by P. J. Lozito
“Remember, ‘When one is strict with oneself, one rarely fails’,” quoted Siam Khan.
“Okeh, you stay here and be strict with yourself. I’m gonna get me something for tonight that at least fits,” Kentov said reaching for his hat and coat. Now that he was finally had some gelt, Kentov could get anything he needed. But if Khan’s going to start slinging Confucius at me again, Kentov thought, I’m gonna give him some of his own medicine.
“You know, it’s better to burn my neighbor’s barn than to work myself,” mentioned Kentov casually.
“And what does that mean?”
“Aw, I don’t know. My old man said it all the time.”
“Huh, he must have been a great one,” observed Siam Khan.
“Had a million of ‘em.”
As Kentov took his leave, Siam Khan glared at the newspaper photo again. Danny Colt’s likeness glared back at him. He had no idea somebody was using the Sentry as a blute.
***
Brent Allred, once more disguised as Ling Chan, went into Wu King’s bar. He tried to forget the image of an iron-suited Australian leaking life from his head. He didn’t mind killing a criminal. But it was a shock to shoot a machine and then find a man inside it. The authorities were on the scene now, cleaning up the human chop suey.
Allred had followed Alexander Kentov into the place, now hunched over a beer. There was no mistaking him, even after all these years. Corrigan had given Allred the word that Kentov was on the lam in New York, exact whereabouts unknown. Minutes before Allred had noticed Kentov talking to an addicted snitch/dip/odd-job man named Larry the Rat that Colt had suggested he talk to. He simply followed Kentov here to this scatter.
Thanks to Colt having filled the group in on the local underworld, they knew where to find Larry the Rat. The Silver Manticore would deal with the addict later. Now, Allred approached his nemesis.
“Alexander Kentov,” announced Ling Chan, like he found a long- lost brother.
Kentov put down his mug of brew and looked Ling Chan over, hard. “Never heard of him,” he lifted the foam to his lips again.
“Ah, but you are he. I know. Reputation precedes you.”
“It does, huh? Like a bad aftershave. And who might you be, Chink?”
“That not a word to be used,” he scolded. “My name is Ling Chan.” He bowed.
“Yeah? Well, Ling Chan can go scratch,” Kentov exclaimed, returning to his glass. “Chink.”
Kentov found his fedora flying off his head and a fast moving foot responsible. Remaining motionless, his eyes traced the path. They had to. Kentov’s head wouldn’t respond to commands to move.
“One more use of objectionable word in presence of Ling Chan, and honorable head will perform as hat just did,” he explained, bowing again. “Besides, don’t you want job?”
Kentov did not like the speed that kick snapped out, so he changed tactics. “Eh, sit down, Ling. Let me buy you a cold one.”
“That Mister Ling,” he handed Kentov his hat. “Tsingtao, if they have.”
“Hey, bring us two Tsings,” Kentov called, draining his mug. “’Scuse it, pal, I didn’t know who you were: Ling Chan, sure. You’re the one with the reputation: guns, knives.”
“Do not forget; feets, also.”
“Yeah, ‘feets, also.’ You was on the Coast. What brings you to this town?”
The clink of glass announced that beer in frosted mugs had arrived.
“Secret mission,” Ling Chan said, taking a sip, looking around carefully. “Maybe I hire you to help.”
The fact that Kentov did not pay for the drinks alerted Allred. This was not just a bar Kentov happened upon. Better be careful, the walls have ears, Brent Allred reminded himself. Then he fell back into being Ling Chan.
“I don’t know,” Kentov leaned in closer. “What’s your con?”
Ling Chan looked around again, “Am trying to get goods on Brent Allred.”
“I know that name,” Kentov declared.
“He new owner of Daily Sentry; I follow him here from San Fran. I think he has some connection to Silver Manticore.”
“You don’t say. But Manticore’s been in town two or three weeks already. This Joe only just got here.”
“I do say! Don’t you understand plain American? True, Allred new here. But maybe he bankrolls Silver Manticore. He have plenty yuan.”
“Hmm,” muttered Kentov. “Let’s get a booth, so’s we can talk more private like.”
He shot a glance over to the bartender and got a nod in return. Sam Ting switched on the “bug” for the booth Kentov steered Ling Chan towards. They carried their mugs over.
Ling Chan continued, “I try to find if Allred in Europe during the Great War, or if he was in Asia.”
“Well? What’d you find?”
“He never in Asia. Trace the movements of his Alamo Division. Maybe that is how he meets masked man. Uncle Sam train lots of young men how to kill in that war. Just like you. Reach rank of colonel very young.”
“Why not? Custer was a general at twenty-three.”
“You suspect this ‘Custer’ of being Silver Manticore?” asked Ling Chan, eagerly.
“Naw, he’s strictly horses, not planes,” deadpanned Kentov.
“So, Manticore is not Allred, is not Custer.”
“More bad news, buddy boy: Custer is dead.”
“Change question. What is Silver Manticore?”
“Feature: he’s a rogue Yank secret agent who masqueraded as yours truly in 1916.”
“How do you come to know of this?”
“I got my sources, which I ain’t revealing,” boasted Kentov. “But, yeah, I’m lookin’ for that Manticore rat myself.”
“Hear of how he drills peepers of Australian named Kelly inside robot?”
“Yeah, it was all over the street,” Kentov unrolled an evening Daily Sentry from his back pocket. “Kelly was all over the street, too, hee hee hee!”
“Aussie and man who build robot, Luciferro, part of Cabal of Seven,” said Ling Chan.
“Where’d you hear them names?”
“Sources I cannot reveal,” returned Ling Chan smugly. “But Silver Manticore kill Luciferro, Kelly, maybe this Custer too.”
“Oh, and I’m next? I hope he tries. Anyway, it was the redskins got Custer.”
Brent Allred almost blew his cover, about to correct Kentov’s insensitive choice of words for Indians. “Ha, Manticore known to be friend of…them,” Ling Chan concluded. “Faithful Indian companion named ‘Gordo.’ You see? I know much. Sticking with me could be most healthful for you.”
“I could use a bright boy like you,” Kentov considered.
Jokes about Custer aside, he had heard Hanoi Tsin and Siam Khan talking in Chinese about a nineteenth century Silver Manticore: Custer’s time. Fits in with that life-giving elixir Khan mumbled about in his sleep. Manticore could be some sort of hard-to-kill immortal. Kentov was glad he didn’t let ‘em know he savvied Chinese, having picked it up as he wandered around Asia. Kentov imagined Hanoi Tsin would probably give him a bonus for recruiting this sharp Ling Chan to their side. Maybe even a taste of that elixir.
“If you found out Allred flew in Europe, that’s good detective work,” offered Kentov.
“Detective work, not me, bosses at Circle of Life.”
Ling Chan noticed Kentov hesitated a second too long. So, Kentov knew about the Circle.
“Ling, ol’ boy, I think we should definitely work together.”
“You will join us?”
“I have a job for you,” said Kentov conspiratorially, rubbing his stubble. “Now that I seen firsthand what you can do. My people’ll let you write your own ticket if you join us.”
“Don’t need ticket.”
“Double your salary,” Kentov explained.
“Am paid for results. What name your gang is called by?”
“Fi-San, ever hear of ‘em?”
“Ah, yes, much bigger than Circle of Life. Fi-San legendary. Who is big b
oss, please?”
Suddenly, Kentov’s right hand flew out and caught Ling Chan’s left, trapping it.
“Ling, where did you get that ring?” he asked with urgency.
Ling Chan froze, “This ring?”
“Yes, that ring. Where did you get it?”
“Difficult to tell.”
“Try. This is really important.”
Ling Chan looked around again. He improvised, “From dead man.”
“What dead man?”
Ling Chan looked around once more. Kentov expected him to check under the table.
“Someone I make dead,” Lin Chang elaborated his lie.
“Where? I gotta see that body.”
“Relax. I leave him in all-night picture show.”
“Flickers! The twenty-four hour newsreel?”
“No, he enjoy double feature plus newsreel, short subject, cartoon mouse, and Andrews Sisters dressed up for Women’s Army. We go back. I borrow flashlight from usher.”
“Let’s take it on the hoof pronto.”
They hurried out of Wu King’s, Ling Chan now pressing the very same girasol gem Kentov had noted. The crystal set relayed a signal his nearest agent. The bartender observed the pair leaving. He reached for the phone.
Outside, cabs slowed. Kentov, in his excitement, didn’t notice that Ling Chan practically herded him into one particular Liberty Cab, piloted by a Negro with his own girasol ring.
Coming up at the Lyceum Kentov commented, “Ain’t like the Balaban’s Central Park back in Chi-town.”
“Oh? Please tell,” requested Allred as Ling Chan.
“Heard the Four-Minute Men there,” remembered Kentov.
They entered a Times Square theatre that catered mostly to derelicts. He knew the area around the Lyceum well, from forays to buy jazz records at Commodore’s. Which reminded him: that Earl Freeman kid was now serenading sailors with his tenor ax. So much for taking in some hot music tonight, Kentov grumbled to himself. But he had $6 burning a hole in his pocket earmarked for eight jazz records that “sent gate.” He planned to pick up them after this bit of business.
Up on the screen, he saw Lawrence Talbot going through a transformation that, unknown to its viewers, had a scientific counterpart in real life thanks to Dr. Moreau. The audience, unimpressed, mostly kept on sleeping.
“That is he,” whispered Ling Chan, his black silhouette pointing to a reclining figure. “Right where I leave him.”
“You sure?” rasped Kentov. “It’s dark.”
“Recognize outline, even in this.”
Kentov crept up slowly with the flashlight. Ling Chan paralleled him in the next row.
“Smells like a brewery. I think I hear snoring...”
Then Kentov felt his own right arm being tightly wrapped around his windpipe. Someone behind him grasped his hand. But only his new friend, that sap, Ling Chan was back there. A knee drove into his back, bending it in a direction it wasn’t designed for. Another hand twisted his left arm painfully up his back.
His choking sound didn’t even qualify as a yell. But who would have responded to any scream at a werewolf flick? Kentov felt the flashlight fall from his other hand, smashing. The insipid thought that they were going to make pay for breaking it came to him.
“Too bad you recognized that ring,” a whisper from behind Kentov came.
What? No! Ling Chan must be the Silver Manticore! No! No! “I… can…give …” died on Kentov’s lips at the same time he did.
Allred squeezed longer and harder than needed. He channeled all the rage he felt for Hanoi Tsin, Dr. Lucifer and even that killer robot into his effort to cancel Kentov’s ticket.
This pawn in my hands should have been removed from the igo board a long time ago, he realized. Kentov recognized the ring from seeing it up close during the beating I gave him in Moscow twenty-five years ago, mused Allred, no longer Ling Chan. He still hoped to get hired by the Fi- San somehow without Kentov.
Gently, he guided Kentov’s lifeless body down to a seat. A cigarette lighter with the manticore symbol marked the corpse’s forehead. Then, Allred slipped out to the men’s room. He made sure nobody saw him.
He wet his handkerchief at the sink and washed off his make-up. Allred dried his face and hands on his scarf. Couldn’t leave traces on the towels, he reminded himself. That’s all a bloodhound like Joe Casey would have to find. Allred knew he had to do something about the cop.
He re-combed his hair. Next he turned his coat inside out. He pulled the same trick with his hat. A flat make-up case gave him stubble, liberally applied. Gone was Ling Chan, in his place now stood a passable duplicate for Alexander Kentov. Then he simply left through the front door. Movie palace employees didn’t generally watch who leaves, just who enters. Had any of the Lyceum staff known his name, they’d have sworn it was Kentov leaving.
A stop in one of the city’s nearly one-thousand five hundred comfort stations was his next destination, to become Brent Allred again. Perhaps the one in nearby Bryant Park’s Open Air-Reading Room would be the best choice. And then Kentov would be gone from this earth forever.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LARRY THE RAT
Back down in Chinatown, later that same evening, Allred spotted the sneering Larry the Rat conducting business amid pedestrians. Little did the drug addict suspect he was being observed by a pair of men in a phony taxi’s rear view mirror.
“What’s he up to?” implored Evan White to Brent Allred, without turning his head.
“Not selling War Bonds, I tell you that much,” replied Allred, sliding out of the cab. Fragrances of Chinese spices and cooking reminded him fondly of the Orient.
As White paced him in, Allred approached Larry on foot. Even from here, he could see the waxy sheen of the drug addict on Larry’s skin. He certainly resembled his rodent namesake. A cheap hat kept his hair hidden. Red-rimmed, rat-like eyes that might have been brown were in a perpetual squint. Larry the Rat was in dire need of a tube of shave cream and a can of tooth powder.
Near Larry, Allred turned. He pulled the silvery cloth over his face and clasped it tightly. Then he walked backwards, allowing himself to bump into the filthy snitch and expert dip.
“Watch who ya bunk into, chump,” spilled belligerently from one side of Larry’s mouth.
A figure in black turned to him. Larry didn’t notice the face, covered by the silver cloth, because his attention was drawn to the evil-looking silencer poking out of the man’s black coat. The pocket must have a hole so that the “dumb-gat” could jut out. Silencers meant business, deadly business. Larry imagined it was attached to a forty-some odd.
“A cab is behind you. Step into it,” issued a command from under the silver mask.
Larry did so.
“Ever hear the police in a movie say ‘we’re going downtown’?” asked the Silver Manticore. “That’s where we’re now headed. They want to question you about a man named Kentov. You were seen talking to him.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with him bein’ bumped off, copper,” stammered Larry, eyes wide.
The Silver Manticore pulled a card out of his pocket, presenting it to Larry. It pictured a stylized manticore. “I’m not the law. I didn’t say Kentov was dead. Guilty conscience?”
Larry the Rat didn’t like this. He didn’t graduate from the School of Ten Bells so lugs like this could turn the heat up on him. What would Thubway Tham, Blinky McQuade and Slips McGuire say?
“Whether you killed him or not doesn’t concern me. He deserved his fate. However, I’m concerned about what happens to junkies in lockup. Cops take your works, Larry. Won’t be able to boot up and ride your nice white horse.”
Sweat broke on Larry the Rat’s brow, perhaps the most thorough washing he had in days.
“Tell me something I can use and you get a head start on John Law,” intoned the Silver Manticore calmly. “Or we can keep driving to Centre Street.”
“All right, all right, I seen Kentov. He neede
d a waiter’s outfit.”
The cab turned back uptown.
“Waiter’s outfit. Why?”
“For Keens Chop House tonight. He had the simoleons and I needed moolah. Look, this nice taw is what he paid me in.” The addict shakily waved money. “But I didn’t have nothing to do with his being offed, onna level!”
“Convince me,” Silver Manticore ordered. Keens? That’s where Danny is masquerading as me for the Sentry gala, he remembered.
“More money Kentov makes, more he could throw my way. ‘We ain’t so rich we can buy cheap,’ like his fadda said.”
The Silver Manticore, in fact, recognized that old Russian saying.
“Now, I wouldn’t a knocked off a meal ticket, Manticore,” claimed Larry on the verge of tears.
True enough, if Kentov had been satisfied with what he bought from Larry Manticore couldn’t bluff him.
“Why Keens?”
“The guy behind them mechanical man jug jobs is gonna be there.”
“Name of this mastermind?” demanded the man in silver, gloved hand arresting the movement of cash.
“Joe Yutz!”
Larry the Rat never saw the hand that flashed out with a teeth-rattling slap.
“I’ll trouble you again for that name.”
“Kentov never said. Lookit, if this dough is from them bank jobs, I don’t want it,” Larry the Rat sobbed, eyes finally re-focusing.
“I don’t normally take bribes, Larry,” said the Silver Manticore. “But I will require those sawbucks.”
His black leather finger indicated the notes. Larry handed over the pile. Silver Manticore picked the top bill up and held it up, examining it. Yes, Corrigan could trace this, see if came from the latest bank heist.
Mention of the chophouse made Evan White check his boss in the rear view mirror until their eyes met. The Silver Manticore noticed him and gave a nod. The cab halted.
“This here yo’ stop, Mr. the Rat,” called White in a minstrel act the Silver Manticore didn’t approve of. The hack came to a sudden halt.
“I choose to believe what you say, Larry. But I advise you to stay with someone the police don’t know about,” warned the Silver Manticore.