Blaze! Hatchet Men

by Michael Newton

  "Beats me," J.D. replied. The signs he saw, as in the other shops they'd passed, resembled chicken scratches and were gibberish to him. "Some kind of an apothecary's shop?" he guessed, at last.

  "I don't see anything in there I'd eat or drink," Kate said. "It would more likely kill you off than cure what ails you."

  "So, you don't want a snake's head and some pebbles with your chicken?"

  "Not a chance in— Um, J.D.?"

  "I see them, Hon," he said.

  Four Chinamen were now reflected in the window's glass, standing behind them, dark eyes in their poker faces fixed on J.D. and his wife. They turned as one to face the new arrivals, J.D. careful not to let his face show any more emotion than the men surrounding him. He noted that all four were dressed alike, in navy blue. One had a bulge beneath his long, loose shirt that could have been a blunderbuss.

  "Must be the welcoming committee," Kate suggested.

  "Funny how I don't feel welcome," J.D. answered. Then, to no one in particular, "Sorry if we distracted you from other business. If it's all the same, we'll just be going now."

  "Not same," one of the party said. "You come."

  "We go," J.D. corrected him. "Back to the Grand Hotel. You want to drop by later, for a chat, we can—"

  "Come now," the same guy said. "Meet Chen Jinguang."

  "And if we'd rather not?" Kate interjected.

  "Come now," said the party's spokesman. A revolver dropped out of his sleeve, to fill his right hand. Two of his companions did the same trick, while the fourth lifted his shirttail just enough to show the muzzle of his blunderbuss.

  "He makes a good point," J.D. said.

  "Give guns," the mouthpiece said, his almond eyes flicking in the direction of their holstered pistols.

  "That's a problem for us," J.D. cautioned him.

  "You give, we take. All same."

  "May look that way to you, from where you stand," Kate said. "I promise you, it won't end well."

  "And if we're dead," J.D. chipped in, "we can't talk to your boss."

  The man in charge considered that, nodded, and said, "You walk ahead."

  * * *

  Kevin Gillan was never quite at ease in Chinatown. Truth be told, aside from a peculiar fondness for chop suey and the profits waiting to be made, he hated everything about it, from the smells and singsong dialect to the pathetic, phony smiles put on by merchants who despised him in their hearts.

  That feeling was completely mutual.

  Today, not for the first time, he would feign civility while dealing with one of the worst celestials alive. Kot Bocheng ran San Francisco's Chee Kong Tong, a local outpost of a group much larger and more influential back in China. He dealt in gambling, women, opium—and, if the ugly rumors were believed, also in children, sold for cash without regard to what befell them afterward.

  A foul and hateful individual in all respects.

  Like me, thought Gillan, as he neared his destination.

  Entry to the Chee Kong's lair was through a seafood shop that smelled like low tide at the wharf. The wizened man behind the counter knew Gillan by sight and made no move to stop him as he passed on through the reeking store, to reach a staircase at the rear, concealed behind a waterfall of colored beads on strings. One of Bocheng's killers was waiting there, to frisk Gillan before he climbed the narrow stairs alone.

  Another gunman, at the top, repeated the patdown, then knocked twice on a door behind him. Gillan couldn't understand the muffled answer from within, but Bocheng's guard opened the door, then closed it once Gillan had crossed the threshold.

  The office smelled of incense, nearly bringing tears to Gillan's eyes. Bocheng did not rise from behind his desk, teakwood with dragons carved into the side facing the door, but motioned Gillan toward an armchair planted just in front of him.

  When he was seated, Bocheng said, "You are not well?"

  Rather than start off lying, Gillan fanned the air under his nose and said, "The fumes in here are just a smidgen thick for me."

  "I find them soothing and refreshing," Bocheng said. "As for our business..."

  "I got your message. Here I am."

  "I have lost five men in the space of half a day."

  "And I'm aware of that."

  "They are not easily replaced."

  Gillan imagined that they'd been replaced before they made it to the undertaker's parlor, but he didn't mention that. Instead, he told Bocheng, "Four of 'em died when they came bustin' into my place on the Coast. The fifth—"

  "Your place?" the tong boss interrupted him. "It bears another's name."

  "That's just a technicality," Gillan replied. "I run the show, and Emile knows it."

  "Does he?"

  "I just said so."

  "Ah."

  "As to your fifth man, why'n hell would he try killin' Emile in the first place? That was just plain stupid, and he paid the price for it."

  "You are mistaken," Bocheng said.

  "How's that?"

  "First, the plan you speak of was not foolish. Some, with limited perception, might say it was clever."

  "I don't follow."

  "Furthermore," Bocheng pressed on, ignoring him, "the man who died this morning was not one of mine."

  "Hold on, now."

  "I know every member of the Chee Kong Tong in San Francisco personally, Mr. Gillan. I'm aware of their recruitment and I supervise their training for initiation. While the four shot down last night were certainly Chee Kong—acting without approval, I must add—this morning's victim was a simple peasant from Kowloon, with no affiliation to a tong. His name was Fu Kwan."

  Gillan spread his hands, feigning surprise. "What can I say? He wore your outfit's uniform. Died with a rifle in his hands."

  "Which makes me ask who put it there."

  "I don't know what you're gettin' at."

  "Our partnership is delicate. If I suspected you were trying to betray my brotherhood ... who knows what might occur?"

  "I don't like threats."

  "I don't like traitors," Bocheng said. "Now that we understand each other, shall we get to business?"

  Chapter 6

  J.D. was half expecting to be gunned down in the street, or maybe steered into an alleyway before the shooting started, but their escorts followed them for two blocks, then the quartet's leader said, "In here."

  "Here" was a grocery with ducks and piglets hanging in the front display window. Inside, the shelves were stocked with more exotic things in jars and bottles, bags of dry noodles and beans, assorted vegetables, roughly half of which he recognized by sight. The air was redolent of spices that were making his mouth water.

  "Straight," the man of few words ordered, and they passed on through the store, then out the backdoor and across a fenced-in courtyard to another building at the rear. Two men with rifles guarded that place, watching them approach, then stepped aside when the commander of their squad said something in Chinese.

  "Wait here," he told J.D. and Kate, then went inside alone, without knocking. Five minutes later, more or less, he came back out and motioned with his pistol for the two of them to enter, followed them inside, and eased the door shut after him.

  Their host stood in the middle of a larger room than J.D. had expected, comfortable chairs positioned here and there without a seeming pattern. Unlike those who served him, he was dressed in shiny silk of navy blue, a floor-length robe with wide sleeves that concealed his hands, clasped at his waist. Red dragons were embroidered on the sleeves; a gold one made the circuit of his small round cap.

  "I am Chen Jinguang," he told them. "Welcome to my humble headquarters."

  "That kind of sweet-talk invitation isn't easy to refuse," said Kate.

  "Were you insulted? Someone shall be flayed alive, if so."

  "No flaying called for," J.D. said. "But now we're here..."

  "Of course. Mr. and Mrs. Blaze, please sit. Your reputation has preceded you."

  "In China?" J.D. asked.

  "Ala
s, no. I have not been home for thirteen years, four months, and seven days."

  "But who's counting?" said Kate.

  "Your pardon?"

  "Never mind."

  They sat, and Chen Jinguang picked out a chair midway between them, facing their direction. "You are curious to know why I have asked you here?"

  "It crossed our minds," J.D. admitted.

  "I have need of someone with your special skills."

  "Which are?" Kate asked.

  "Investigation, as I understand it. And, if necessary, action."

  "What we've seen, last night and then again this morning, there are men of action all around you, here in Chinatown."

  "True. But sadly, they all have the same deficiency. They are not white. Most doors in San Francisco will be closed to them. They cannot move among round-eyes and ask the questions to which I need urgent answers."

  "Maybe you should start at the beginning," Kate suggested.

  "That would take too long, I fear. But starting from last night, I understand you witnessed the unfortunate events at Beauregard's Emporium."

  "And how would you know that?" Kate asked.

  The tong boss snapped his fingers, and another man appeared behind him, from some hidden alcove. J.D. recognized the runner who had entered the saloon last night, with hunters on his heels. The same one he and Kate had chased upstairs, before he bailed out into darkness from the second floor.

  "This is Huo Xiang," said their host. "You met him last night, I believe."

  "Just briefly, when he tried to kill us," J.D. said.

  "An understandable mistake. He thought of you as enemies who meant him harm."

  "And he remembered us. Okay," Kate said. "So what?"

  "Are you familiar with the Native Sons?"

  "Dropped by their little gathering this morning," J.D. said. "In time to see a Chinaman try killing Emile Beauregard. Based on the outfit he was wearing when the mob polished him off, he wasn't one of yours."

  "Indeed, he was not bound to any tong. Which leads me to believe someone is blaming us—'celestials' in general, tongs in particular—for recent acts of violence against the white community."

  "Why would they do that?" Kate inquired.

  "Can you not think of any reason, Mrs. Blaze?"

  "Well..."

  "And there is the matter of a kidnapping."

  "We heard something about that from the cops, last night," she said.

  "The victim is a close friend's daughter, Soong Mai-ling. When she was taken, evidence was left behind to implicate the Chee Kong Tong."

  "But you don't buy it," J.D. said.

  "Rather, let us say that I am skeptical."

  "So, you want us to find out who, if anyone, is stirring up the pot in Chinatown, to cast suspicion on the tongs. And find the girl, if we can manage it?"

  "That would be, how do you say it? A delightful bonus."

  "Which implies a starting salary," Kate said.

  "One thousand dollars for the names of any white men plotting against Chinatown, the tongs, or against me, specifically. Another thousand for the girl, if you find her alive."

  "And if she's dead?" asked Kate.

  "Two thousand for her killer's name—or for his head."

  Before Kate had a chance to answer that, the door burst open, spilling daylight into gloom, and Captain Brogan crossed the threshold with a shotgun in his hands.

  "Well, now," he fairly sneered. "If it ain't two bad pennies, turnin' up again."

  * * *

  Kevin Gillan always felt in need of bathing when he met with Kot Bocheng. Today, on top of all the noxious odors that attached themselves to him in Bocheng's den, a nervous sweat left Gillan's clothing damp and clinging to his skin. He wanted to go home and change, but first he had another job to do.

  And for his own sake, Gillan had to get it right.

  He walked toward Market Street, hoping the smell of sweat and incense would desert him, or at least decrease, before he reached his destination. And if not, well that was too damned bad.

  Bocheng suspected him, which, in itself was not unusual. The tong chief was suspicious of all whites, on general principles, and rightly so. But now, he thought Gillan might have a plan to double-cross him, set him up for the attempt on Emile Beauregard.

  And he was right, of course.

  Gillan was sick and tired of playing second fiddle to an old man whose ideals were dangerously narrow. Getting rid of Beauregard was key to Gillan taking over the Emporium, rising to lead the Native Sons, and pushing for a drive to clean out Chinatown. Once that was done, if he could manage it, Gillan would dominate the city's trade in opium and Asian women, working in conjunction with a Chinese broker who could recognize his place and stay within it. At the same time, having purged the tongs from San Francisco, Gillan would be well placed for a new career in politics. He'd be the man who kept his city white and clean, from all outward appearances. He'd have no limit. Might even become the governor—or, dare he think it, hold some even higher office?

  One step at a time, he thought. Frisco already had a boss, whom Gillan had to please—for now, at least—and prove himself a useful man to have around. When it was time to give the boss a push, he would be ready for it, no guesswork or hasty moves.

  He wasn't ready yet; that much was clear. But every new day brought him closer to the day when he would be atop the heap, and anyone who needed anything in San Francisco would be lined up at his door, with hats in hand.

  That vision made him smile and put a little extra bounce in Gillan's step. With Chinatown behind him now, he felt that he was moving closer to the place he had to be.

  The place where he belonged.

  * * *

  J.D. and Kate waited outside while Brogan's coppers tore the Kwong Duck headquarters apart. J.D. had no idea what they were looking for, and hardly cared, as long as he and Kate weren't swept up in the net, slapped with some trumped-up charge.

  They had been standing in the courtyard, under guard, for fifteen minutes when the captain came back out and swaggered over to them, shotgun propped across one shoulder. "All right, now," he said.

  "No quail in there?" Kate interrupted him. "No pheasants?"

  "Only Kwong Ducks," he replied. "I'd shoot 'em, but they're out of season."

  "So," J.D. inquired, "what do you want from us?"

  "The question, Mister Blaze, is what the two of you want from the Chinee boy who runs this outfit."

  "Didn't see a boy," J.D. replied. "Only a man about your age."

  "You come to see him on your own?"

  "Taking a walk through Chinatown," Kate said. "Like anybody might."

  "I never heard of any other visitors gettin' an audience with Chen Jinguang. That makes you somethin' special, I would say."

  "Sweet talk won't get you anywhere," Kate said.

  "Too bad. I wouldn't mind—"

  "Be careful, Captain," J.D. said.

  "Of what?"

  "The risk of conduct unbecoming. Someone might complain to your superiors."

  Brogan barked out a laugh at that. His breath smelled like some kind of fish and onions.

  "My sooperiors, is it? That's rich. You obviously haven't met the chief."

  "Not yet," J.D. replied. "But I'd be pleased to tell him your opinion of him."

  Ruddy color tinged the captain's cheeks. "I don't need any help from you on that score."

  "Even so."

  "I'll ask again: what were you doin' with that Chinee pimp, in yonder?"

  "He was giving us a list of places we should visit," Kate replied. "Nice restaurants and such."

  "Nice restaurants!" Another braying laugh. "Most of 'em get their short ribs from the dogcatcher."

  "Well, thanks again for checking up on us," Kate said. "Sorry there's no way we can help with your investigation of ... whatever."

  "Uh-huh. May you should try'n help yourselves," Brogan advised. "Stay out of Chinatown and leave the goddamn tongs alone."

  "You mus
t admit they're interesting," J.D. said.

  "Just like a snake, until you get too close. Then, snap! You're poisoned."

  "Is it true you've got no snakes in Ireland?" Kate asked Brogan.

  "That's the rumor, but I couldn't swear to it. Born right here in the States, meself."

  "A native son, you might say."

  Brogan glowered at her, chewed on a response, then swallowed it. "I'd say we're done here," he announced. "Go on, now. And remember what I said."

  They passed back through the grocery and out onto the street, turned north, and started back toward the Barbary Coast. When they had put a block between them and the Kwong Duck headquarters, Kate asked, "You think that was coincidence, the bluesuits showing up just now?"

  "I wouldn't bet on it," J.D. replied.

  "That's what I thought. You noticed Brogan, when I mentioned native sons?"

  "He wasn't happy."

  "No. What did you think about the story Chen told us?"

  "What, you're on a first-name basis with him now?"

  "The whole name takes too long. Answer my question."

  J.D. pondered it, then said, "He could be right. The Chinese make a handy scapegoat for ambitious white men. I can see it happening."

  "And if somebody's already established with the gambling, whores, and such, he might want to eliminate the foreign competition."

  "Maybe try to corner opium while he was at it," J.D. said.

  "Why not? Preserve a contact overseas, cut out the middleman."

  "Makes sense to me. Now all we need is proof."

  "And suspects," she reminded him.

  "We have those now," he said. "The trouble started inside Beauregard's Emporium last night, and picked up there this morning."

  "But the shooter tried to murder Beauregard."

  "Maybe he did," J.D. allowed. "He could've missed by accident. Or, then again, it could've been on purpose."

  "Getting sympathy for Beauregard," she said, "and stoking up the Native Sons."

  "That's my surmise," J.D. agreed. "But still, no proof."

  "That could be hard to come by, Babe."

  "For us?" He smiled. "You heard your buddy Chen. Our reputations precede us."