Stealing the Dragon

by Tim Maleeny

  “He didn’t,” replied Sally. “You saw him tonight.”

  “He might be a very good actor,” said Xan. “I couldn’t take the chance.”

  A chill ran up Sally’s spine as she asked her next question.

  “Master Xan, why are you speaking in the past tense?”

  Xan looked at her a long moment without responding, shattered moonlight shifting in his dark eyes.

  “I couldn’t send you, little dragon,” he said, his voice suddenly ragged. “So I sent Jun.”

  Sally stared at Xan as the ground fell from under her feet and his voice echoed through the night air, suddenly sounding like he was very far away.

  “With any luck,” he was saying, “she will already be in bed when you get home.”

  Xan saw the expression on Sally’s face and started to say something else, but he never got the chance. They froze at the sound tearing across the courtyard.

  It was a scream, followed by an explosion. And as they turned together toward the guest house, the night erupted into flames.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  San Francisco, present day

  The girl in the tight jeans smiled as she ushered Cape into Michael Long’s office at GASP headquarters.

  She had long black hair and eyes that might have been hazel, but Cape couldn’t be sure since he was struggling to maintain eye contact. Her jeans—low on her hips, the lace-up crotch loose at the top—and the gold hoop in her belly button were all too distracting. He breathed a sigh of relief as she exited the room, aware that he had lusted in his heart but proud that he’d kept his pupils free of sin.

  The office was bigger than Cape’s apartment. He sat facing a mammoth desk, behind which were bookcases lined with trophies, plaques, and assorted books. On the left wall, next to an oak door, were poster-sized photographs of models, male and female, wearing GASP jeans in seductive poses. The wall behind Cape was made entirely of glass and overlooked the Embarcadero and the San Francisco Bay. You could see the span of the Oakland Bay Bridge as it left San Francisco from where Cape was sitting, but the dominant view from the desk was a giant sculpture across the street. From this angle, it almost entirely blocked the view of the water.

  Cape remembered the sculpture going up last year. He heard the head of the Gap had donated it to the city and funded the park on which it stood, built alongside the Embarcadero directly across from Gap headquarters. And right next door was GASP, occupying the top two floors of the neighboring building and sharing the same view.

  The sculpture was a gigantic bow and arrow—the span of the bow one hundred thirty feet, the feathers on the end of the arrow at least ten feet in length. When he had first heard about it, Cape anticipated a massive bronze sculpture, the arrow pointing out to sea, the bow drawn and ready. Instead, the bow was sunk into the ground, the arrow pointing downward. Cape imagined the city council deciding a grounded bow was somehow less aggressive, not wanting to offend voters in this largely pacifist city.

  To add to the effect, the bow was painted gold with red highlights, giving the first impression that a Godzilla-sized cupid had dropped his bow while running past on his chubby cherubic feet.

  “I hate that fucking thing,” came a voice from behind the desk. Cape turned in his chair to see Michael Long entering the room from the side door.

  As Cape stood to shake hands, he caught a glimpse of the jeans Long was wearing and was so shocked he couldn’t control his reaction.

  He gasped.

  The jeans Michael Long was wearing were so tight that Cape felt himself chafing just looking at them. The leg seams strained on their journey toward the lace-up crotch, which was held together by leather laces that looked like they might snap at any minute. And though Cape wasn’t in the habit of staring at other men’s packages, he found it hard to tear his eyes away. Something wasn’t quite right, or at least not exactly anatomically correct.

  Long chuckled as Cape wrenched his eyes back to the man’s face. “Most people react that way at first,” he said proudly as he stepped forward. “But you get used to it.”

  The effect of the jeans was exaggerated, Cape realized, because Long was not exactly someone you’d call in shape. The paunch of his stomach protruded over the waist of the jeans, unimpeded by a wide leather belt.

  Cape had stopped wearing Levi’s 501s several years back because they were too damned tight in the thighs. It was a tough decision. It meant admitting he’d hit middle age, since those jeans were cut for men in their twenties. Michael Long looked like he wanted to recapture both his lost youth and the body lost along with it, but that was obviously a long, long time ago. He was balding, with close-cropped black hair ringing his head and a wide handlebar mustache flecked with gray. He smiled as he stepped closer, stopping just three feet in front of Cape.

  “Here,” he said, reaching toward his crotch. “Check this out.” Cape stood, speechless, as Long quickly undid his belt and untied the laces. Spreading the front panels of the fly apart, he reached into his pants.

  Cape unconsciously took a step backward and shot a glance toward the door, but by the time he turned back, Long had already completed the motion and held something cupped in the palm of his hand.

  Cape blinked in disbelief, but before he could react, Long jerked his hand upward, sending something flying into the air.

  Cape caught it by reflex. Turning it over in his hand, he saw that it was a polished wooden rod, roughly the size and shape of a small cucumber.

  Or a big cock.

  “Lace-up jeans are one thing,” said Long, his face beaming with pride. “Diesel’s got ’em, so does Levi’s. And chicks love ’em—they say sexy without saying it too loudly, you know what I’m sayin’? But for guys, well…” He let his voice trail off before continuing. “A lot of guys lack the confidence to wear jeans like this, ’cause they might not have the inventory in the sausage department. That’s why I invented the crotch pocket. A hidden pocket to add some heft to your package.”

  Cape stared at Long, not sure if he wanted to laugh or run from the room. “That’s really something,” he said politely, reaching forward to hand Long his wooden dowel.

  “Ain’t it, though?” nodded Long, replacing the dowel and walking back around his desk. “Some people thought I was nuts, but men want to look sexy, too, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” said Cape amiably as he sat down, forcing a smile but suppressing a laugh.

  “Some even said I was obsessed with the male anatomy,” said Long, a disgusted look on his face. “Like I was gay or something. Do I look like a pole smoker to you?”

  “Sorry?” said Cape, baffled by the expression.

  “A pillow biter?” demanded Long testily.

  Cape shook his head, more in bewilderment than agreement.

  “An ass bandit?” said Long defensively.

  Cape held up his hands, the international symbol for calm. Lecturing Long on his lack of sensitivity, political incorrectness, or his conflicted feelings about his own sexuality wasn’t going to help the case one iota, so Cape took the high road and lied through his teeth.

  “A visionary,” he said. “I’d say you’re a visionary.”

  Long, suddenly appeased, sank back into his chair. “Fuckin-A,” he said.

  “No wonder your jeans were so popular,” added Cape.

  “What do you mean, were?” snapped Long, coming forward in his chair again.

  Uh-oh, thought Cape. Wrong tense.

  Cape sighed, letting his eyes wander past the madman while he tried to collect his thoughts. He scanned the shelves behind Long, looking at the trophies again. What he had assumed were fashion industry awards were actually bowling trophies, set back on the shelf so the details of the figures were lost in shadow. The plaques all seemed to come from rotary clubs from towns across the Midwest.

  Cape shook his head in amazement. He’d met some corporate blowhards over the years, but this guy made used-car salesmen look respectable. He looked back at Long, stu
dying his florid expression for a while before making a decision.

  The friendly reporter act was a waste of time. This guy was certifiable, and if he had anything to do with what Cape had seen in his warehouse, he was also a major-league scumbag.

  “I said were,” said Cape deliberately, “because you had some success initially with your women’s line, before the real players like Diesel and Levi’s got into the category. But your men’s line was a joke from day one, only sold as novelty gifts for bachelor parties.”

  Long’s face reddened as he came out of his chair and around the desk, as if Cape had just insulted his manhood. And, in a way, that’s exactly what Cape was doing.

  Cape remained seated, egging him on. “Your stock price is in the toilet,” he said, “and you’re carrying inventory that’s almost a year old, because none of your distributors will take it off your hands.”

  “How did you—” Long almost choked on his rage. He thrust his right arm forward, his hand pointing as if he were going to poke Cape in the chest and demand that he leave or threaten to sue him or maybe challenge him to a duel.

  Cape gave him something better. Before Long could react, Cape sprang from the chair and grabbed Long around the throat with his left hand while his right hand grabbed the laces around Long’s crotch. Cape pushed forward with his left arm and pulled back—hard—with his right. Long’s eyes bulged, making him look like a character in a Tex Avery cartoon.

  “Wh—who are you?” It was Long’s turn to gasp as Cape tightened his grip on the laces. “Puh…puh…police?”

  “No,” said Cape, pulling him closer. “Someone much more dangerous—cops have codes of conduct.” Another pull on the jeans. Long’s expression went from shock to horror. “Tell me everything you know about smuggling, asshole, or your crotch pocket is going to be empty for the rest of your life.”

  Long squealed, his eyes darting to the door. Cape knew they could get interrupted at any moment, but he didn’t take his eyes off Long. He could smell the man’s sweat mingling with his aftershave, and it wasn’t pleasant. Time to move the conversation along.

  “Your company’s imploding, and you needed cash,” said Cape, breathing through his mouth. “So you agreed to let them use your warehouse….how’s that for starters?”

  He released his grip on Long, who fell as if he’d been deflated. His face was white, his brow lined with sweat as he looked plaintively up at Cape.

  “They’ll kill me,” he said simply.

  Cape stood expressionless, waiting.

  “I’m not kidding,” whined Long, sitting back on his haunches.

  Cape leaned down and cupped Long’s face in his right hand, forcing eye contact. “Remember the part where I was going to tear your ’nads off? You want to try that again?”

  Long flinched involuntarily and shook his head.

  “Who’s ‘they’?” asked Cape.

  Long shook his head again. “I don’t know—” He caught himself, seeing the skeptical look on Cape’s face. “No shit. I was desperate. I didn’t know what they were into….I just wanted the cash. Told them they could do whatever they wanted with the warehouse, as long as they paid me.”

  “Who paid you?”

  “I don’t know—just a guy,” replied Long, still on his knees. “A Chinese guy…came to my office one day and said he wanted to make me a rich man.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know who you’re doing business with,” said Cape.

  “They paid cash,” replied Long, as if that explained everything.

  “What was this guy’s name?”

  Long shook his head. “You’re not listening. I got paid to look the other way. I didn’t give a fuck what the guy’s name was, as long as his money was green.”

  Cape spared a glance at the door. “Describe him.”

  “What the fuck?” muttered Long. “I said he was Chinese.”

  Cape looked back at him, eyes flat. “And they all look alike, is that it?”

  Long shrugged.

  “Stand up,” said Cape quietly.

  Long put his hands up, a pudgy supplicant asking for mercy.

  “OK, OK,” he said. “He was big—looked like he hurt people for a living, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Details,” prompted Cape. “I want details.”

  Long nodded. “He had long hair—wore it in a ponytail. Dressed sharp, only the suits always looked a little stupid on him.”

  Cape cocked an eyebrow. “How come?”

  “He had big fuckin’ hands,” replied Long, extending his own fingers for emphasis. “Incredible Hulk hands. They stuck out the end of his sleeves like catcher’s mitts.”

  Cape took a step back, images of his trunk flashing across his eyes, Freddie Wang’s bodyguard lurking in the shadows. He reached into his jacket pocket.

  Long saw the motion and raised his hands up again. “You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?”

  Cape smiled as he took the photograph out of his pocket. “Not today,” he said, letting a little disappointment creep into his voice. “This the guy?” He let the picture fall into Long’s outstretched hands.

  Long dropped the picture on the rug when he saw the condition of the man propped against the wall, the dead man’s eyes staring at Long accusingly.

  “Jesus…you killed him?”

  Cape didn’t answer the question, knowing his only leverage was an implied threat he’d never carry out. “So that’s him—that’s what you’re saying?”

  Long glanced nervously from the photograph back to Cape. “Yeah…absolutely.”

  Cape nodded, bending down to retrieve the photo. Without looking at Long again, he stepped around the desk and picked up the phone, dialing 911. He waited for several minutes before someone came on the line.

  “I’d like to report a murder,” he said simply. Cape gave the address of the warehouse, said “yes” to a few questions, and then nodded when they asked for his name.

  “My name’s Michael Long,” said Cape pleasantly. “No, I’m calling from my office.”

  Long was on his feet, staring with his mouth open as Cape hung up the phone.

  “What was that all about?” he demanded. There was panic in his voice and a hint of madness in his eyes.

  “I forgot to tell you,” said Cape, moving to the door. “You’re fucked. I found a dead body in your warehouse last night.”

  Long followed him across the room, as if the bearer of bad news also had the power to make it go away.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” he asked desperately.

  Cape looked back over his shoulder. “I’d change my pants if I were you, Michael,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be wearing those when I got arrested.”

  Walking out through the reception area, Cape smiled at the pretty girl in the tight jeans but didn’t linger, wanting to put as much distance between himself and GASP as possible before the cops arrived. The street beckoned, and Cape knew he was running out of time.

  He exited the lobby and stepped onto the sidewalk, looking across the Embarcadero toward the bay. The morning fog had burned off, but the bow and arrow sculpture across the street cast a long shadow, throwing Cape and the building into darkness. His car was parked halfway down the block to his left, where sunlight still held dominion over the city.

  He had taken a single step toward the light when he felt a gun press hard against his spine.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Hong Kong, 10 years ago

  Sally and Xan leapt into hell together.

  By the time they cleared the steps, flames were erupting out of the second floor windows of the guesthouse, and the great room on the first floor was already filled with smoke. The room consisted of hardwood floors wrapped around a large, open brazier—glowing hot coals providing heat for the house in a style reflecting the anachronistic architecture of the school. Above the brazier was a square hole cut in the ceiling, revealing a similar room on the second floor, designed to sit at the center of the guest
rooms. Normally large tapestries hung on the walls of the first floor, elaborate embroidery depicting famous battles. But tonight the walls were alive, flames licking the exposed beams and wrapping around the open ceiling to devour the second floor.

  But Sally saw none of that, because her eyes were focused straight ahead. The smoke was so thick she could only see in patches, brief glimpses of floor or flames only a few feet away, the open staircase to her right. She saw Xan dart up the stairs, but she could no longer hear him over the roar of the flames.

  Yet even with all the confusion, the scene in front of her was all too clear.

  Facedown in front of the brazier was the headless corpse of a man, his arms outstretched and twisted—as if he had tried to catch himself, but realized too late he couldn’t see the floor because he was already dead. Squinting through the smoke, Sally saw an egg-shaped ball sitting in the hot coals, its surface bubbling in the heat, the egg collapsing inward as she watched. Coals knocked free of the brazier had burned little craters in the floor, sending sparks and flames to dance on chairs, climb up the sides of tapestries, and fill the house with death.

  Sally’s eyes took all this in without emotion, her mind telling her the obvious, that the man had been decapitated as he lunged, his head sailing backward as he fell forward. But her heart ignored the scene entirely, telling her to keep looking. To find the source of the scream that had brought her running.

  She almost tripped, the swirling smoke making it easier to see a few feet away than directly in front of her. As her foot brushed something, she crouched down, extending her hands. What she felt was terribly, horribly familiar.

  Jun was kneeling as if in prayer, her body curled in on itself, her head bowed. Next to her was a katana, a Japanese-style long sword, its curved blade bright with blood. As Sally’s hand touched her back, Jun collapsed sideways, a small groan escaping her lips. Sally’s hand came away sticky, but she didn’t pause to look; she already knew what color it would be.