, telling me again what a wonderful girl she was. I gave her the sketchy details that I had on The Coward and The Portly Gangster and asked her to do some digging. If anyone could prize out some information on him, then Ava could. Before I hung up the telephone, I asked if she had had any luck on the kid.
"If you had asked me that only one hour ago I would have said no," she said in that tone of voice that she took when she was feeling extremely pleased with herself. "I checked out all the usual channels; police records, the various contacts that we have and what seemed like hundreds of bars and clubs. I even specifically tried the gay bars, I don't really know why it was just a hunch."
"Good a reason as any," I said, chuckling to myself at Ava's use of the word.
"But none of them came up with anything."
"Until," I said, playing the game.
"Until an hour ago when a gentleman came wandering into the office. I'm afraid I was busy doing a little tidying up and had left the sketch on my desk in the outer office. When I went back through there was a man, he was holding the sketch and nodding his head. When he saw me he commended me on my drawing skills and said that he hadn’t seen that man in years. I said, “You know him?" and he said, “Sure I do. That ma'am is one cold bastard. I didn't know he was back in New York though. Last I saw of him he was lifting shirts in the Far East.” I didn't understand that but I laughed anyway, the man seemed to think it was funny and I wanted to get as much out of him as possible."