Stealing the Dragon

by Tim Maleeny

  Dickerson banged his fist on the table, the suddenness of it like a gunshot in the small restaurant. In the silence that followed, all three men heard the sound of sirens coming toward them.

  Williams started laughing.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said as he fished some money out of his wallet. “You coulda mentioned that when we sat down.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have bought me breakfast,” said Cape.

  “True,” said Williams. “Just one more question, cowboy.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You done with this?” Williams asked. Cape knew he wasn’t talking about breakfast.

  “Just getting started,” replied Cape. “I don’t know where it’s going, but I’m definitely not done yet.”

  Williams nodded. “Then neither are we,” he said. “We’ll be talking to the cops and see what comes next—see if this Michael Long has anything to say.”

  “You get him motivated,” replied Cape, “and he’ll talk.”

  “You did strike me as the motivational type,” said Williams.

  “That’s me,” said Cape, “a regular Anthony Robbins.”

  “That’s why I bought you breakfast,” said Williams. “See, Jimmy and I have to follow the rules—and the rules for the feds are even worse than for the cops. So by the time we get an assignment, the necessary clearance, and the warrants—the clues have faded and the suspect has fled the vicinity.”

  “Must be frustrating.”

  “It pretty much sucks,” agreed Williams, who seemed untroubled as he said it. “But a man like you, he can do whatever he wants. By the time I get a warrant and coordinate with the local authorities, you’ve come and gone.”

  “And had breakfast,” added Cape.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s one of the few advantages to being me.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your case,” said Williams. “And I don’t expect you to give a shit about mine. But having looked at your background, I think you’re straight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So I want you to call me.”

  “What if I told you I was more inclined to call the cops?”

  “They ever buy you breakfast?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Go ahead and call them,” said Williams. “Like I said, I don’t give a shit. Just don’t leave me out in the cold.”

  “What’s my motivation?” asked Cape.

  “Well, Mr. Anthony Robbins,” replied Williams, “how about this: you could have a friend with the feds, or you could be an asshole.”

  “Do I have to choose now?” asked Cape.

  Williams smiled and shook his head.

  “And what if you find something?” asked Cape. “You saying you’ll return the favor?”

  Williams held up his hands. “Can’t promise that,” he said. “National security, all that shit. But I’ll say this—you call me, and I promise you won’t be the only one doing the talking.”

  Cape nodded and stood to leave. He held out his hand. Williams extended his own and shook.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” said Cape.

  “It’s the taxpayer’s money,” replied Williams. “So in a way, you bought me breakfast.”

  “Swell.” Cape nodded at Dickerson, who sat sullenly chewing the last of his French toast. Cape wondered what the two mismatched partners would say to each other after he left.

  Two police cruisers sat outside the GASP building, their lights rotating silently, painting the street in lurid reds and blues. A small crowd of tourists had gathered on the sidewalk to see what was happening. Cape imagined Michael Long would be escorted out of the building any moment. He turned up his collar and stuffed his hands in his pockets, walking in the opposite direction, taking the long way across the street to retrieve his car.

  He wondered if Long would say anything about the photograph Cape had shown him. Long might be too scared and confused about the body in his warehouse. With any luck, it would be hours before the cops worked their way back from the warehouse to Long and ultimately to Cape, assuming his part came to light during the questioning.

  Cape hoped it would take at least that long. The feds hadn’t asked about the warehouse because they didn’t know about it yet, but Williams hadn’t said anything about the dead body Cape left in Chinatown, either. That meant they hadn’t made the connection to Freddie.

  Or it meant they didn’t know about that body, either.

  Cape felt something in his pocket and suddenly remembered what was so important: the lost thread from last night. He pulled the rough card into the light and looked at the heavy lines of the blood red triangle painted on its back. Turning it over, he read the address on the front of the card and frowned.

  It was time to go back to Chinatown.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Hong Kong, 10 years ago

  Xan was still covered in soot, the long sleeves of his shirt singed and torn in places. Dawn was breaking by the time he left Sally at the infirmary, Jun’s body on a cot next to her. Xan strode purposefully to his office, pushing past the throng of students and instructors gathering in the courtyard.

  A folder in his blistered hand, Xan made his way to the great room upstairs, knowing he had just been there but feeling it had been a lifetime ago. As he cleared the second floor landing, Xan saw the door had been left open, the rice paper across the threshold already torn.

  Hui was standing in front of the desk facing the door, as if he were expecting Xan.

  “I came to see your father,” said Xan impatiently.

  Hui’s handsome face and black eyes were expressionless as he spoke.

  “My father is dead.”

  Xan stopped in midstride and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Hui stepped to the side of the desk, and suddenly Xan forgot what he was about to say. Zhang Hong sat in his chair, face down on the desk, his arms and hands splayed at strange angles. Two hundred darts pinned him there.

  Xan forced himself to look away and met Hui’s gaze, his own face a mask.

  “Did you kill him?” asked Xan, his tone making it sound like a threat.

  Hui frowned, looking disappointed. “And wait for you to arrive?” He shook his head. “My father was a great man, once.” Hui paused and looked over his shoulder. “But lately a sentimental old fool. He lost his youngest son tonight because he led his sons down the darkened path. When our mother died, he brought us into the Triad, into this way of life. To my father, that made him responsible for Wen’s death, and it was more than he could bear.”

  Xan studied Hui from across the room. Hui barely blinked and never looked away, save for when he turned toward his father. His voice never faltered. Watching him, Xan was reminded of Zhang Hong as a young man and thought of the old man’s words from only a few hours ago.

  The darts kill instantly. There is a cloud of death, ten feet in diameter, hovering directly over this desk.

  “Did you kill him?” Hui’s voice drifted across the room, breaking into Xan’s reverie. The two men still stood a good twenty feet apart, each taking the measure of the other.

  The scar on Xan’s face twitched as his jaw muscles clenched. “I served your father before you—”

  Hui waved his right hand dismissively. “I wasn’t speaking of my father,” he said calmly.

  Again Xan stood motionless, seeing Hui in a new light. “Your brother Wen was killed,” he said deliberately, “with a yakuza sword.” Without stepping any closer, Xan tossed his folder at Hui’s feet. As it spun in the air, the photographs inside spilled across the floor. “I lied to your father,” Xan continued, an edge coming back into his tone. “To protect him because I knew he could not bear the news. Your brother was pan twu—a traitor to this house and the memory of your father.”

  Hui bent down to look at the photos and was slow to respond, turning each one over as if some further explanation might be found behind each picture.

  “The girl took these?” he asked.

 
; Xan nodded.

  “And the other girl?” said Hui, standing now. “She was killed in the fire?”

  Xan shook his head. “She was shot.”

  Hui raised his eyebrows. “By whom?”

  “No one in the society would have such chyeh nuo,” Xan said deliberately. “Cowardice does not become us, even a traitor.” He met Hui’s gaze, daring a challenge, counting on the stigma of carrying a gun in his father’s house and doubting Wen had told anyone. “The yakuza carry guns as well as swords.”

  Hui pursed his lips. “Why kill my brother with a sword, then?”

  “A ritual killing,” replied Xan, feeling himself stepping onto firmer ground as his lie took shape from truth. “Reserved for traitors. Your brother must have been passing information both ways.”

  “But why kill the girl with a gun?”

  Xan smiled bitterly. “Because it was the only way to kill her.”

  Hui nodded as if satisfied, then asked, “But why was she there?”

  It was Xan’s turn to look disappointed. “To protect your brother, of course,” he said calmly. “I had seen the photographs, and I know the yakuza cannot be trusted.”

  “Master Xan, you seem to have thought of everything.” Hui’s eyes were so dark it was impossible to read his expression.

  Xan’s gaze cut to the human pin cushion that had been the Dragon Head and he shook his head, his expression grim. “Not everything.”

  The two men stood silent for several seconds. Finally, Hui bowed his head slightly, his eyes still on Xan.

  Hui said, “I will need help burying my father.” He had chosen his words carefully. Xan knew he meant much more than putting the body in the ground. “Can I count on you to help?”

  Xan looked from father to son and back to the father, lying dead, before he let his eyes wander around the room. Xan realized his world was as small as those four walls and had been that way for a very long time. When he spoke, he was talking to himself as much as Hui.

  “I will continue to serve the society,” he said simply. “As I always have.”

  Hui nodded. “Then let us bury our dead,” he said, “and not speak of this again. My brother died in the fire, along with the girl. And my father’s heart failed him.”

  Xan looked down for a moment before looking back at Hui and nodding. He started toward the desk.

  Hui took a step forward before he caught himself, a frown appearing on his handsome face.

  “But we’re forgetting something,” he said. “The other girl…”

  Xan stopped. “Who?”

  “The girl who was here tonight,” said Hui. “The one who took the pictures—the one you and my father called little dragon.”

  “What of her?” demanded Xan, conscious of the tone creeping into his voice.

  “She knows,” said Hui, matter-of-factly.

  Xan didn’t move. “She will tell no one.”

  Hui nodded. “I know she won’t,” he said, his tone light. “But after we’re done here, you’ll bring her to me, won’t you? Just so we can talk.” Hui didn’t wait for a reply as he stepped around the other side of the desk, his eyes turning even darker as he looked over the ruined body of his father.

  Xan said nothing. He was suddenly conscious of the burns on his arms and hands, the blood where his shirt was sticking to his body. He could still smell the fire in his clogged nostrils and taste the soot in the back of his throat, and he realized that he had done more than pull Sally and Jun out of the fire. He had brought a little bit of hell with him, too.

  And that meant the devil must be very close.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  San Francisco, present day

  Cape pulled into the parking lot adjacent to Marina Green, checking his watch as he turned off the ignition. The morning fog had burned off, but the afternoon sun was already low on the horizon, shards of light ricocheting off the bay. Grabbing his sunglasses off the passenger seat, Cape locked his car and headed across the grass.

  The field at the Marina was a San Francisco landmark, the biggest patch of open grass outside Golden Gate Park. At any time of day you’d find runners headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge, visible from any point along the wide sidewalk fronting the field. The crowded jetties marked where the grass stopped and the ocean began, the docks home to scores of fishing boats, sail boats, cabin cruisers, and even the occasional yacht.

  Mitch Yeung sat on a low retaining wall that separated the field from the sidewalk, maybe twenty yards from a cluster of teenagers flying kites. About fifty yards farther down the field, another group that looked older—maybe college students—were playing touch football, and beyond that a volleyball game was underway. Mitch held a hot dog in his right hand, which he waved like a baton as Cape approached.

  “Have a seat,” he said amiably, jabbing the hotdog toward the kites. “You’ll get a kick out of this.”

  Cape studied the group. The boys ranged in age from maybe fourteen to twenty and were all Chinese. Two of the older kids stood side by side facing the open field, clutching large plastic handles to which multiple kite strings were tethered. Behind them, the rest of the boys had split into two groups, each shifting right and left as the boys controlling the kites circled each other in a bizarre dance. Both groups were yelling excitedly in Cantonese and throwing money on the ground as their champions’ kites soared.

  The boy on the left was controlling three separate kites, each in the shape of a different animal. A green dragon, a phoenix, and an eagle plummeted and swooped only a few feet above the heads of people running across the field, the strings of his kites criss-crossing those of the boy next to him. The boy on the right held sway over only two kites, a red dragon and a butterfly.

  “Look at the kite strings,” said Mitch, his mouth full as he swallowed the last of the hot dog. “See those flashes of light?”

  Cape looked skyward and saw the reflection, darts of light shooting out randomly from the strings. “What are they?”

  “Razor blades,” replied Mitch, smiling.

  “You’re kidding,” said Cape. He narrowed his eyes, but the kite strings were a blur. The boy on the right did a quick stutter-step, grabbed the plastic handle with both hands, and twisted his wrists violently counterclockwise. Both dragon and butterfly lurched to the left, the breeze off the bay making an angry slapping sound against the fabric of the kites. A sudden twang signaled his move had worked, and Cape watched as the phoenix fell into a flat spin and plummeted to the ground.

  The boys on the left started shouting vehemently as their opponents scooped money from the ground and yelled back, exultant for the moment. Each contestant slowly passed the plastic handle to another boy from their team, careful to keep the two remaining kites aloft. Once the hand-off was completed, the shouting resumed as the new combatants squared their feet and planned their next attack.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” asked Mitch, hand raised to block the sun.

  “I come down here a lot,” said Cape, “but I’ve never seen this before.”

  Mitch nodded. “They come here maybe once a month,” he said. “These are two local gangs, settling minor differences. In the old days it would be a knife fight, sometimes swords—even over a slight insult. Don’t get me wrong—they still kill each other from time to time, but for minor stuff they let the fighting kites decide.”

  “Maybe there’s hope for today’s youth, after all.”

  “Well, it’s fun to watch, anyway,” said Mitch, leaning forward. “You wanted to meet?”

  Cape nodded. “How’s it going on Treasure Island?”

  Mitch shook his head. “Nothing new,” he said in disgust. “The people who can talk, won’t. And the people who are still too sick probably couldn’t tell us anything, either. I’ll probably go back to my real job after tomorrow.”

  “What do you think?”

  Mitch hesitated before answering. “I think those people were going to be slaves when they landed, and they knew it.”

  “But t
hey came anyway.”

  Mitch shrugged. “My parents once told me that slavery can look a lot like freedom when you’re desperate. Maybe being an American slave is better than being a Chinese peasant.”

  Cape knew this was personal, so he waited, watching the kites twist and turn. The green dragon had sent the butterfly spinning toward the bay, but the red dragon was still flying high. Mitch tore his gaze from the kites and looked at Cape for a full minute before saying anything.

  “You want to know what I think?” he said quietly. “I think someone decided to kill the bastards that ran that ship. And speaking as a cop, I hope we never catch the guy who did it.”

  It was the answer Cape had been hoping for. Reaching into his jacket, he removed the card with the red triangle.

  “This mean anything to you?” he asked, handing the card to Mitch.

  When Mitch saw the red triangle etched into the back of the card he flinched, dropping the card as if it were on fire. Glancing at Cape with an expression that was half consternation and half embarrassment, he gingerly picked up the card and turned it over in his hands.

  “Where did you get this?”

  Cape told him of the orange-haired youth that had almost knocked him over.

  Mitch shook his head as he stared at the card. “Incredible.”

  “You want to let me know what’s so incredible?” asked Cape, snatching the card back from Mitch.

  Mitch blinked. “You’ve been summoned.”

  “By whom?” asked Cape. “On the card it says One-eyed Dong. Is that a person or a Chinese euphemism?”

  Mitch managed a short laugh. “Is this where you start in with the dick jokes?”

  “You’ve heard them before?”

  “When you’re Chinese, you hear them all,” replied Mitch. “I had friends named Wang, Dong, Long, Ding, Hung, you name it.”

  “And I thought I had it rough.”

  “Not by a long shot,” replied Mitch. His tone turned serious again as he added, “but this isn’t a joke, Cape.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “See this?” said Mitch, his index finger following the lines of the triangle. “It’s a Triad symbol.”