Only one chance if they don’t want to be seen. They’ll have to crouch and roll under the sign board at just the right moment. Danny holds up his hand, counting down on his fingers.
Three, two, one . . . roll!
They time it just right, flipping under the sign just as the gangsters stride past, pounding down the steps toward a parking lot. They’ve got what they came for, obviously—and now they’re in a rush.
To get where? To Laura? Their boss maybe? So we should follow them.
Danny gets to his feet, brushing the grit from his T-shirt—and finds himself face to face with Sing Sing. She scrunches up her features in exasperation.
“Saw you two clowns on the tram,” she says matter-of-factly, a hint of a smile creeping back. “Hope you’re a flipping better magician than you are a detective.”
“What was in the envelope?” Danny says, feeling deflated that she was on to them all along. Annoyed and confused too at the turn of events. He turns around, trying to see where Ponytail and Jug Ears have gone. There’s no sign of them.
“Charlie’s business dealings,” Sing Sing says. “I’m just the courier girl.”
“Caramba!” Zamora interrupts. “Let’s keep on the trail of that blasted envelope.”
“Let it go,” the girl says firmly. “It won’t lead you to your aunt, Danny. I know that much.”
“So what do you know?” Danny says, irritation punching out his words.
“That I could do with a drink. And you two need my help. Big time!”
24
HOW TO KICK SOMEONE VERY HARD
Sing Sing sips her iced coffee, then pushes the sunglasses up from her eyes. The bruise is still there, ripened by a day, plum-colored and swollen on the smooth skin. She looks Danny full in the face now. The challenging look is back, but there’s definitely something softer there. Like she’s reaching out.
“So. Why are you following me?”
“We wanted to see where your father went.”
“He’s not my father—”
“We followed him to you. Then we followed you. We wanted to know what was in the envelope. Payment to the Black Dragon maybe?”
“Ha.” She laughs. “No money in there. Don’t you think those triad boys would have counted it?”
“What then?” Zamora says.
“Like I say, I’m just a messenger.”
“And what about Mr. Chow? What’s he?” Danny presses, watching her face for a reaction.
“He’s a good man. In a difficult position. Police informer these days.”
“And what about you?” He leans back in his chair, trying to give her some space. No point pushing too hard. She’ll just clam up.
“What about me?” She leans forward onto her elbows. Still cautious, but softening a touch more.
“What do you know about the Black Dragon?”
“Nothing much.”
That’s short of the truth. Her eyes flick away briefly, one hand reaching to pull the sunglasses back down.
“Do you know where Laura is?” Zamora cuts in, tapping the metal table with a coin.
“No.”
That’s true, though, Danny thinks. Not a too-fast answer, but not too much hesitation either. “Can you show us how to get to Cheung Chau Island?”
Sing Sing smiles. “Sure. But you two are in big trouble. The Black Dragon wants a piece of you. Other triads too.”
“We’ll handle that, miss,” says Zamora.
“No offense,” Sing Sing says. “But they’ll make mincemeat out of a couple of tourists like you.”
“Tourists!” Zamora exclaims. “We’re professional travelers, miss!”
Danny’s got his cards in his hands, riffling, cutting, absentmindedly.
“You’re pretty good,” Sing Sing says, slurping the last of her drink from between the ice cubes. “But you’re carrying a bit too much tension in your shoulders.” She bumps the beaker down on the tabletop. Hard. “Come on. Those two will be long gone now. We’ll take a bus. But let’s walk a bit first. I need to stretch my legs. Haven’t been to the gym for days.”
They cross the car park, leaving the tram terminus behind, and start down the curving road that drops from the shoulder of the Peak. The greenery enfolds them, mimosa and other shrubs pungent in the humid air. The chirr of insects packing around them.
“Your mother was Chinese, right?” Sing Sing says. The tension has slipped from her body now—as if given away with the envelope —and she’s moving easily down the hill.
“Yes. From here. How do you know?”
“Your aunt said. But you’ve never been here before?”
“No. Mum went to Europe just after circus school. Just after the handover to China. She met Dad in Italy.”
“You don’t look that Chinese to me.”
Again that blunt assessment of where he does or doesn’t fit!
“Maybe your dad’s genes trumped your mum’s?” Sing Sing goes on, oblivious, swinging her arms freely. “You speak Cantonese?”
“Mum didn’t use it much. She said she wanted to forget Hong Kong. And Cantonese wasn’t her first language.”
“Can’t run away from what you are.”
Always that catch in Mum’s voice when he pressed for memories of her childhood and youth. “Oh, you know,” she would say. “Big cities can have big problems. Not much to tell. And it’s all in the past.” And she would sigh and then sweep the conversation in a new direction with that fast, bright smile of hers.
Sing Sing puts a hand on his shoulder, perhaps spotting she has spoken too abrasively. “Hou hoisam gindou neih, Danny Woo.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Danny Woo.”
“I’m pleased to meet you too. I think.”
Sing Sing laughs.
“I think?! What does that mean?”
“That you keep things pretty close to your chest. There’s lots you don’t want to go near. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Sing Sing shrugs. “Maybe. Life is always complicated. Even more so here sometimes . . . Perhaps your mum had to deal with that.”
The light is falling on the bruise and Danny nods at it. “You didn’t tell me how you got that.”
“Didn’t see the guy behind me. When your aunt was kidnapped. I should have done more. I’m sorry.”
They walk on in silence, the reality of Laura’s plight hitting Danny again. It feels like someone gripping at his chest.
“We’re going to find her,” he says, trying to say it confidently enough that he can feel it’s a possibility, dispel the anxiety.
The road’s emptier here, tourists left behind clustered on top of the Peak and the shadows deepening under the foliage. Every now and then a solitary car or small van sweeps past, but otherwise they have the place to themselves. Zamora is following a few paces behind, hands thrust in his jeans pockets. Still the warmth pressing at them and birds singing loudly from the bushes. Feels like it should be an idyllic moment—if it wasn’t for the danger waiting for them below—the urgent need to find Laura. Is it always like this? Danny thinks.
“It’s weird,” he says. “All this beauty here around us, and all the bad stuff happening at the same time . . .”
“Can’t have one without the other,” Sing Sing says brightly. “No yin without yang.”
Dimly—lost in the chain of his thought—Danny is aware that a car is approaching from behind, slowing. He just about has time to register the pricking sensation on the back of his neck, before it glides to a stop right next to them. He spins around to see Ponytail and Jug Ears leaping from a black car, running toward them.
They look like they mean business. Ponytail is whipping a pistol from out of his leather jacket. Jug Ears brandishes the polished barrels of a sawn-off shotgun, his holiday shirt mocking the situation.
Ponytail snaps something out at Sing Sing in Cantonese.
“Speak English,” she says defiantly, “so my friends can understand. And wash out your
flipping mouth, toilet breath.”
Jug Ears rolls the lollipop from side to side in his mouth, grins—and then meaningfully pumps a shotgun shell into the breach.
Ponytail spits on the ground and then walks up to her. “Get in car, Little Flower. You’re in trouble. You too, short man. And you, boy, no funny stuff.”
Danny waits—taking his cue from Sing Sing who stands there, still holding her ground, hands planted on her hips.
“No way,” she says.
No one moves.
Almost as an automatic reflex Danny fingers the cards in his pocket. Ridiculously, in the heat of the moment, he finds himself thinking about which card he has on top of the deck. Ace of spades. Always know the cards, Dad would say. Be ready. You might have to do a trick on the spur of the moment. The black ace has always struck him as a powerful card with its one huge black spade stamped on it. Reassuring somehow now. He splits it from the deck.
“So? You gonna shoot us here on street?” Sing Sing snorts, jutting her jaw.
Ponytail takes a quick look up and down the road before stepping forward, arm straight, pistol cocked aggressively. “Why not, Little Flower. No one around just now.”
“Don’t call me Little Flower.” Gently, almost imperceptibly, she taps Danny’s trainer with her foot. “I don’t like it. And you’re one ugly old triad, Tony.”
Danny tenses his muscles, ready to react to whatever’s coming. The soft contact of the shoe says, Get ready—something’s about to happen.
“Get in the car,” Ponytail says, his voice flat, but waggling the pistol again for emphasis.
“OK. OK.”
Sing Sing slumps her shoulders, seemingly defeated, then, without backlift—without any warning at all—her right foot whips up and strikes hard at Ponytail’s face. The air hisses between her teeth as the kung fu kick lashes his mouth. Something cracks—like a breaking ping-pong ball—and he drops to the floor, holding his face. Jug Ears, caught off guard, hesitates, then raises the shotgun.
But it’s Danny who reacts next.
The ace of spades is out of his pocket, and using a finger snap, he flicks the card—edge on—straight at the bald man’s eyes. It flashes like a dart, strikes hard and true—and Jug Ears gives a yelp. He clutches an eye, letting the gun fall.
Ponytail is struggling to his feet, the pistol still in his hands, raising it now at Danny, finger groping for the trigger. But Sing Sing’s on him.
She unleashes a flurry of kicks, each thrown from a pirouette, sending him staggering back against the car, an explosive breath syncing with each blow. Extraordinary force in each kick from such a slender frame, as she spins four, five times, making sure contact each time.
Zamora grabs the man’s right arm as he slumps against the car, forcing it up behind his back, spilling the gun. “You want this arm broken? Or dislocated?” he snarls. “Your choice, amigo.”
Jug Ears, blinking hard, is on his feet, but before he has time to come to the aid of his partner, Sing Sing strikes the base of his neck with a firm blow and he’s down, eyelids fluttering, out for the count.
Danny grabs the pistol and hurls it into the undergrowth. A moment later it’s joined by the flailing form of Ponytail as Zamora drives him back across the pavement and, using every ounce of his strength, hurls him down the hill. The man keeps going for a long, long time, crashing through the bushes, sending birds shrieking from the trees, releasing the warm smell of crushed undergrowth as he falls.
The three victors look at one another, breathing hard.
“That was amazing,” Danny says. “Where did you learn that?”
“From Charlie. He used to train people for movies. Five animal. Monkey paw. Drunken style. All that jazz.” She straightens her T-shirt, smooths her hair back into place and looks at Danny. “Your card thing was pretty good too, you know.”
“M goi,” he says, and feels pride ripple through him. The compliment means a lot, coming from this enigmatic girl. It leaves a kind of glow behind it lingering on the evening air.
Zamora’s gazing after Ponytail. “I almost feel sorry for the poor chap. He’s had a hard time of it with us. What do you say we borrow their motor?”
“I’ll drive,” Sing Sing says. “Let’s get going.”
“Are you old enough?” Zamora says doubtfully.
“I’m taller than both of you. And I just saved our skins from a four-twenty-six and a four-thirty-eight. And anyway Charlie taught me how to drive ages ago.”
Danny watches her striding to the BMW, argument settled in her mind. That same lightness to her movements. She’s as slim as Danny, but there’s a wiry strength that belies her age and build. Training too. The kind that only comes through hour upon hour of practice and frustration. Determination. The toughened hands make sense now, and in his mind’s eye he sees her striking one of those wooden sparring dummies, again and again, slowly building the muscle, hardening the skin. Ready for anything that the world might throw her way.
“I’m not arguing with you, miss,” Zamora says. “But I’ll just hide ugly chops here.”
He drags the heavy bulk of Jug Ears into thick bushes, where he rolls the man into a recovery position and then, almost tenderly, tucks his head on his crooked arm. “Wan an, Mister Ears.”
They drop back toward the city proper, the foliage of the Peak giving way to buildings again. The BMW smells as rank as the gym—sweat, spicy food, cigarettes imprinted on the air. Danny sits up front beside Sing Sing, while Zamora holds tight on the backseat. There’s a suitcase in the footwell there. Zamora unzips it and peers in: two lengths of rope, some gaffer tape, and a meat cleaver with a ragged blade. A few strands of blonde hair on the floor beside the case.
Zamora surveys the contents then zips the bag shut.
“Anything interesting?” Danny says.
“Let’s just say I’m sure this is the car from the kidnapping.”
Sing Sing is driving quickly down the hill, expertly working the clutch and gears, using the engine to brake as they enter each sweeping curve, neatly feeding fuel to the engine as she powers out of them.
“What’s a four-twenty-six? And a four-thirty-whatever?” Danny asks.
“Code numbers in triad gangs. Four-twenty-six is a Red Pole. An enforcer. Like a sergeant in the army. Four-thirty-eight is Deputy Mountain Master. Boss’s number-two man. That’s the guy with the ears.”
“And who’s the boss?”
“I was hoping you might tell me.”
Danny looks at her as she pilots the BMW back down to sea level. Something so grown-up about her. And yet something so vulnerable and young too. “How are you mixed up in all this, Sing Sing? I mean, who are you? Really?”
“Friend of a friend. You just trust me, Mr. Danny Woo.”
“I do trust you.”
Something about that hits home. Sing Sing peers forward over the steering wheel, braking hard to take a tight bend. The car fishtails and she has to steer hard to compensate.
“M goi,” she says.
Zamora leans forward between the seats. “And you can trust us. But look, miss, talking of numbers, do you know anything about the Forty-Nine?”
“No. Not much,” she says, accelerating to beat a red light, tires thumping the tram lines. “Criminal network. A friend of mine knows more about it.”
“And who’s that then?”
“Jules Ricard. Interpol.”
Zamora and Danny exchange glances.
“We should go back to see him,” the major says. “He’ll wonder where we’ve got to . . .”
They’re passing a stationary police car and Sing Sing slows the BMW, sitting up as straight as she can in the seat. “Not a good idea right now. He’s got his own problems. There’s a boat hijacked.”
“The one in the papers?”
“Yep. And a couple of people are out to get him in a lot of trouble. We’ll do our own thing. Head for the Ferry Pier and Cheung Chau. OK with you?”
Danny nods. “What can you tell u
s about Cheung Chau?”
“It’s pretty. Little fishing harbor. Very picturesque. There are no cars on it. Just bikes and scooters. And mini fire engines and ambulances. For a while a few years ago,” Sing Sing adds, weaving them into the early evening traffic, “they used to call it Death Island.”
“Lovely,” Zamora says, leaning back heavily in his seat. “Why?”
“People used to go there to kill themselves.”
“Super.”
They’re off the Peak now. Above them the first lights are sparking the skyscrapers into night-time brilliance and the sun is dropping fast. It makes Danny think of the running sand of the hourglass video projected onto Dad’s escapes.
Time sliding away.
25
HOW TO FORGET YOUR SCRUPLES
A block and a half from Central Ferry terminal there’s a small parking lot.
Sing Sing bumps the BMW up onto the pavement alongside it, clumsily straddling the curb. She leaves the trunk sticking out into traffic.
“You can drive well,” Zamora says. “But your parking’s lousy.”
“I want the car to get towed,” she says. “It’ll take the Dragon longer to work out where we’ve gone. And it’ll be safe in a police pound. Let’s hurry.”
Danny gets out and—in what has now become second nature—scans their surroundings for trouble. Close by, tucked among the parked cars, is a red and white taxi. It looks like the hundreds of others crowding the streets, but among the sleek private vehicles it looks incongruous. And the dents to its side are very familiar indeed.
“Look, Major. I’d bet you anything that’s Kwan’s cab.”
Zamora whistles. “That’s his, all right. Same ad for teeth!”
“Who?” Sing Sing says sharply.
“A taxi driver. Drove us for a couple of days. He’s been reported missing.”
Zamora trots over to the cab and squints in through the windows. “Come on, Danny, how about using that toothpick of yours. Locks can’t be much cop on this old thing. Doubt it’s got an alarm.”
The Black Dragon Page 13