Lone Star 02

by Ellis, Wesley

  Moore wondered about that as he recalled the scene earlier today in the hotel lobby, when Jessie had hugged Ki. Moore had watched the look in the man’s eyes. Ki was clearly head over heels in love with Jessie, who, most likely, had been just too close to the stoic samurai for too long to ever really see how the man felt. Well, that’s just my good luck, Moore told himself.

  “Jordan?” Jessie suddenly asked. “Where is Shanks?”

  Moore stopped walking. “You’re right, we should have run into him by now.” The detective looked over his shoulder. “Let’s walk down the block the other way for a bit.”

  “You mean past the club again?” Jessie nervously replied.

  “Don’t worry,” Moore took her arm to lead her along. “Our two nasty friends inside won’t be out for a while.”

  They were halfway down the block, on the other side of the Pink Slipper, when they heard faint moans coming from out of the darkness of an abandoned building’s hallway.

  Jessie’s grip on Moore’s arm stiffened. “Somebody’s hurt in there!” she whispered.

  “Stay here,” Moore commanded. In one smooth move he drew his Colt .44 from its shoulder rig.

  “Be careful,” Jessie said.

  “That’s a great idea,” Moore mumbled absently as he cautiously entered the pitch-black interior of the gutted structure. He struck a match against the side of a timber.

  Jessie unclasped her purse to draw her own Colt. She watched the faint glow of Moore’s match waver and fade as he went deeper into the building’s hallway. “What is it?” she called out in exasperated fear. Moore’s match went out. She heard the scrape of another against wood, as the weak, flickering light reappeared.

  Moore’s cry, when it came, was full of pain. “Oh, Christ!”

  “What?” Jessie pleaded. When there was no answer, she swore under her breath and rushed into the building, her gun at the ready.

  Deep inside she saw a small but steady light. Moore had found an inch of candle stuck into one of the many empty whiskey bottles strewn about the place. Some vagrant had evidently used the abandoned building as a temporary home.

  Moore was kneeling over a moaning, ashen-faced Shanks, who was sitting sprawled on the floor, his back propped up against the wall. Shanks was clutching his belly. Blood seeped from between his tightly interlaced fingers.

  “He’s been stabbed,” Moore muttered, his face grim. “Who did it?” he asked his partner. “Hurry! Tell me.”

  “Miss Starbuck, you there?” Shanks gasped.

  “Yes, I’m here,” Jessie said, looking down at the man.

  “H-hate for you to see me like this, ma‘am,” Shanks said sorrowfully.

  “Christ! He’s been run clear through!” Moore exclaimed. “He wasn’t stabbed with a knife, but with a sword.” He pried apart Shanks’s clutching fingers to examine the wet, bubbling wound. He shrugged helplessly. “There’s nothing for it, old friend,” he said. “Please, you must tell me who did it!”

  “You was right, Miss Starbuck,” Shanks mumbled. “You ... told me ... more deadly ...” His eyelids fluttered as his big lantern jaw slumped to rest upon his chest.

  Moore turned to stare up at Jessie. His green eyes were wet with emotion. “He’s dead!” Moore snarled. “My partner’s dead!”

  Chapter 8

  Ki walked the distance between the Palace Hotel and Chinatown. It was just dusk when he began his trek. As the sun sank into the bay and the purple shadows lengthened, the samurai found himself on the enclave’s outskirts.

  All around me is darkness, Ki thought to himself. Yes, it is fitting that the light of the sun should fail as I leave behind the world of San Francisco for the world of Chinatown.

  As the darkness had increased, so had the narrowness of the streets. Here the clapboard buildings had no bay windows, for trying to catch a ray of light was futile. Little sun could penetrate past the crooked eaves and slooping roofs of the packed-together tenements, themselves like so many stoop-shouldered, gaunt Chinese men, each wearing a broad-brimmed hat.

  Ki kept his own hat brim pulled low over his distinctly Nipponese eyes. A Japanese would find no friends in this place. Ki had to smile sadly; he had more in common with these downtrodden people than with his own race.

  Truth did indeed have many facets. To Dennis Kearney and his Workingmen’s Party followers, the Chinese undercut the white man’s wage and happily accepted their exploitation. To the Chinese, the problem was that no one would pay them a decent wage, and that their children could not learn to better themselves because they were not allowed in the whites’ school system. A silent, bitter banding-together was the price these proud people had to pay in order to survive in a land that despised and feared them.

  Ki found that he had to walk in the muddy streets. The warped, rotted wooden sidewalks were completely taken over by whole families, some of whom were trying to make a living by rolling cigars upon wooden crates. The cigars would later be sold by tobacconists for prices the Chinese could not even dream of getting. There were groups shrilly hawking fruits and nuts to any passing fellow resident who might have the meager purchase price jingling in the pockets of his cotton tunic.

  Above the streets, and framed by brightly colored banners painted with Chinese characters, people were literally hanging out of their tenement windows. Most of them were working at various occupations by the weak light of candles inside wire-strung paper lanterns. On one widened window ledge, a cobbler perched like a pigeon in order to repair shoes. From one window there wafted clouds of steam. In that room a family not only lived, but ran a laundry as well.

  Ki knew that in the summer the weakest of these people would suffocate. There simply was not enough oxygen in the air for so many to breathe. What air there was grew swiftly spoiled by the blanket of smoke rising from the thousands of charcoal cookfires. In the winter the Chinese were forced to interlace their thin bodies, for warmth against the cold, like barnyard animals.

  Deeper into Chinatown, Ki passed fish stores displaying mounds of gunmetal-gray squid with eyes of glinting gold. He saw a store that offered bottles of preserved chickens, snakes, and seahorses to eat for rejuvenation, and jars of leathery deer testicles and fuzzy antlers to eat for virility. A butcher shop was lined with shelves of live rabbits, ducks, and chickens, all penned in wire cages, all patiently awaiting their slaughter. Beneath the cages, his head drooping toward his crimson-spotted apron, the shop’s proprietor sat dozing upon his stool.

  What were the butcher’s dreams, Ki wondered as he walked on. Was he musing on his similarity to the doomed animals he sold? Who—rabbit or man—had the brighter fate? Who—man or rabbit—was locked into the less cruel cage?

  Ki stopped to watch four young boys, none of them more than five or six years old, hurrying on their way in the darkness. Each had a pigtail almost as long as he was tall, and each held on to the pigtail of the child in front of him. The little boys had no shoes, and their clothes were tattered and torn, but the weather was mild, and being children, they as yet felt no shame concerning their poverty. They disappeared around the comer, their bright, chirping laughter trailing behind them.

  So many kami, Ki thought. So many ghosts and spirits...

  He stared after the children, seeing himself in their forms. He remembered his own past...

  An old woman, hidden somewhere in the shadows, began to wail an ancient Cantonese lament. It startled Ki out of his reverie. He hurried on, deeper and deeper into the heart of Chinatown, searching for Leno alley, the location of the girl’s family’s restaurant. Fortunately, the street signs were in English as well as Chinese, for the benefit of the many police officers who made extra money by guiding groups of tourists around the area.

  When Ki finally found the right alley, he had to follow its twists and turns for some distance before coming to a group of restaurants lining both sides of the narrow throughfare. Each establishment’s sign was written in Chinese, but each had an accompanying painted illustration to tell Ki wha
t he could not read. There was the Green Dragon, the White Lotus, and the Kite. Ki paused before a restaurant that featured above its door the carefully painted likeness of a gold coin.

  Ki’s entrance attracted several quickly averted stares and much hushed whispering among the few Chinese families seated around the large round tables to the rear of the restaurant. No tourists had ever ventured this far into Chinatown to dine, Ki thought. He took a small table in a shadowy comer. There was barely room enough for him to sit, but the nook allowed him a clear line of sight while partially protecting him from the attentions of the overly curious.

  The interior of the small restaurant was modest but clean. The rough walls were painted yellow, the floors were sprinkled with sawdust. Large cardboard placards, covered with Chinese writing, hung everywhere. Ki assumed they were menus. He had no idea what was on the bill of fare, but he did not care. He could not eat; his heart was pounding much too hard with anticipation. Where was she, he wondered. Tending the tables were a traditionally dressed middle-aged man and woman, and a boy of ten or so. The girl’s parents and little brother, he surmised, but where was she? Bitter disappointment began to well up inside of him. She was not here...

  Ki stared down at the worn, scarred surface of the table. Perhaps she was even now being courted by a suiter, possibly an elderly but wealthy Chinese merchant. It was common for widowers to purchase a marriage to the young and lovely daughter of a poor family...

  She came out of the kitchen, passing through the oilcloth-curtained doorway with a tray of food in her arms. She was dressed as before, in the same old blue silk tunic and black cotton pantaloons, now protected by a white apron. Her long hair was bundled on her head and fastened in place with several plain wooden combs, so as not to get in the way as she worked.

  She almost dropped her tray when she saw him. For one brief moment her large black eyes seemed to be filled with joy, but then she shook her head sorrowfully—whether to him or to herself, Ki could not tell.

  He could think of nothing but the gleam of her hair and the lovely sway of her walk as she carefully served her waiting customers. She was starting toward him when one of the diners intercepted her, demanding something that forced her back to the kitchen. Ki waited in maddening frustration until she reappeared holding a pot of tea, which she quickly placed on the customer’s table.

  She was on her way to Ki when the doors of the restaurant were loudly slammed open. She stopped, to stand trembling as four Tong bullies strode in.

  Ki recognized the first two as the pair who had earlier terrorized the girl and her grandfather on the waterfront. They were still wearing the cheap, American-style suits. The two men behind them were traditionally dressed. They had long, plaited queues dangling down their backs. The sleeves of their tunics were rolled up to reveal their thick forearms. Garish tattoos of dragons and tigers wound their way around the backs of the men’s hands, all the way up to their elbows. Ki understood the tattoos’ significance. These wu-shu men were fighters trained in one of the ancient schools of China, and were more skilled than the two who had earlier demonstrated their ability.

  The tattooed men stood guarding the restaurant’s door while. the other two barged on into the kitchen. All of the customers had stopped eating, but continued to stare morosely at their plates. Not one lifted his head for so much as a glimpse toward the silent, scowling Tong men.

  The girl had sidled closer to Ki. “Do nothing!” she whispered anxiously. “If they should notice you, they will kill you. There is no one here who could come to your aid.”

  The little boy, the girl’s parents, and even her grandfather were herded out of the kitchen. As before, the man with the mustache did little. He left it to the scarfaced one to gather up the front of the father’s tunic and slam him against the wall.

  “I tol’ the old man that we come for Chang’s money,” he spat into the father’s face. “You pay us money now!”

  “I not have it,” the father protested feebly, in an accent made even harsher by his fear. “Please! Maybe tomorrow—”

  “Now!” Scarface hissed. “Or we burn you down!”

  Ki was shocked by the brazen threat, until he realized that it was highly unlikely that any of the cowering customers could understand English.

  “I beg you!” the girl’s mother cried in panic. She was blocked from rushing to her husband’s aid by the mustached Tong man. “Please let him go!” she whined. “He is telling the truth. We cannot pay!”

  “Then we burn you down,” the scarred one said, letting the husband slump to the floor. His tone was bored. “It make no difference to me.”

  “If you do that, then we can never pay,” the father reasoned quickly, still sprawled on the floor, afraid to try and get to his feet while Scarface loomed over him.

  “That true,” the hatchet man laughed. “Maybe we punish you some other way.” He glanced about the restaurant, his cruel eyes settling upon the man’s daughter.

  “You!” he called. “Girl! Come here to me!” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a gravity knife. There was a crisp click! as the blade snapped open.

  The girl, mesmerized by the knife, shook her head in terror, even as her feet were carrying her toward him. “No, no, no,” she repeated hopelessly.

  Scarface reached out to yank her the last few paces. The girl stood with her eyes tightly clenched as he pressed the flat of his knife blade against her cheek.

  “How ‘bout I do this?” the Tong man began reasonably. “I give her scar on face, like mine ...”

  “Oh, please, cut me—” the mother began.

  “Silence, foolish woman!” the Tong man bellowed. “Why I cut you? You already ugly! You already married! I cut girl, no more chance of profitable wedding. Cost you much money. But you still have restaurant, so you can still pay my master, Chang, what you owe.”

  The girl began to cry. Scarface laughed. “I think you will do much crying before the night is over,” he cackled.

  Ki stood up. “I think it is you who will be doing the crying.”

  Scarface craned his neck to squint into the shadows. “Who?” he demanded. Then his eyes widened. “Mr. Smith, again!” He threw back his head and laughed.

  “Laugh now,” Ki said evenly. “Soon you will be howling with your dog ancestors.”

  There was a shocked intake of breath on the part of the girl and her parents. Even the little boy stared, awestruck. The scar on the bully’s face seemed to thicken and pulse in his fury.

  “You talk very big, Mr. Smith,” he rasped harshly.

  “Maybe he got a gun,” the mustached man suggested. He had begun to move sideways, widening the space between himself and his companion.

  Ki watched him out of the corner of his eye. “I have no gun,” he announced matter-of-factly. He was watching the two men by the door, as well. They looked only mildly interested in what was going on. Ki didn’t think they could understand English.

  “You don’t got a gun, that’s too bad,” Scarface chuckled, his good humor seemingly restored.

  “Maybe he could go buy one, and then come back,” Mustache joked. He’d placed himself next to the curtained kitchen doorway, almost out of the periphery of Ki’s vision.

  “No, I think the stores are closed now,” Scarface answered. “I think it too late for Mr. Smith to get a gun.” He spat on the floor in front of Ki. “I do think it’s too late.” He stared at Ki, and licked his lips.

  Ki said nothing. Throughout their exchange, he’d been patiently waiting for his opportunity to attack. It would come, he knew, when the scarred one looked away. He was the leader of the group, and he was the one with a weapon in his hand. Ki would kill Scarface first; that would throw the rest of these vermin into confusion.

  They were four, and he was one, but his great advantage lay in the fact that they thought he was a Caucasian. Ki smiled. Chang would lose four men tonight ...

  “What you smiling for?” Scarface shouted. “You like this girl?” He stretched
out his arm, to use his knife like a pointer against the shivering girl’s cheek. “Then you will choose which side of her face I cut.”

  Ki crossed his arms. Strapped to both wrists, but hidden beneath his sleeves, were two leather sheaths. Each held a razor-sharp shuriken throwing blade.

  “Which side, Mr. Smith?” Scarface snarled. “Choose!” The man glanced away from Ki in order to glide his knife across the bridge of the girl’s nose, almost, but not quite cutting her.

  At that moment, all eyes in the room were on the scarred man’s knifeblade. Ki saw his chance.

  He slid his arms apart so that the inner sides of his forearms and palms rubbed together. The smooth motion forced the two throwing blades out of their sheaths. His hands rose up, the Mades—four-inch knives without hilt or handle—glinting in the light as they left his fingers.

  Scarface’s gravity knife fell to the floor. The Tong man’s eyes screwed up, and his mouth opened wide as he began to squall like a newborn babe. His right limb was still stretched out and pointing toward the girl, but now his fingers could only flutter uselessly as his trembling arm spurted blood. The first of Ki’s blades had transfixed the man’s elbow joint, slicing through the tendons and bone to act as a steel pin, locking the man’s arm in its extended position.

  One of the Tong men by the door began to charge forward, but he paused momentarily when he realized his partner was not with him. He watched, amazed, as his companion slowly crumpled to the sawdust, his ornately tattooed fingers clutching at the second of Ki’s blades, now embedded in his chest.

  The man’s hesitation gave Ki the extra time he needed to reach into his coat and extract another shuriken, this one a disc in the shape of a six-pointed star. The disc looked like a spur-wheel, except that the shuriken was four inches across and forged of high-grade steel.

  “Jibon-ren?” the pigtailed man uttered incredulously. Japanese? He rushed toward Ki, at the same time reaching a hand around to the small of his back. From a sheath hidden there he pulled a three-piece rod, similar in design to one of Ki’s nunchaku. Each eight-inch segment of the rod was connected to the next by a short link of chain. The Tong man whirled this weapon in front of him as he advanced. Soon it was moving so fast that Ki would only see it as a blur.