by Todd Merer
I held up a palm, like, Truce?
Scar’s smirk said, Pussy.
Still on my ass, I put my hand on a piece of the wood from the smashed barricade. It was maybe a foot and a half long, narrow, and wet-heavy. I got up slowly. Using the wood as a makeshift cane, I summoned up a groan.
Scar smiled. Then chuckled. Then laughed—
I whipped the wood across his face.
He dropped like a rock and lay stunned, blood oozing from his reopened scar, his glazed eyes begging: Okay, you win. Please, no more.
But I needed more. I whacked him on the arms as he raised them to defend himself, then gave his torso a couple more blows. I laid off his legs because I wanted him able to walk away. I didn’t want to leave him helpless, after which EMS and cops would be looking to lock me up.
Scar was now a ragdoll. I wiped my prints from the wood with my suit coat—I should make the jerk pay for the dry cleaning—then flipped the club away, now just another piece of broken wood left by some vandal.
“What’s going on, Scar?”
He spat at me.
“Tsk. Germs.”
I kicked him again and again and a few more times while he mewled like a lost kitten. I left him like that. My nose hurt where his jab had landed, and the club had left splinters in my palm, but there was a jauntiness in my step that I hadn’t felt in far too long.
CHAPTER 32
That night, Duke, Richard, and I watched the world going mad on TV. The US Pacific fleet was on DEFCON Two. US intelligence reported the Red Chinese forces were likewise. The opposing leaders—China’s fat-cheeked, thin-eyed Sing and the out-of-his-league US president—were communicating like teenagers via tweets. The radioactive n word was uttered and responded to in kind. Scary, yet I felt oddly detached. I have this theory: one’s fear of imminent death is diminished if one knows no others will be left behind. At least mine was.
The screen cut to footage of a hydrogen bomb test.
Richard laughed. “All is well, sire.”
“Shut up,” said Duke. “Listen.”
Voice-over, a newscaster said, “Meanwhile, in Colombia, Laura Astorquiza, La Pasionaria, has termed the recent Chinese investments in the Sierra Nevada a rape.”
“So clever, my sweet baby,” said Richard.
She’s not your baby. Or so I hoped.
“Duke, shut the TV off,” said Richard. “The word is still delay. We can’t give what we don’t have yet, so we fill their heads with crap we say comes directly from the White House. They’ll buy that, for sure. Counselor, you’re on standby. Incidentally, no more ingots; your check is in the mail.
“And I will come in your mouth,” said Richard.
I looked at them. “You invited me to your coffee klatch to toss sixth-grade insults? I suppose next you’ll tell me the news is that there is no news?”
“Invited you here to make sure you’re keeping your head in the game, Counselor,” said Duke.
“Zero hour’s a-coming,” said Richard.
Zero hour? Sounded like a movie I didn’t mind not seeing. But, as I again reminded myself, I was already in a front-row seat. “Meaning?”
“Today’s L-Day minus fourteen,” said Richard.
L? For Lucky? Best not to ask.
Duke said, “Now you boys have a drink, and let an old man watch his nightly porno in peace.”
Richard helped himself to a full tumbler of aged Scotch. Opened the bay doors facing the Sound, stepped onto the terrace, lit a cigarette, and smoked it while gazing at the sea. But the door was slightly ajar, and I knew his lizard brain was focused on listening to us.
Duke knew, too. He swiveled, reached to the door, slammed it shut. When he turned back to me, his face was beet red. He pressed a button on his desktop, and a moment later Dr. Keegan entered. Wearing a white smock, he carried a doctor’s satchel. Using its contents in short order, he injected Duke, forced him to swallow a half dozen pills, inserted oxygen tubes in his nostrils.
Beyond the terrace door, I saw Richard’s shadow. Cigarette glowing, watching.
Abruptly, Duke sat up. Blinked. Looked at Keegan. “Get out.”
When Keegan was gone, Duke cast a glance at the closed terrace doors, then spoke too quietly for Richard to hear. “I’ve met my share of bad cops, but that son of a bitch is the bottom of the barrel. Asshole doesn’t have any idea of whom he’s dealing with. I’ve been there and done that against the best of them. Oh yeah, I’m onto this dude. When he makes his move, I’ll be ready. Asshole will suffer the ultimate shame of being wasted by a ninety-five-year-old dying man.”
From their deeply hollowed sockets, Duke’s eyes were burning pinpoints. Whatever Dr. Keegan had injected had whacked him out of his mind. He rapped his knuckles atop a manila envelope on his desk; then spoke, loudly, as if wanting Richard to hear. “I got him on paper. His posterity’s gonna be a potter’s field. It’s all in here, from the beginning.”
“Interesting,” I said. So interesting I wanted to grab the envelope and run.
“The bastard was eyeing my Stella. Oh, he’s gonna die very, very slowly.”
Richard reentered. “Gosh, were you fellows talking about me?”
Duke sniffed. “You wearing perfume?”
“Aftershave,” said Richard.
“What kind of a man wears perfume?”
Richard smiled. “Does it attract you?”
“You’re a goddamn arsehole.”
“Love arseholes, do you?”
I wanted out of there. While they stared each other down, I slipped Duke’s envelope that allegedly contained the dirt of Richard beneath my jacket and left.
Actually, I had the odd feeling he wanted me to have it.
CHAPTER 33
The envelope from Duke’s desk was thin. It held half a dozen pages, most a transcript of a speech given by an assistant professor of the People’s Republic of China’s Ministry of Culture. The topic was the lost Ming Treasure and Lucky: believed, if not revered, to be fortuitousness incarnate. Were China to finally become the world’s sole Eastern power, it wanted Lucky as its image, bestowing his blessings. Got me to wondering:
Was Lucky part of the Ming Treasure?
If so, maybe he wasn’t a man . . .
Was he a bejeweled artifact?
A preserved, embalmed body?
I respect Chinese traditions, but luck wasn’t in the curriculum of my school of thinking. As a child of the West, I was expected to make my own luck. Sadly, too many times I’d tried and failed to grab the gold ring. But now I was like, What ring?
Besides the transcript, the envelope contained an old black-and-white photograph, purportedly a close-up of the Ming Treasure’s surface: a light-colored metallic landscape pebbled with precious rocks. The jeweled surface of Lucky’s hat looked identical to that of the Ming Treasure. Was the hat part of the same treasure?
Or was “Lucky” actually the Ming Treasure itself? They shared so much in common. Both lost to posterity. Both awesomely auspicious. Both sought by opposing factions.
Duke had implied that the file had to do with Richard. But I didn’t see anything remotely connected to Richard. Had he said so because he, knowing Richard was listening in, wanted to worry him? If so, I was worried about the implications of Richard knowing I had the envelope. Perhaps I’d made a mistake in taking it. But no going back. I owned it now.
Rechecking the envelope’s contents, I found beneath the photograph another document I hadn’t noticed: an old, yellowing typed statement on the letterhead of one Colonel G. W. Rogers-Smith, medical doctor in chief of the British Royal Burmese Constabulary. It described a rare medical occurrence that—
Ping! I received a text.
It was from Uncle:
Come now!
CHAPTER 34
I used to have a concealed-carry permit, but it was revoked when I was suspended. In my new apartment, I’d discovered a crevice behind my stove that I could plausibly deny knowing existed. There, wrapped in oilcloth, I
kept a battered old Starr revolver whose handle had been taped when it was the throwaway weapon of a bad cop.
I’d nearly killed Scar, and I had the uneasy feeling that this was payback time. Sure, I had an option. I could simply ignore Uncle’s summons, but sooner or later he—or his minions—would catch up with me.
The hell with it. I’d face the music.
As long as it wasn’t “Taps.”
The Starr was a .38 caliber. Its barrel had been sawed short, probably to use it as a backup belly gun. It smelled of rust but dry-fired perfectly. Loaded, it weighed heavily in my hand. And on my mind. The NYC penalty for possessing an unregistered weapon was a minimum three. The first year in the Devil’s Island known as Rikers, the remainder in an upstate medium-security lockup overcrowded with buttholing lifers—
I shuddered at the thought.
But six in the chamber might prevent my being six feet underground.
I stuffed the pistol beneath my belt. Slugged a Bison Grass vodka.
Then went to the Pagoda.
Turned out I’d read the situation wrong. Uncle had no beef with me. His anger was directed at Scar.
Bandaged and swollen, Scar bowed his head as Uncle shamed him in Mandarin, tossing in furiously broken English.
“Stupid boy! You allowed them to penetrate the Pagoda.”
“They had credentials from the electric company—”
“I’m ashamed to call you my grandson.”
Right now Uncle was furious with the kid, but odds were he’d turn his anger my way because, in the end, blood always rules.
I said, “Mr. Lau, I apologize, I didn’t know—”
“Not necessary. You acted like a man. Not like this boy, who can’t even control his woman. Go now, boy, leave us.”
Eyes averted, Scar left.
Uncle sighed. He’d reverted to perfect English. “Derek is a good boy. I can’t stay angry with him.” He sighed again. “I asked you here because I’m concerned. The meter readers were feds. The signs are foreboding. Soon I am going to be arrested. Promise you’ll be there for me.”
“I’ll be there for you.” I’d considered this broke my promise about repping heroin dealers. But my better angel whispered that Uncle’s drug activities had been so long ago, there was no way proof beyond a reasonable doubt existed. So if he had problems, they’d be recent, likely money-laundering or illegal-immigration based, or any of the other scams he ran. Crimes that remained in my moral ambit.
And Uncle was a very wealthy man.
If he were arrested, his retainer would partially offset the fees I wasn’t going to refuse, enough to keep me operating in style while I rebuilt my practice.
“Drink,” said Uncle.
He filled two tumblers with Hennessy XO. It was late, and I wasn’t in the mood to tie one on, but as a sign of respect I took a sip—
Agh. The high-octane stuff burned my esophagus.
Uncle poured refills. He gulped his and refilled again. He was mellowing now to a side of him I hadn’t seen. Solicitously, he said, “How is your wife?”
“She’s fine.” I’d been married when I’d first met Uncle.
His eyes suddenly grew watery. Not from the booze.
“A man’s life,” he said. “There’s but one chance for love. Fail, and you live a solitary existence.”
I nodded sagely. Pretended to take another sip.
“My grandson you beat up very bad,” he said.
Very bad? Uh-oh.
“Derek, he jokes with his friends. I overheard him saying that I suffered a condition he calls ‘babe paralysis.’”
“Never heard of it,” I lied.
“I never was afraid of any man, but Derek’s right. When it comes to women, it’s true. I’m . . . shy.”
He offered another toast. As he drank, I dumped my drink in a plastic shrub. He tottered and plumped into his chair, his expression oddly vulnerable. Boozed, he’d just confessed a deep-down secret. I figured it was a good time to learn another.
“Lucky,” I said.
He looked up.
I said, “I don’t understand why he’s so important to so many people. Years of revenge killings, and now, talk of war. Just for a lost treasure?”
His voice was slurred. “Lucky is not a treasure. Lucky is a holy man.”
“Sort of like the Dalai Lama?”
“Lucky is a monk who is the greatest gambler ever, the always auspicious one who never loses.”
Wrong again, Bluestone. Lucky wasn’t part of the Ming Treasure. He was a man. A monk.
“Scar—Derek, I’m sorry—he and I, we had an altercation.”
“He knows he deserved it.”
“I saw Derek with a big, very old, one-eyed man whose face was disfigured. Who was he?”
Uncle paused. Shrugged. “I know you will do your best for me. Please, protect Stella as well. Whatever your fee, it is not a problem. Money is shit. What matters is the legend.”
“The legend?”
“The White Tigress and the Green Dragon. The White Tigress possesses Tao knowledge passed by generations of her female ancestors. Only the Green Dragon has the ability to be guided by her inner wisdom, so together they create the ultimate perfect union.”
“I see,” I said, although I didn’t.
“Stella and Derek are meant.”
Puzzle solved. Stella was the reason why Scar—Derek—had punched me. So Stella and Derek were, or had been, in a relationship. That bond suggested that Duke’s using Stella to contact Uncle was part of their mutual friendship pact with Taiwanese China.
“Thank you so much for your kind hospitality.” I stood to leave—
“Most called her Kitty, but to Ming, she was always Li-ang.”
Hmm. Earlier, he’d ignored my inquiry about Ming Chan.
“Now she’s Madame Soo. But to me, she’s always my gweilo.”
Confusing. Gweilo was a reference to a ghostlike personage, or to a white person. Yet Madame Soo was Chinese. Did Uncle call her gweilo—a white—because of her Western ways? Uncle was the top boss of the Green Dragons, and clearly, he cared for Madame Soo. Or, rather, “Kitty.” Was I mistaken about Uncle referring to Derek and Stella with the White Tigress–Green Dragon rap? Did he see himself as the Green Dragon who should have been joined with the White Tigress—Kitty—long ago?
But why ponder the prattling of a drunken old man?
Uncle was sleeping as I started from the office—
From outside the room came a thud.
Then the lights went out.
CHAPTER 35
Federal agents are trained to react according to threat levels. When there’s a possibility of a violent arrest, they come in hard with battering rams. Perhaps because of the Green Dragons’ history, the feds had opted to use a door-breaker tonight. Uncle’s office door splintered, and three men wearing FBI-stenciled windbreakers entered.
I knew the one who too-roughly patted Uncle down, a field agent named Ianucci. Word was that he was dirty, and he looked it: a perpetual five o’clock shadow and dour puss. He plastic-cuffed Uncle’s hands behind his back. Gasping with pain, Uncle bent double, trying to ease the strain in his neck and shoulders.
“For Chrissake,” I said. “He’s an old man. Loosen the cuffs.”
“Shut up, Counselor, or I’ll cuff you, too. For obstruction.”
I clenched my jaw to keep from retorting. I remembered Ianucci better now: he’d killed two men during a money-laundering bust. As per standard operating procedure, the shooting had been investigated. As per the usual conclusion, the shooting was ruled justified. Rumor had it that Ianucci had even received a commendation. The money in question had never been recovered, and another rumor was that Ianucci had swiped it.
The second agent was a young guy in jeans and sneakers. I’d seen him before, too, working DEA-FBI task-force cases. He held up a warning palm for me to shut up but loosened Uncle’s cuffs.
“Your hands are the least of your problems, Uncle,” a t
hird agent said, chuckling. Then he winked at me. “What’s cooking, Benn boy?”
Beneath his peaked cap and shades, I recognized Richard.
He grinned. “Judgment Day comes to the ancient one.”
I couldn’t parse the situation. I had no doubt Richard had been truthful during our helicopter conversation when he’d spoken about allowing Uncle to continue operating because Albert Woo was feeding him all kinds of inside info on Uncle’s business in Chinatown. So why take him down now?
Ianucci read Uncle his rights, ending with the standard, “Do you understand?”
Uncle glanced at me. My eyes swiveled from side to side. Uncle didn’t respond.
Ianucci said, “You’re getting bad legal advice, Uncle—”
“You’re not to address my client, Agent,” I said.
Ianucci grinned. “Your turn in the barrel soon.”
“You don’t talk to a man who’s lawyered up.”
Ianucci ignored me. “You’re gonna talk to us eventually, Uncle. Make it easy on yourself. You know what we want. Start talking now.”
Ianucci was a dumb dick. He’d just given me advance notice that they wanted Uncle’s immediate cooperation regarding something specific. One or more of the usual suspects whose common denominator was China.
And, by extension: Lucky.
Although I knew I’d find out the particulars later, during the case’s discovery process, it was nice knowing from the get-go that Uncle had some leverage.
“Mr. Lau,” I said, “do not respond.”
Richard said, “Uncle, you’re looking at wire fraud, mail fraud, and extortion. If you don’t want to die in jail, tell this lawyer to wank off.” He looked at Ianucci. “You patted down Little Boy Blue?”
I took my device out. “I’m recording this. I’m not a defendant, nor do I pose a threat. Any agent who lays a finger on me can kiss his buzzer goodbye.”