This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE HALFWAY TO HELL CLUB
First edition. November 15, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 MARK J. McCRACKEN.
ISBN: 978-1535069991
Written by MARK J. McCRACKEN.
THE HALFWAY TO
HELL CLUB
A Sean O’Farrell Mystery
MARK J. MCCRACKEN
The Highway To Hell Club
Second edition, published 2018
By Mark J. McCracken
Copyright © 2018, Mark J. McCracken
Cover design by Sherri Shaftic
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-942661-89-4
Audio Book ISBN: 978-1-942661-95-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-535069-99-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Published by Kitsap Publishing
P.O. Box 572
Poulsbo, WA 98370
www.KitsapPublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America
TD 2018
50-10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Acknowledgments
It is now common practice for first time authors to name drop the names of big time authors, giving them thanks when in reality they may not even know them. Why should I be any different? A couple of years ago I attended the Mystery Writers of America’s University in Seattle, Washington. The one day training galvanized my resolve to finish this novel. It was wonderful to hear bestselling authors speak about their problems they have when they write. I found myself nodding my head a great deal, and I am sure my mouth was open equally as often.
Thanks to Reed Farrel Coleman, Hank Philippi Ryan, and our local NW MWA President Brian Thornton for helping me realize this dream. Likewise many thanks to Robert Dugoni who is not only been encouraging, but very generous with his time.
Many kudos to my editor Jim Thomson who worked his magic and helped shape The Halfway to Hell Club.
Many thanks to Robert B. Parker, Ace Atkins, Michael Connelly, Raymond Chandler, Nicholas Meyer, David Baldacci, Brad Meltzer, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dashiell Hammett, and the many other authors who continue to influence me and my future writing.
To my brother in law John Gierlak for proofing the novel and making excellent suggestions.
Thanks to my sister Mary and my younger brothers John and James.
To Sherri Shaftic, graphic designer and book cover artist extraordinaire. The cover is fantastic; you can hear the cable car rumbling along the tracks.
To our wonderful all grown up children Michael (and his wife Stephanie), Sarah, and Jacob. Thanks for your love and support.
To my wife Kathy who allows me to hide and write, at all hours of the day and night. She listens to my cockamamie ideas, descriptions of shoot outs, allowing me to try out on her a long lists of quips from my various characters, allowing me to turn our cruise vacation into a plot for my next novel. She does not lose patience for all these things and many more. All my love.
Mark J. McCracken
Bremerton, Washington
November 2017
CHAPTER ONE
I was sitting back in my chair reading the morning Chronicle on what was a typical foggy spring morning in San Francisco, with the sun trying to pop through and failing as usual. It was a Friday and the week had been a good one. I had just finished a case for a nosy housewife who thought her husband was cheating on her. I tailed the gee for three nights and discovered he was a closet actor; he was auditioning for a part in a community theatre production. She was embarrassed, and I kind of felt sorry for her, a little. That all changed when I gave her a bill for $150.00 plus expenses. Her attitude changed, and so did mine. She paid.
Another case came from the law office down the hall. They needed a background check on a witness for an embezzlement case, and were glad to find out the witness in question was being paid for his testimony by the other law firm involved. I worked this case by day and followed the Shakespeare by night. For two weeks’ work I collected $250 plus expenses from the law offices of Dunhill, Myerson, and Kindle. They were more than glad to pay; they were just handed a favorable verdict for their client.
As I read, I drank freshly percolated coffee with my feet up. The middle left drawer is halfway open, just in case.
I was reading a story about the new Golden Gate Bridge, which apparently came in under budget. Seems odd to me because nothing comes in on budget in this town, what with all the graft that needs paying. I had moved on to the next article about reduced ferry service to Sausalito—apparently everyone is driving the new bridge—when my office door opened.
Standing in the doorway—let me restate that: taking up the entire doorway and then some—were two mountain-sized Chinese guys in black suits and ties with white shirts. I took my feet off the desk and opened the left-hand middle drawer all the way slowly so my two guests would not notice. I straightened up in my chair and folded my hands on the blotter in the middle of my desk.
“What can I do for you two boys?” I said.
The mountain twins didn’t move. These guys were so big that their arms didn’t hang at their sides naturally; they bulged away from their bodies. But these two weren’t fat; they were all muscle. The one on the left opened up the debate.
“You come with us,” he said.
“Where to?”
“You come now.”
“Sorry, boys, I was just getting to the funny papers. Maybe you can make an appointment for next week.” I put my feet back up on the desk and re-crossed my legs at the ankles.
“You come now.” The man knew how to turn a phase, all right.
“Shove off, sailor, I’m busy.” I lifted the paper back up.
The one on the right smiled and took out what looked like a small baseball bat. It was about a foot long and hit my desk lamp as hard as he could. The lamp went off the desk and crashed into wall. I liked that lamp a lot too.
The other one allowed himself a small smile.
“You come with us now?”
“You know, I just put a brand new light bulb in that lamp twenty minutes ago. Why don’t you two boys buzz off? I’m starting to lose my cool.” I brought my feet to the floor.
The two mountains exchanged looks and smiles. One started to move east and the other west; they were ready to make me come with them. I had the .45 out of the drawer and in a spot to fire twice before they could move another step. The smiles were gone now. They didn’t quite know what to do. What we had here was a Mexican standoff with two Chinese guys.
Lefty finally started yapping.
“You didn’t rock a round in the pipe, bud.” His English skills suddenly got pretty good. “That thing won’t do you much good.”
“I always keep my rod loaded and ready to fire,” I said. I slipped my thumb over the safety and released it with a loud click.
“All I have to do is ease off the safety.”
The two looked at each other, then the .45.
“Besides,” I said, “there all kinds of vicious lawye
rs down the hall, and you never know who might stop by for tea and crumpets.”
I couldn’t see who it was, but someone was behind them, yammering in Chinese. Whoever it was, he wasn’t happy. One went to one corner and one went to the other, and they stood against the walls. They looked like a couple of kids sent by the teacher to stand in the corner.
The man doing the talking, I could see now, was Jimmy Chan. Jimmy and I went to college together. I was glad to see him.
“Sean O’Farrell, is that coffee or are you drinking somebody else’s tiger milk?” Jimmy said.
“It’s nine thirty in the morning, Jimmy.”
I released the magazine from the .45 and pulled back the receiver. The bullet flew out and up, and I caught it in the air. Righty gave Lefty a long hard look that said, Look, genius, the gun was loaded. I gave Jimmy a hug, and pointed to the clients’ chair, then at Lefty and Righty. “These two world-class body builders work for you, Jimmy?”
“No, Sean. They work for Mr. Chin Wang.” Jimmy didn’t smile. Neither did I.
If you live in San Francisco, you damn well better know who Chin Wang is. He owns, operates, controls, and does damn near anything he wants in Chinatown. If there is such a thing as a list of people not to cross in this city, Mr. Wang is right at the top.
I gave Righty and Lefty each a look, followed with a nod and a simple “Sorry.” Both men returned the nod. Okay, I said to myself, now everyone in the room knows the score.
Jimmy Chan was a sharp kid in school, a buddy who helped me get through algebra while I helped him with English. I played first base and Jimmy was the greatest shortstop I had ever seen. He was smooth, fluid, and catlike in gobbling up grounders. He was a terrible hitter, though. He was an easy out on the deuce. But Jimmy is a good egg.
When Chin Wang came to San Francisco in the Barbary Coast days, Chinatown was wide open. If it was for sale, it was available in Chinatown. Prostitutes, little girls, dope, booze, contract killing, arson, extortion, blackmail, loan sharking, as well as legitimate banking services. Mr. Wang slowly edged everyone else out in Chinatown. If they wouldn’t deal, he had them killed. It was a simple matter of business, Chinatown style. After a while the mayor and cops left him alone too. After all, he was cleaning up a mess they couldn’t take care of.
By 1910, Chin Wang owned everything, and anything he didn’t own it wasn’t worth having. He convinced locals to start putting money in his banks. All the nasty street crime went away. He brought in doctors and quality health care; he took care of people. The muscle was still there and feared, but it was rarely needed or used in broad daylight. The Chinese were able to live in Chinatown without being shaken down, and Chin Wang became even more powerful.
Jimmy brushed something off his sport coat sleeve.
“Mr. Chin Wang would like you to come and see him at his office. It is a personal matter. I told Mr. Wang I would come and assist in bringing you to him.” His smile was broad and revealed pearl-white teeth. “There will be no difficulties, Sean.”
I got up and reloaded the .45. I took out my double-rig shoulder holster from the bottom drawer and put it on. I adjusted both .45s and put on my coat. Righty and Lefty looked at me while I slipped on my coat and grabbed my hat.
“You expecting to run into an elephant on the way, boss?” Lefty said. “Why the double rig?”
I shrugged. “I’m not a very good shot. It may take both roscoes to scare away any street muggers in Chinatown,” I said. “Let’s go see Mr. Wang.”
Lefty put his mitt against the door.
“Leave the roscoes, boss.”
“If I take the rod out again, it will be to use it.”
From the hall, Jimmy yelled something in Chinese and Lefty dropped his arm. We took an elevator to the lobby, and outside the front door was a Duesenberg waiting to take us to Chinatown.
I loved this car: a 1935 Duesenberg SJ LaGrande Dual-Cowl Phaeton, red with tan leather interior and a matching top. This was a car to end all cars. Lefty opened the door, and Jimmy and I slid into the back seat. Righty drove and Lefty took shotgun. They fired up the big turbo-charged V-8, dropped her into gear, and stormed up Hyde Street on a mission.
“Jimmy,” I said, “I’d rather take the cable car, but I suppose this old beater will do.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Duesenberg moved up the hill with ease; if this were my Ford coupe, I would be scared to death. We took a left onto California Street, and there the hill really got steep. We got behind a California line-cable car. I was worried we were going to have trouble with all the weight in the car. Righty and Lefty looked like they weighed three hundred apiece. But the Dusey did just fine.
We drove by the telephone exchange building, which looked like a red Chinese temple. After another block we stopped at the San Francisco Chinese Social Club. A couple of swells in tuxedos with white gloves opened the doors to the car, then to the front door to the club.
I had never been in there, but it was sure a swell joint. Everybody was dressed to the nines. We walked through a casino and a restaurant, past little old ladies playing Mahjong.
We went into an outer office. A couple of Chinese ladies stood and bowed. One young girl took my hat. Jimmy knocked and opened the door to Mr. Wang’s office.
Before I walked in, Righty held out his hands. His eyes were saying, Please, no trouble. “Sorry, boss, there are no guns allowed in Mr. Wang’s office.”
I pulled both .45s out of the holster and handed them over. He nodded a thank-you and placed the two guns in a drawer of an end table outside the office door. Righty and Lefty looked greatly relieved. I was starting to get along with these two. They might be muscle, but there was a sense of grace and class to their work.
Mr. Wang stood as soon as I entered the room and came around from behind his huge desk. He was five-feet-five, with a round face that was not fat. He had on the glad rags: A smart-looking double-breasted gray pinstripe suit with a handsome burgundy silk tie and a white carnation on the lapel. He gave me a firm, professional handshake.
“Thank you so much for coming on short notice, Mr. O’Farrell. Please have a seat.”
I took a red leather chair and Jimmy sat in the other. Righty and Lefty went to the corners behind Mr. Wang’s desk. They folded their hands in the front. It was a subtle reminder to me that they were there. They were always there.
Before Mr. Wang could commence business, a side door opened and an incredibly elegant Chinese woman entered the room. Everyone, including me, went to his feet.
“Mr. O’Farrell,” Wang said, “may I present my wife, Mrs. Anna Wang.”
She bowed. She was a goddess, and Wang was a lucky man. She wore a white silk kimono and walked with a ballerina’s grace. Her feet moved, but her body seemed to float like a cloud or a ghost. She shook my hand and gave me a smile that would melt any man.
“Please forgive me, gentlemen, for intruding,” she said. “I came to remind my husband that we are leaving in one hour for the mayor’s college scholarship charity lunch.”
Mr. Wang gave a look of alarm. “I will be ready to go in a few minutes, my dear.”
“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. O’Farrell.” She gave her husband a nod of acknowledgement and gracefully left the room.
Mr. Wang turned to me.
“Mr. O’Farrell, I sincerely hope that my assistants did not inconvenience you a great deal. I have cautioned them in the past for being too bold.”
Righty and Lefty both looked like two Siamese cats with a mouth full of bird. They both opened their eyes wide and prepared for their demise.
“No, Mr. Wang, they were most gracious,” I said.
Lefty and Righty both took a breath and color returned to their faces. Mr. Wang spoke to them in Chinese. They came around to the side of the desk and bowed, then gave me nods on the way out.
As the door closed, Mr. Wang l
eaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Mr. O’Farrell, Jimmy here tells me you are a very good investigator and a man who keeps his word.”
I nodded.
“You are, however, if I may be so bold, a terrible liar. My two assistants are not subtle or gracious.” Mr. Wang gave me a small smile.
He nodded to Jimmy.
“That is why I sent Jimmy along. It occurred to me that these two men may not be very polite in their request. I sent Jimmy to save you from them, but I suspect I may have saved them from you.” Again, he offered a small smile.
“First, I must ask you for complete confidence and discretion,” he said.
“That goes without even saying, Mr. Wang,” I said.
Mr. Wang stood and walked over to the window. He seemed to be looking at nothing.
“I know, Mr. O’Farrell that you know who I am and what I am. I make no apologies for that, or how I conduct my business affairs, or how I gain results.” Wang adjusted his glasses and continued to stare out the window.
“When I arrived here, Chinatown was tearing itself apart with Tongs and daily killings. I am no angel, Mr. O’Farrell. I have performed many sins, and ordered many sins, but again, I am unabashed.”
There was a knock at the door and the small Chinese girl that took my hat brought a tray with tea. She served Mr. Wang first, and then he offered us some. It was world-class stuff.
“Mr. Wang, I am no expert, but I believe this is Dragon Well Green Tea, is it not?” I asked.
“Well done, Mr. O’Farrell. How did you know?” He said.
I smiled. “Jimmy here was always bringing a different tea with him to school. He made it a point to expand my horizons. I really enjoy an excellent cup of Chinese tea.”
Mr. Wang took a sip and placed his cup into its saucer.
“Mr. O’Farrell, I have always been a frank man. I believe you should address all your problems head-on. In this case I am at a loss. I am a powerful man, but I am powerless as to what to do and I believe I need your assistance.”
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 1
