Green Lama-Mystic Warrior

by Kevin Olson

  Reaching a door at the top of the stairs, the elephant man turned to look down at the Green Lama in pursuit, reaching the steps below him. Mad eyes embraced those of his enemy, and a hiss of hatred escaped from beneath the mask.

  The Lama bounded up the steps, one and then two at a time.

  But Nalgiri was faster. Appearing simply to want to escape, he suddenly spun on a single leg and drove an extended leg strike right into the chest of the Green Lama. The mystic warrior fell back, barely grabbing the rotting, wooden rail to catch himself from plummeting down the staircase.

  This was all the time that Nalgiri needed. He quickly moved through the open door, slamming it behind him. The Green Lama heard the slam of a sturdy lock as he righted himself and restarted his ascent.

  Upon reaching the doorway, the Green Lama did not waste time trying the handle. Instead, he turned his back to the door and then kicked like an angry mule, his foot hitting just under the doorknob.

  Once, twice, and the doorjamb broke free.

  The Green Lama once again entered the series of passages that ran behind the rooms of the opium den. He ran forward, and then turned a tight right, recognizing the initial passageway that he had passed through.

  Racing down the hall, hoping to prevent Nalgiri from escaping, his pursuit was suddenly ended by an angry Qin-Li stepping out into the hallway, his gun drawn and firing.

  Bullets chewed up the wall alongside the Green Lama’s face, sending splinters of wood into his cheek. He did not pause, though, the kata in his hand shooting forward, its weighted end catching Qui-Li squarely in the nose with a loud pop.

  Blood coursed from a now-broken nose, and the Green Lama continued to run toward him, closing the distance and hesitating only to leap into the air and slam into his chest with a fierce, running side kick. Qui-Li was propelled savagely against the door standing open, knocking it off its hinges, both falling still to the passageway floor.

  The Green Lama swept into the room, his eyes and hands ready for another strike by the enemy.

  But the room was empty. Moving out into the hall, he quickly looked left and right, hoping to find Nalgiri, but the beast appeared to be gone.

  fff

  Standing behind the closed doors of a wooden phone booth, his hooded cloak returned to his briefcase, the Green Lama called Jean Farrell.

  Moving swiftly out of Chinatown, he had entered an office building on Grand Street to avail himself of its bank of phone booths.

  “Jean, this is the Green Lama,” he said when she answered. “Were you able to find out anything about the woman who had been assaulted?”

  Jean was enthusiastic to reply, “You bet I did! You were right; the police had her secured at New York Hospital. It was easy finding an extra candy-striper apron and then moving through the hospital until I found the poor thing. And boy, did she have a doozy of a store to tell!”

  It turned out the woman’s name was Ava Carter, and she was a cocktail waitress over at the Stork Club. But it was the identity of Ava’s boyfriend—the man whose severed head was brought to police headquarters—that proved most interesting.

  He was Al Marino, a hard man and a mob hard case. He was rising fast in the organization, known for quick, decisive moves while operating a narcotics ring out of Little Italy’s Mulberry Street that ran deep into the adjacent Chinatown area.

  When Ava’s shift wrapped up on the night of the attack, she quickly donned her coat and joined Marino, who was waiting for her at the Stock Club Bar. Marino and Ava had just about completed their stroll to his apartment when they were suddenly attacked by a group of men who forced them into the stairwell of Marino’s building and then up to his studio apartment.

  “The kid was really shook up, boss,” Jean told the Green Lama. “But it seemed like a relief to be talking. I felt a little bad sitting at her side and playing the role of concerned candy striper. But when I heard the rest of her story, I was glad that I was there for it.”

  Ava knew little of why her boyfriend was being beaten back at his apartment. From the few words she could make out, it seemed to have something to do with drugs and turf in Chinatown. She knew that Al was mixed up in some bad stuff, and she feared that his criminal life had finally caught up to him.

  The men had pulled Ava across Marino’s apartment to a small bath on the other side of the room. Her sense of smell was assaulted by a harsh, chemical odor coming from within. She was then raised over the tub and unceremoniously dropped into a bath of waiting chemicals.

  “It burned her bad, boss,” Jean related. “It felt like her body was on fire, and not just her skin. Her eyes, inside her nose, mouth and throat.

  “She fought to come came up from the liquid, gasping for fresh air, but it was hard to catch a breath over her own screams. But hands kept grabbing her by her hair and forcing her down.

  “That was about all she could tell me,” Jean finished. “It seems like she went into shock and doesn’t remember anything beyond showing up at the police department, totally naked with her dead boyfriend’s head in a basket.”

  This all made sense to the Green Lama from what he had encountered in his investigation. Starting with what he had learned from Mei, to his subsequent investigation and capture, the Green Lama told Jean of his personal encounters with the hairless ones.

  He received a few hoots and whistles of surprise from Jean along the way, and he ended by telling her of the names that he had seen in the hidden room in the opium den.

  “From what I’ve uncovered this all fits together,” the Green Lama told her. “Nalgiri and his gang appear to have targeted anyone who could be an obstacle to achieving their dark objectives, and they are eliminating them in brutal, violent, public ways.

  “I truly fear for the safety of a great many people right now, and I pray that we can act decisively enough to protect them.”

  fff

  Tsarong was fascinated by the Horn & Hardart Automat on 48th Street, its chrome-and-glass food-dispensers offered everything from sandwiches to apple pie.

  Right now, he sat in a heavily lacquered table savoring a cup of the delicious H&H coffee. The restaurant made fresh coffee all day long, never allowing it to sit for more than an hour. And the delicious brew only cost him a nickel.

  Yes, tea may be the drink of the enlightened, but a cup of fresh-brewed H&H coffee was his vice of choice.

  After completing his coffee, Tsarong walked out on to and enjoyed the crisp night air. It was a beautiful night and he would try to savor every moment of it as he strolled back to Jethro Dumont’s Park Avenue apartment.

  Tsarong had all but completed his stroll when the assault happened. Looking up at the towering building that was his home, he suddenly sensed movement behind him.

  Before he could fully turn around, a sharp pain exploded across his skull and everything went black for Jethro Dumont’s valet and the trusted ally of the Green Lama.

  fff

  The fist slammed once into Tsarong’s cheek.

  His head recoiled from the blow.

  Fresh blood slowly trickled from the Tibetan’s mouth. He was on his knees, hands secured behind his back, arms held at a painful angle.

  He drew up his head and spat blood on the hard wood floor. The beating had been without mercy.

  Regaining his focus, the same question was asked of him.

  “Where is Jethro Dumont?” Nalgiri hissed. “I know that he is the one known as the Green Lama. Tell us where he hides.”

  Tsarong’s answer was only muted silence.

  His head was suddenly twisted to the side and pressed firmly against a rough, wooden table. Shards of wood splinters dug into his cheek, deep enough to allow for his blood to flow along the long grooves of the table’s surface.

  As a swollen eye strained to look forward, his focus fell upon
a pair of strong, raw-boned hands grasping the handle of a weathered axe, its massive, chipped blade stained dark.

  “His commitment is to be admired,” Nalgiri remarked to another. “I suspect that he will tell us nothing, as his loyalty is too great.

  “Be done with him.”

  At that, Tsarong watched the axe blade move away from his vision, rising upward, moving to a destination he assumed to be suspended above his strained neck.

  Tsarong’s reaction was immediate. A look of quiet serenity fell upon his dark features as a quiet Tibetan prayer escaped from bloodied lips.

  And the axe fell.

  “Om. Ma-ni pad-me Hum,” he whispered.

  fff

  The axe fell swiftly, but it never reached its target.

  Tsarong’s hands, which had been secured behind his back, were suddenly free, coming up to take hold of the handle of the axe upon its descent, and then swinging it away under its own momentum, carrying the executioner with it.

  He was a large, heavily muscled man, wearing dark butcher’s garb, a tattered black hood covering his head. He stumbled with the blade, but quickly regained his footing and turned toward the Tibetan, roaring in rage.

  Suddenly he lunged forward, swinging the axe horizontally...

  Suddenly he lunged forward, swinging the axe horizontally, in a move designed to eviscerate the innocent servant.

  Tsarong leaped back, the axe blade narrowly missing the opportunity to disembowel him. While the vicious swing hung up the momentum of his intended executioner, Tsarong drove a heel into the side of the man’s knee, brutally dislocating the knee by separating the femur and tibia.

  A painful and traumatic injury, the executioner collapsed to the floor with a loud bellow, dropping the ancient axe in the process.

  Tsarong immediately turned, ready the fight the man who ordered his death.

  But Nalgiri was gone. He must have escaped deeper into the house while Tsarong was fighting to live.

  Moving to the fallen executioner, still moaning and holding his destroyed leg, Tsarong reached down and yanked the tattered hood from his head.

  He looked upon the visage of Tan, bodyguard to Mei and Cheng, and now traitor to his homeland.

  This confirmed his suspicions. The kidnapping at the museum had been a set-up from the start. An effective way to move an involved player off of the playing board, and at the same time, building up a healthy bankroll with ransom demands.

  Now he just had to find Nalgiri.

  He was thankful that the elephant beast had not noticed him stealthily loosening the knots around his hands, using tricks taught to him by the great escape artist Sardo. He had been too consumed with torturing Tsarong to discover the location of Jethro Dumont.

  But this could not happen, as he never had Tsarong in his clutches.

  fff

  It had been simple for the Green Lama to switch places with his trusted friend.

  Prior to contacting Jean Farrell to discuss her investigative findings, the Green Lama had called Tsarong to tell him he was in danger. From the notes and photos he found in the opium den, he knew that Jethro Dumont and anyone close to him were now priority targets of the hairless ones. He instructed the Tibetan to leave the Park Avenue apartment immediately and to take refuge in one of the Lama’s safe houses throughout the city.

  The Green Lama then headed to the apartment that he used as a front for his identity as Dr. Pali. Here, he returned to the make-up table to begin the careful transformation into that of his Tibetan valet.

  To a close friend, the transformation would not pass inspection.

  But the Green Lama was counting on the fact the Nalgiri and his men had never met Tsarong, and they would only know that a Tibetan servant worked closely with Jethro Dumont.

  By dressing the part and using the right make-up application to conceal his true identity, he hoped his appearance would be convincing enough to pull off the intended subterfuge.

  And in the process, bring him directly into the lion’s den.

  Quickly he moved to the front of the house. Opening the door that led to Lafayette Street, he whistled a queer tune. From out of the darkness, Jean Farrell ran quickly to the Green Lama. Around her waist, the Green Lama could see a holstered pistol.

  When the Green Lama had spoken to Jean Farrell, he had ordered Jean to stake out Jethro Dumont’s Park Place apartment, and keep an eye on the Tsarong impersonator as he went about his business.

  At no time was she to intervene; her mission was simply to follow.

  Jean rushed to the Green Lama’s side. Seeing his battered face, Jean was taken aback.

  “Oh my! Are you alright.”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” the Lama said, smiling. “In fact, I believe that their fists probably look much worse than my face.”

  Jean chuckled and looked around at their surroundings. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes. It is as I suspected,” the Lama said. “I’ve been here before, but this will all end tonight. The beast is now trapped in its lair. We must break him.”

  Jean reached into a satchel secured over her shoulders and handed him a bundle of clothes as well as a small glass vial. “I brought what you requested,” she said.

  Taking the offering, he now held the hooded robe of the Green Lama, his red kata, and a vial of radioactive salts.

  As soon as he donned the robe and brought the hood up and over his head, casting his face in the dark shadows of justice, Jean Farrell saw a different man.

  The injuries from the beatings seemed to disappear; the abuse forgotten until another day.

  Standing before her was a mythic figure, one that she would follow across the gates of hell if he asked her.

  After securing Tan with some of the very same ropes that he had used to hold Tsarong, the Green Lama instructed Jean to keep an eye on the fallen bodyguard while he pursued Nalgiri.

  He moved cautiously through the townhouse, checking each room, wary of a trap. The first level appeared to be clear, and as the Lama was moving toward the stairway to the second floor, he heard gunfire from upstairs.

  First one shot, then another.

  The Green Lama bounded up the stairwell, only pausing at the final step to ensure that he did not walk straight into further gunfire.

  His nose suddenly detected the overwhelming, acrid odor of gasoline.

  Planted against the wall to provide himself with the most cover, the hooded face of the Green Lama peered around to find the source of the gunfire.

  He was stunned by what he found.

  It was a large living space, and whereas the lower level was very traditional and western in appearance, this sumptuous area spoke of Eastern splendor. Scarlet paint graced the walls, and beautiful pieces of furniture made of lacquered wood were covered with pieces of ivory and Chinese pottery.

  Yet throughout the room were large puddles of clear liquid. Some of the wall coverings also were covered in liquid, which dripped to the ground below.

  The Green Lama knew that this was the source of the gasoline smell.

  And toward the back of the room, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, was Cheng Yi-chuan, ambassador of the Republic of China to the United States of America.

  Only he was dressed much differently than the times he had met Jethro Dumont and Dr. Pali.

  He was now clothed in a black robe, which blended with the flow of blood spreading from beneath his body.

  Behind his head lay the grotesque mask of Nalgiri, an elephant head left to stare blindly at the ceiling.

  And above Cheng stood his trembling wife Mei wearing a casual floral dress with small Peter Pan collar and a Mauser pistol still aimed at the body of her dead husband.

  The Green Lama moved to the side of the grieving widow, his
hand reaching out to support her supple back.

  She turned to him, her raven hair a perfect match to the long lines of black mascara that ran down her cheek.

  She turned in to the Lama’s chest, looking for some comfort in this terrible time, the scent of her jasmine perfume rising up to mix oddly with the scent of gasoline permeating the room. “I had to shoot him,” she said through her sobs. “He is a horrible man, and he was going to burn the house down with me in it to facilitate his escape.

  “I’ve wanted to kill him for so long, to escape his abuse, but I never had the strength. This gun has been hidden for months, waiting for me to find the strength to use it. When I learned what he was planning to do, I had to finally act.”

  The Lama pulled her closer, appearing to support this beautiful woman caught in a horrible ordeal.

  But his actions said something different.

  The hand on Mei’s back suddenly snaked forward and closed around her neck. His other hand took hold of the wrist holding the gun, raising it toward the sky.

  For he had seen Mei slowly raising her pistol, intending to shoot the Green Lama in his midsection.

  The gun fired harmlessly into the air. The Lama swiftly found a pressure point located on the ulna nerve of the wrist. A pinch of the nerve against the bone, and Mei dropped the pistol.

  But though the Lama had an arm around her neck, the struggle for the gun allowed Mei the opportunity to pull free. Standing free of his hold, the woman now faced the Green Lama, a look of hatred suddenly replacing what had been sorrow.

  She took a few defensive steps back, kicking free of her round toe heels. With a few feet between her and the Green Lama, she reached up to pull the hair off of her head.