Blaze! Hatchet Men

by Michael Newton

  More than enough for this job, Cáo surmised, although his choice of sniper's roosts did pose some difficulties. While the round-eyes' drapes were open, they had not opened the window to their hotel room. Its glass might well deflect Cáo's first shot, causing him to only wound his first target, or even miss entirely. Once the glass was shattered, he could spray the room with rapid fire, but that would cost him pinpoint accuracy and, perhaps, defeat his purpose.

  If he failed his dragon head a second time...

  The prospect was intolerable. As a hedge against potential failure, Cáo Rongjin had written out a brief, anonymous apology in Cantonese, folding the paper into quarters, tucking it inside the left-hand pocket of his trousers. In the right-hand pocket, he had placed a Remington Model 95 derringer, both of its stacked barrels loaded with .41-caliber rounds. The tiny pistol was inaccurate beyond a range of six or seven feet, but it would serve Cáo well enough when pressed against his skull.

  Dishonor could be mended once, with luck, but never twice.

  To further shield his tong from any harm, if he should fail, Cáo wore a stolen Kwong Duck uniform of navy blue. If nothing else, his sacrifice could steer round-eyed police away from Kot Bocheng and the Chee Kong. It was, as a loyal soldier of the clan, the very least that he could do.

  "Bù shībài," he whispered to himself. Don't fail. Success would clear his name, please his superiors, and rid the Chee Kong Tong of two white enemies. A clear eye and a steady hand were all that Cáo Rongjin required.

  Together, possibly, with a quick blessing from his ancestors.

  He raised the Winchester, thumbed back its hammer, sighting down the rifle's twenty-eight-inch octagonal barrel. His index finger curled around the trigger, as Cáo took a breath and held it, ready to begin the gentle squeeze.

  * * *

  J.D. was almost there, thinking of anything he could that might distract him and prolong the moment. Kate was riding him into the home stretch, but he didn't want to beat her to the finish line, hoping she would enjoy one more explosion yet, before he rolled her over and took charge.

  The ache in J.D.'s loins was swiftly mounting toward the detonation point. To head it off, he though of Chinamen and shops with horrid objects hanging in their windows, pushy coppers with bad attitudes, a gang of bigots who blamed yellow men for every problem in their daily lives—and none of it was helping him at all. The sight of Kate above him, lush breasts swaying, head thrown back in ecstasy, hair spilling down across her naked shoulders, only made J.D.'s release seem that much more imperative.

  In self-defense, he closed his eyes, thinking, Not yet. Hold on. Just—

  When the window shattered, J.D.'s eyes snapped open, startled by the sound and something wet that hit his forehead. Kate was spilling over to her left, his right, and tumbling off the bed, a slash of crimson on her forehead, at the hairline.

  "Kate!"

  J.D. dived after her, snagging his pistol from the nearby bedpost as he rolled and dropped to cover her. Despite the shock, his ardor hadn't altogether wilted yet, and Kate peered up at him, blood trickling down her face, and said, "Not now, J.D.!"

  Before he had a chance to answer back, more bullets finished taking out the window, punching holes around the suite, through walls and furniture, blasting its full-length mirror into razor-edged shrapnel. J.D. hunched over Kate, his passion now forgotten, as he did his best to shield her from the storm.

  He lost count of the shots at eight or nine, but knew the sound of a repeating rifle when he heard one, almost certainly a .44. When the firing stopped at last, he didn't move, afraid raising his head above the mattress would invite another fusillade.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  Kate daubed her scalp wound with a fingertip, grimaced, and told him, "Flying glass."

  "All right. That fire came from across the street, somebody with a vantage point, so take it easy now."

  "First thing, we need some clothes," she said, "before the manager shows up."

  "First thing, we need to stay alive," J.D. amended.

  "Right. But dressed."

  Their clothes were scattered on the floor beside the bed. Kate started shaking broken glass from hers and dressing while she stayed down on the floor. J.D., still nude, scrambled around the bed and risked a quick glance through the empty window frame.

  The last shot made him flinch, duck back again, but it was different. A slightly smaller caliber, for one thing, and its sound was muffled somehow, as if fired into a pillow.

  What the hell?

  He raised his head again, saw nothing, drew no fire. Standing, he scanned the rooftops and the open windows opposite, then swept the length of Market Street with narrowed eyes. Pedestrians down there had scattered when the shooting started, but they were returning to the sidewalks now, all peering upward. Some of them, a few women included, had already focused on his window in the Grand Hotel.

  "J.D.," Kate cautioned him, "you're putting on a show."

  "Oh, right."

  He whipped the curtains shut, too late, and hastily began to dress, stepping around glass on the floor to spare his feet until he got his boots on. Kate had made herself presentable already and she held a handkerchief against her forehead, keeping pressure on her small wound to arrest its bleeding.

  J.D. had his boots on when a fist hammered their door and Captain Brogan's voice demanded, "Open up in there, if you're alive!"

  Muttering curses, J.D. went to let the copper in.

  Chapter 9

  Brogan wasn't alone. The same patrolman who'd been taking notes at Beauregard's Emporium last night was on the captain's heels, revolver in his fist, sweeping the room with nervous eyes.

  "You won't need that," Kate said. "The shots came from across the street."

  "We've got that covered, thank you very much," Brogan replied. "My men should have the locus spotted in a jiffy."

  "Locus?"

  "That means—"

  "We know what it means," J.D. assured him. "Wonders never cease."

  "The hell's that s'pose to mean?"

  "How'd you get here so fast?" Kate asked.

  "Already in the neighborhood, you might say," Brogan answered. "Watchin' out for Chinee on the streets."

  "Catch any?" J.D. asked.

  "Not yet. You interrupted us."

  "Not us," Kate said. "And once again, the shots came from—"

  "Across the street. I know that. But it's obvious that you two were the targets."

  "I hope so," J.D. told him. "Otherwise, the shooter must've been cross-eyed."

  "That's funny." Brogan wasn't smiling. "Who hates you enough to want you dead?"

  "Present company excluded?" Kate replied.

  "That's how you want to go?" the captain answered. "I already warned you about messin' with police investigations, didn't I?"

  "We'll gladly tell you anything we know, Captain," J.D. advised.

  "That's better," Brogan said, still eyeing Kate. "First thing, what were you up to when the shootin' started?"

  "Looking forward to a short nap after lunch," J.D. replied. "My eyes were bigger than my stomach."

  "Napping, is it?" The patrolman wore that stupid grin J.D. remembered from last night.

  Brogan ignored him, frowning disbelief. "So, you were napping. On the bed, I take it?"

  "It's more comfortable than the floor," Kate said.

  "And somebody just starts in blastin' at you from across the street."

  "Like we already said."

  "See anyone across the way, there?" Brogan asked.

  "We were a little busy, diving for the floor," J.D. replied. "I crawled around to check the window, when the rifle fire slacked off, but couldn't see the shooter."

  "Well—"

  "There was another shot, though?"

  "Say again?" Now Brogan looked confused.

  "A final shot, not aimed this way," J.D. explained. "It sounded like a smaller caliber, and muffled."

  "Meaning?"

  "Muffled,"
J.D. said again. "That means—"

  "I get it, smart guy. How'd you judge the caliber?"

  "We're heard a lot of gunfire," Kate chimed in.

  "I'll bet. And done a lot of shooting, too, from what I hear."

  "A fair amount."

  Brogan changed course abruptly. "This have anything to do with Chen Jinguang, by any chance?"

  "Why would it?" J.D. asked, though he was wondering the same, himself.

  "You bein' such close friends and all," Brogan replied. "It's only been a couple hours since I caught you in his office."

  "Wrong," Kate said. "You didn't catch us anywhere, and it's the only time we've met him."

  Which proves nothin'," Brogan said. "That's one Chinee with lotsa enemies. They see you spendin' time with him, maybe they put you on a list."

  "Something for you-all to investigate," J.D. suggested.

  "Don't you think we won't."

  "We're counting on it, Captain. Nice to think you're on our side and looking out for us."

  "I only look out for a pair of troublemakers if I mean to lock 'em up," Brogan replied.

  "Well, if you've got a charge in mind..."

  "Not yet," the captain said, repeating it for emphasis. "Not yet."

  "You'll keep us posted, though?"

  "You bet your—"

  Just then, one of Brogan's bluesuits barged into the suite, red-faced from running, trying hard to catch his breath. "Cap'n," he blurted out at last, "we found the shooter!"

  "What?"

  The officer was pointing through their blasted window, across Market Street. "That rooftop, yonder. There's a Chinaman shot through the head. Looks like he did it to himself, some kinda derringer still in his hand. He's got a rifle, too, brass layin' all around up there."

  "What color uniform?" the captain asked.''

  "Dark blue."

  Brogan faced Kate and J.D., one thick eyebrow raised. "Kwong Duck? I thought they were suppose to be your friends."

  "You're still the only one keeps saying that," Kate answered him.

  "Whatever," Brogan said. "Open and shut."

  "You seem to get a lot of those," Kate said.

  "One thing they're good about in Chinatown," the captain said, "is takin' out the trash."

  * * *

  Kevin Gillan thought he heard gunfire, echoing from somewhere to the south and west, away toward Market Street, and wondered whether Bot Kocheng could make his play that quickly. If it was the Chee Kong moving against Kate and J.D. Blaze, he wished them luck, not really caring if they got away with it, as long as it was done.

  Gillan had his own work to do, and while a part of him was looking forward to it, he was nervous all the same.

  A normal midday crowd was drinking, playing cards, and mixing with the working girls at Beauregard's Emporium. Gillan went in the front way, visible to everyone, and made a show of stopping while he checked his pocket watch against a tall clock at the far end of the bar. Last night's gunplay had spared the clock, another import—this one from Geneva, Switzerland, by way of New York City—and he wanted both employees and their customers to mark his entrance, with the time fixed clearly in their minds.

  It wasn't much, but still better than nothing. And with Captain Brogan on his side, what could go wrong?

  Jesus, he thought. What couldn't?

  Gillan passed the bar and made his way upstairs to Emile's office on the second floor, knocked on the door, and followed orders when the old man's voice said, "Enter!" Beauregard was seated at his desk, reviewing ledger entries, jotting figures on a plain white writing tablet.

  Glancing up at him, the boss said, "Kevin? What brings you in at this hour?"

  "I've been nosin' around Chinatown," Gillan replied. "Found out some things I thought you'd wanna hear."

  "Do tell?" It sounded like a question, but it could have been an order.

  "I could use a drink first," Gillan answered, moving toward the office liquor cabinet. "Want anything?"

  "A double bourbon wouldn't go amiss," said Beauregard. "These ledgers..."

  "What about 'em?"

  "Something isn't right. We're not exactly losing money, but the profit margin should be higher, even so."

  Gillan set up two whisky glasses, as he asked, "Sure that you're figurin' it right?"

  "It's plain arithmetic, not calculus. A child could do it."

  "Even after he'd been shot?"

  "They didn't shoot me in the head."

  "No, sir."

  Instead of reaching for the twenty-year-old bottle of Kentucky bourbon Emile favored, Gillan fished inside his jacket for the bundle Bot Kocheng had given him, unwrapped it, and revealed a foot-long cleaver, its wide blade engraved with Chinese characters he couldn't read. Kocheng had promised him that it would bear markings that linked it to the Kwong Duck Tong, and Gillan had to trust him now.

  Not that it mattered, in the long run, since he didn't plan on either tong surviving execution of his master plan.

  "They absolutely didn't shoot you in the head, Emile," he said, standing behind the older man and turning, cleaver raised. "I wish to hell they had."

  "What's that? Kevin—"

  Emile was turning when he struck, the cleaver slashing down from overhead, striking the white-haired scalp and piercing it. The impact sounded like a hatchet opening a watermelon, and it had a similar effect. Gillan leapt backward from the splash of blood, as Beauregard started to rise, then tottered in a crouch and dropped backward, his desk chair nearly rolling out from under him.

  The head wound didn't kill him outright, as anticipated. He was dying, clearly, but the old man took his time about it, clutching at his desktop with both hands, trying to rise again and getting nowhere, shoe soles slipping on the carpet that was stained with blood now, like his face and clothing. Gillan couldn't see his brain, but knew the cleaver's blade was buried deep inside it, damage that no doctor in the city could repair.

  "C'mon, goddamn you!" Gillan hissed. "Just die!"

  It took another couple minutes, but Emile obliged him. In the meantime, Gillan staged the scene, opened a door that granted access to a hidden staircase and an exit from the building only half a dozen people in the whole of San Francisco knew about. The kind of path that a celestial assassin might follow to reach his prey.

  When Beauregard had quit breathing and he could feel no pulse, Gillan reviewed his own appearance in a nearby mirror, verified that he was carrying no bloodstains, then rushed out to sound a general alarm.

  * * *

  "It still feels wrong to me," said J.D. "Brogan and the rest of them 'just in the neighborhood' that way."

  "I know," Kate said. "The whole thing stinks."

  "On top of which, it looks like no cop in the city's ever caught a Chinaman alive."

  "Not lately, anyhow."

  They were arranging their belongings in a new suite, smaller than the one their would-be slayer had just shot to hell. The window, open on the theory that it couldn't happen twice within an hour, helped to air out a cigar smell left behind by former occupants.

  "And he was wearing navy blue," J.D. observed.

  "According to the coppers, anyway."

  "But if he was..."

  "What?"

  "There are only two ways it can go. A frame against the Kong Duck crowd, or else—"

  "Chen didn't like us running off without a 'yes' or 'no' about his proposition."

  "That's the other one," J.D. agreed.

  "But would it make him mad enough to kill us?"

  "There you go, asking me to read his mind again."

  She let that pass and said, "Another thing: why would the shooter turn around and kill himself?"

  "I couldn't answer that," J.D. replied. "I heard somewhere that Japanese are prone to suicide, if they're embarrassed or they've disappointed someone who's depending on them."

  "But the shooter wasn't Japanese, whichever tong he came from."

  "Could be something similar. Damned if I know."


  "We should look into that," Kate said.

  "Go back to Chinatown and ask Chen if he sent someone to kill us?"

  "Maybe not that blunt."

  "Maybe we stay away from him entirely. How'd that be?" he asked.

  "Won't stop him sending someone else along, if he's determined."

  "That kind of determination needs to be discouraged," J.D. told her, fingers of his right hand resting on the curved grip of his cross-draw Colt.

  "You want to start a war in Chinatown?"

  "One shot isn't a war."

  "Stroll in, shoot Chen, and stroll back out. Is that the plan?"

  "I haven't made a plan," he said.

  "Well, think about it," she advised him. "That one's pretty thin."

  From down below, a reedy voice cried, "Bloody murder by a Chinaman! Barbary Coast! Slaughter of Emile Beauregard!"

  "The hell?" Kate blurted out.

  They rushed downstairs, into the street, and overtook the newsboy with his armload of special editions, paying two cents for the single broadsheet. Its text, below a garish "BLOODY MURDER" headline, basically elaborated on the youngster's shouted spiel. The boss of Beauregard's Emporium, with whom they'd spoken earlier that day, had been found in his office with a cleaver planted in his skull. Its blade bore Chinese markings which police had yet to translate. Kevin Gillan, named as Beauregard's partner and heir apparent, had discovered the assassination when he came to plan a meeting of the Native Sons.

  "You want to bet this sets them off?" Kate asked.

  "I never bet against sure things," J.D. replied.

  "I wouldn't want to be in Chinatown tonight."

  "I'm glad to hear it. So we won't be running over for another chat with Chen?"

  "He's on his own, as far as I'm concerned. There's still one thing, though."

  "Yeah, I was afraid of that."

  "Somebody tried to kill us."

  "Someone out of Chinatown."

  "It doesn't feel like Chen to me," she said. "Don't ask me to explain it."