by Neil Russell
At the same time, the door on the other side of the car opened, and a civilian got out. Also Chinese, he was in his thirties and wearing designer sunglasses, fashionable jeans and an untucked white silk shirt. His skin was deeply tanned, which set off his expensive gold watch and neck chain. Cheyenne felt her knees go weak. She shuddered and slunk back into the recesses of the building.
She didn’t know either man’s name, but they were the ones who had taken Sherry away during the party. The general wasn’t wearing a uniform then, but there was no question, these were the same men.
She remembered asking somebody where they had gone, and much later, trying to determine how much time had passed, but there were no clocks in the house, and each time Cheyenne’s head began to clear, that terrible woman had plunged another needle into her arm, and a new man had mounted her.
And then two men with tattoos on their faces had forced the pills that had made them sick down their throats. “No babies,” one said, as they swallowed. Cheyenne had spit at them and gotten kicked in the stomach for it. She’d go to her grave remembering the cold indifference in the men’s eyes and those horrible tattoos.
Now, the ground began to shake, and a massive truck came into view. It was so large that from where Cheyenne stood, she could see only its wheels. Fighting down her fear, she pressed forward again.
The eighteen-wheel missile carrier had been converted to cargo duty and painted in fresh camo. Atop it, a ten-foot-square container covered with a tarpaulin was lashed down with white canvas straps. With military precision, a team of soldiers climbed aboard the truck and unfastened them. A forklift appeared, gently lifted the container and brought it to carrying position. The operator waited while the white-shirted Chinese man tugged at the snaps holding the edges of the tarp together. When they came loose, the general lifted one.
The ragged crowd let out a collective gasp, and Cheyenne jostled a man beside her to get a better look. Pacing nervously inside a polished, stainless steel cage was a four-hundred-pound Bengal tiger.
* * * *
It was after dark when they loaded Cheyenne and the others onto the Richer Seas. During the long wait, the officer had put Cheyenne in his office, where he had spoken to her in impeccable English. “Stay in here no matter what happens. And if anyone speaks to you, do not answer them.”
Cheyenne was too sick to do anything but nod. The officer summoned an old Chinese woman from the throng, who gave her what looked like a piece of dried sweet potato. Willing to try anything, Cheyenne took a bite and immediately felt her mouth go numb. A few minutes later, she was no longer nauseous. Cheyenne was out of money, but seeing the old woman staring at the fur collar of her coat, she unzipped it and handed it to her. The woman pressed it to her face and retreated like she had just seen heaven.
Cheyenne thanked the officer but was afraid his kindness might only be a prelude to having to fuck him. Trying to take that off the table, she said “I’m having my period.”
The officer looked bemused. “If I were such a man, that would be of no concern. I’m Major Soong. And you are... ?”
“Cheyenne Rollins. Your English is excellent.”
“It comes and goes. This is not a good time in my army to be too fluent.”
“You didn’t learn to talk like that here.”
“I’ve never been out of China. My parents studied engineering at Berkeley. Do you know the place?“
Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. “I’m from Vegas. People from Berkeley consider us barely human.”
The major hesitated. “I’m sorry, I am not so good with...what is the word?“
“Sarcasm. My apologies, one of my failings. Where are we?”
“On the mainland. Thirty-seven miles north of Hong Kong.”
“I don’t remember crossing any water, but I was so sick I could have missed Paris. What did that old woman give me? I feel like I’ve been gargling Novocain.”
The major smiled. “Every family has its own remedy, and they keep it to themselves. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to. I’ll be back when it’s time to put you on the ship.”
Now, while the Chinese passengers stood in long lines and handed over bricks of cash to be able to board the Richer Seas, Major Soong escorted Cheyenne to a small cabin, which he said she would not have to share. She thanked him profusely. “May I ask you one more question? “
“As long as it is not about what you saw today.”
“Not what...who. The general and the man in the white shirt. I want to know their names.”
The major regarded her for a moment. “Why?“
“It’s personal.”
The officer walked across the cabin and stared out the small porthole. “The general I will not tell you. The other man is the leader of the Hu-Meng. The Tiger People. They live in the mountains not far from here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“He goes by Zhang, but that’s not his name. The original Zhang warlords are long gone, but the honorific remains.”
“What is an honorific?“
“An expression of respect. . . and power. Like Caesar.”
When Soong had gone, Cheyenne bolted the door and, for the first time since her arrival in China, felt somewhat safe. The room was dank and damp, but it was paradise compared to the open deck where the rest of the passengers were scavenging anything they could find to erect shelters.
She tended to the baby who, despite her untreated cleft palate, gnawed at another rice ball, drank some apple juice, then promptly fell asleep, propped against a pair of pillows. She watched her for a long while, marveling at the tiny hands and face and trying to imagine what she would look like once a good surgeon repaired her mouth. Beautiful, she thought. She felt herself bonding with the little girl, and she fought it back. This was someone else’s child, not hers, and the last thing she needed was to become emotionally involved.
Using the cold, brown water from the single faucet, Cheyenne tried to wash as best she could, but she was still a. mess. She comforted herself with the thought that as soon as she got home, she intended to break the Guinness Record for the longest, hottest bath in the history of indulgence. The $50,000 that would be in her bank account for delivering the child was consoling too.
She suddenly realized that she was desperately hungry. There were cabins on either side of hers, and she could hear people moving about in them. She contemplated knocking on a door and trying to beg some food, but decided not to risk it until they were well out to sea. She lay down and fell fitfully asleep.
* * * *
Cheyenne was awakened by the absence of sound. The steady drumbeat of the engines had stopped, and without forward motion, the ship was rocking gently from side to side. The northern coast of Australia was days away, and there were not supposed to be any stops. Her first thought was pirates, but she could see nothing through the porthole. The baby was still asleep, so she stepped into the unlighted passageway, let her eyes adjust and made her way back toward the deck.
She stopped at the wooden door and heard people running on the other side. Cracking it slightly, she peered out. Illuminated by red emergency lights, sailors moved about quickly, directed by hand commands from one of the ship’s officers. She pushed the door a little further. Only thirty feet of deck separated her from the port railing, but it took several moments to realize that just beyond, looming in the dark, was the hull of an enormous ship. Thick steel cables connected the two vessels, and sailors were hanging rubber bumpers over the side of the Richer Seas.
From Cheyenne’s angle, she could only make out part of the new ship’s name, Kingdom of Sam . . . She thought about moving farther along the deck so she could read it all, when part of the larger ship’s hull suddenly began sliding away. A cavern-sized opening appeared, and several Asian men, surrounded by Caucasians in blue jumpsuits and carrying automatic rifles, came into view. Somewhere, motors sprang to life, the cables tightened and the two ships began being drawn together. Simultaneously, s
ailors started dismantling a section of the Richer Seas railing.
Then, without warning, the Chinese man in the white shirt rounded a corner only feet from where Cheyenne stood. Even in the dark, he was still wearing his sunglasses, which made him seem even more ominous. She receded a step, but he took no notice of her. He was followed by the forklift, carrying the covered cage. As the lift passed her, a sudden, bloodcurdling roar echoed through the night, and the sailors stopped working, fear in their eyes.
The ships were only twenty feet apart, and a long ramp was extended from the larger one. Zhang shouted angrily at the ship’s officer, who frantically yelled for his men to get back to work.
Cheyenne saw another man step into the gaping opening of the second ship, almost close enough to touch. Like the guards, he was Caucasian but taller and broader, gray-haired and wearing a black sport coat, black turtleneck and black trousers. He lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it.
Suddenly, a tall, slender woman emerged next to him. She was dressed entirely in tight, red leather, and her stiletto-heeled boots looked awkward on the steel decking. A gust of wind caught her shoulder-length black hair, and as she turned to sweep it back, she looked directly toward Cheyenne.
For a long second, the two women locked eyes across the water, then Cheyenne shuddered and retreated into the dark passageway. She couldn’t be sure the woman had seen her, but she knew she had just stared into the face of evil. It was the woman from the butterfly house. Cheyenne turned and ran back to her cabin.
* * * *
24
Chipmunks and Helicopters
Las Vegas doesn’t have a Chinatown in the conventional sense. Not like LA or San Francisco. Because of the relative newness of the city, theirs is a collection of strip centers wrapped by pan-Asian residential neighborhoods. That the Chinatown designation dominates is more a function of economics than embracement. Tourists understand Chinatown—not so much Koreatown or Little Saigon.
Donnie Two Knives’ place took up forty feet of frontage at the end of one of the lesser centers. I hadn’t seen his commercials but was surprised at the place’s shabbiness. It was jarring when compared to the sleek electronics and billion-dollar logos in his windows. But then I remembered that, in that business, price is everything. If a customer goes home thinking he got a great deal, he doesn’t care if he was standing in six inches of dirty water when he got it. In fact, it makes a better story if he was.
Before we got out, I said to Birdy, “There’s no way to tell how this is going to go, so be ready to zig or zag.”
“Hey, stop worrying. In this outfit, if the guy has a pulse, he won’t be paying attention to my acting.”
The interior of Donnie’s wasn’t much of an upgrade from outside. Boxes of appliances and electronic gear were stacked in every conceivable space, leaving customers to pick their own path though the maze. Half the overhead lights were burned out, and the A/C had either failed or been turned off. Fans moved languid air from one place to another, but it all smelled like stale sweat. There were a few shoppers, Asian men, wandering among the clutter, stopping occasionally to point at something, then exchange rapid comments in a language I didn’t understand.
One of them glanced at us and saw Birdy trying to step over a Sony flatscreen, showing pretty much everything she owned. Suddenly, they were all looking and smiling and chattering. I heard broken English that sounded like, “Donnie bee TB gol,” which I translated into Donnie’s big TV girl, but I could have been wrong.
“Can I help you?”
The voice reached me before I saw its owner. And I’d heard it before. On the cell in the Brandos’ woods. An Asian man appeared from behind a wall of boxes, but if he was smiling, it was on the inside. I pegged him at slightly over six-two, and he had his long-sleeved white shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing a pair of forearms that hadn’t gotten that size shelving microwaves. He moved well too. On the balls of his feet and with short steps, which is always a dead giveaway that a guy’s been trained.
“I’m here to see Donnie.”
If he recognized my phone whisper, he gave no indication. He looked me up and down, then made an appraisal of Birdy like a predator sizing up something that had wandered into his cave. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to eat it or fuck it.
“Donnie’s not here.” Just like before, no trace of accent at all.
“When do you expect him back?”
“He’s on a buying trip to Singapore.”
The lie was natural, no trace of having to think about it. Donnie’d been gone a few weeks, but even though this guy probably didn’t know exactly what had happened to him, he knew he wasn’t coming back.
“Just my fuckin’ luck,” I said. “We made a deal for a couple of girls next time I came through. Was supposed to be here a fuckin’ month ago, but got hung up. Then only one of the bitches wanted to come.”
The guy turned and stared at the customers who had assembled in a group a few feet away. As the silence got longer, the men began to look uncomfortable, and finally, they skittered out the front door. The guy turned back to me. “Who are you?”
I decided to give the Garden State some love. “Johnny,” I said. “From Jersey.”
“That it? Just Johnny from Jersey?”
“That’s it. Who are you?”
It took him a moment. It didn’t smell right, but he was curious. “Major.”
I decided to test the waters. “As in next promotion you’re a colonel, or what?”
Birdy laughed out loud. I don’t know if she thought I was funny, or she was just into her part. Either way, it was perfect. The guy’s jaw tightened.
Then Birdy reached down and slowly inched up the hem of her dress until Major got the full chipmunk. She held it and smiled at him, licking her lips carnally. If the guy hadn’t suddenly snorted like a bull, I might have forgotten what we were there for.
“Just Major,” he said, never taking his eyes off Birdy. “So Johnny from Jersey, what was your deal with Donnie?”
* * * *
Donnie and Major’s office wasn’t any plusher than the showroom, but at least it wasn’t full of merchandise. I sat in a plastic chair two sizes too small, and Birdy sank into a deep sofa to my right that had her crossed knees as high as her shoulders. That’s why I took the chair. Delta trains you to never sit in overstuffed furniture. The extra half second it takes to pull yourself out could mean that’s where you’ll wait for the body bag.
Major ignored the desk and sat directly across a low coffee table from me in a leather banker’s chair:
“Here’s the drill,” I said. “Donnie wanted some girls—”
Major interrupted, “I heard you the first time. Who the fuck you kidding? This is Vegas, man. A thousand new broads show up every week.” He looked at Birdy, and I saw his eyes go to her lap, but the curtain was down. “No offense, of course.”
“Of course,” she said.
I stood up. “Sounds like Donnie thought you were a moron, Maj. You don’t know shit. I’ll wait till the man gets back.”
A dark cloud descended over Major’s face. I’d gotten under his skin. “Sit down, motherfucker.”
I stayed standing and turned to Birdy. “Come on, doll. I never argue with waiters. All they can do is spit in your food.”
Now Major stood. “I said, sit down.” His voice was throaty, rage just below the surface.
“No, you said, ‘Sit down, motherfucker.’ We’re gone. Donnie’s got my number.”
Birdy started to get up.
Major looked at her. “You got a name besides ‘doll’?”
She looked at me and waited like a pro. I took a full beat then nodded.
“Marlene,” she said.
Major smiled. “I like that. Major and Marlene. It has possibilities.”
Sometimes you have to guess if you’ve leveled the playing field. I sat, and so did Major.
“Donnie’s going to be gone a little longer than expected.” He let that sink in,
then added, “And just so we understand each other, he worked for me.”
I wasn’t surprised, and I didn’t indicate I was. “So how do you want to handle this?”
“What exactly did Donnie tell you?”
“That the girls had to be smart and able to take orders.”
“And?”
“No record. A misdemeanor or two, okay. Nothing heavy.”
He seemed to be waiting for something else. I hesitated, made a decision. “They had to be willing to please . . . anybody ... or anything.”