Land Sharks

by S. L. Stoner

  “This is LaRue?” Sage asked.

  Fong nodded.

  “What happened? Was LaRue caught?”

  “No, he gone from Snake River place. He took stolen gold. Left other killers behind.”

  Sage waited.

  “I hunt for him. I travel everywhere. I go someplace, take any work and begin looking for him. If he not there, I travel on to new place. Finally, I hear he is in Arizona.”

  Sage envisioned Fong, an endlessly searching stranger, drifting through the parched towns of the southwestern desert. What a lonely quest it must have been through that barren landscape of prickly plants, azure sky and a blazing sun that silently wicked water from a man’s body.

  “I go there to Arizona. I ask many places. Finally, they say LaRue in Mexico. I try to think how to cross border and come back when word comes he is dead. Killed by Mexican bandits.” Fong rolled his shoulders slightly, like a pugilist remembering the end of a successful fight. “I surprised because I feel relief at news. Not angry like a boo how doy. I sit on rock in desert for long time. I think about my uncle and his last angry words to me. All around me is his spirit. I promise him that I am no longer a boo how doy. I promise to find the Way again and to follow it, in honor of my father and my uncle and my cousins.

  “I take money I save from San Francisco and during my search and I come here, to Portland. I stay member of tong but I tell them I am retired. No boo how doy ever returns to the work from retirement. They believe me, and over time I become counselor to tong leaders. I become a peacemaker between tongs.”

  Here Fong paused, clearly weighing his next words. “I also buy beautiful sing-song slave girl, free her and make her wife when she accept me.”

  That revelation hit Sage with a wallop. Fong was talking about his wife, the dignified, self-possessed and demure Kum Ho, or “golden peach” as Fong translated her name and as Sage ever after called her whenever she strayed into his thoughts. She had been a prostitute? With a snap, Sage realized this explained Fong’s subtle tenderness toward Lucinda Collins, Sage’s own “sing-song girl.”

  The end of Fong’s story was easy to deduce. Sage spared his friend by taking it up. “Then a week ago, as you cleared dishes from a table near two strangers, you realized that one of them was LaRue.”

  Fong gave a single slow nod.

  “What are you going to do?” Sage asked, thinking that it was no wonder Fong was so upset. My God, how the hate must burn in him.

  Fong turned to look at Sage, his eyes dark within their hollows. “I follow him, I know how to find him. Where he sleeps. He not know I am watching. He make no plans to leave. Room paid up for few days more.” Fong again stared into the distance as he said softly, “I still trying to decide what to do.”

  “Let me help. Maybe the police . . .”

  “Of course, I think of police. Idea make me laugh. I am Chinaman, he is white man with money. Stolen money.” Bitterness laced his words.

  “What if we try to find out whether the police will take action against LaRue? Ask Sergeant Hanke to contact Lewiston and ask about LaRue without anyone here knowing of our interest?”

  “Do you think Sergeant Hanke will do that? For me?” Hope sounded in Fong’s words for the first time.

  “Are you making a joke?” Sage felt certain of the big policeman’s willingness to help Fong. Hanke, after all, owed his recent sergeant’s promotion to Sage and Fong. That was because they’d insisted Hanke take credit for solving the three murders that had sent Portland into a tizzy. Their work for St. Alban left them no choice but to swear Hanke to secrecy and to make him take all the credit. During this adventure, the brawny German policeman and the diminutive Chinese man had developed a friendship of sorts.

  “Hanke is happy to do anything for you, for both of us,” Sage assured his friend.

  Fong’s eyes rested on the mountain sentinel guarding the eastern horizon, its pure white cap washed pale orange in the setting sun. His voice was low as he said, “It be better that way.”

  Sage took this as Fong’s assent to the plan, even if it was not wholehearted. He jumped to his feet. “I think Hanke is down in the kitchen relieving Ida of some of her ‘extras,’ as he calls them. Please, Mr. Fong, let’s go talk to him.”

  At this, Fong stood up.

  One more question came to Sage. “How does that phrase, ‘boo how doy,’ translate?”

  Fong didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped to the trapdoor and began descending the ladder. Sage hesitated, puzzling over Fong’s lack of response, before following his friend. At the attic door, Fong paused, his hand on the door knob. Without turning around, he spoke. The words bounced off the door and hit Sage like a pail of icy water.

  “‘Boo how doy’ mean ‘hatchet man’,” Fong said.

  THIRTEEN

  When they entered Mozart’s kitchen, the big police officer was sitting at the worn table methodically consuming a heaping plate of Mozart’s pricey vittles. At Sage’s silent head jerk toward the kitchen door, Sergeant Hanke surged to his feet, picked up his overflowing plate and shuffled out onto the back porch. Fong and Sage followed, closing the kitchen door behind themselves.

  The nearby street was empty of foot traffic. Hanke held the plate with one hand and continued forking in the food as he listened to Sage’s shortened version of the Snake River massacre and Fong’s connection to it. Not for the first time, Sage considered the policeman’s stolid expression. That wide genial face was misleading in that some might consider the fellow dull-witted. A false perception, as he proved by summarizing their request neatly: “You’re asking if I’d be willing to find out, without letting on why I’m doing it, whether the law on the east side of the Cascades wants LaRue. And if he’s not wanted, you want me to forget you asked, just in case something unpleasant happens to him. That about it?”

  Sage and Fong both nodded and stayed silent, awaiting the big policeman’s decision.

  Hanke forked in another bite, chewing slowly and thoughtfully before saying, “My mother used to say that a person can’t lie to himself no more than he can lie to God. So, I’m not fooling myself about what it is you’re asking me to do. And I don’t believe in a wink-and-nod approach to truth like some policemen.”

  After setting his empty plate down on the narrow porch rail, Hanke faced Fong. “I’m pretty certain I know what you might do, Mr. Fong, if it looks like this LaRue fellow will escape justice.”

  Fong returned Hanke’s gaze without saying anything, his bland expression unaltered, although Sage saw a muscle twitch in his jaw.

  “Still, can’t say I blame you. I’d feel the same if he’d murdered my kinfolk,” Hanke continued. Keeping his gaze on Fong, he flicked crumbs off his uniformed chest with one hand and picked up the empty plate with the other, “I’m going to do what you ask for two reasons; because I owe you and because it’s right. What you do with the information is between you and your God, or gods, or whatever it is you folks believe. I won’t take steps to protect you, I can’t do that. What I will promise is to forget that you ever mentioned the man’s name to me.”

  In the silence that followed, Sage looked at Fong who merely nodded. Hanke turned toward Sage and the two exchanged a sober gaze that was their tacit acceptance of Fong’s right to retribution. That look seemed to forge a bond between them although neither one spoke. Hanke reached for the doorknob and, opening the door, said over his shoulder in an overly hearty voice, “Mr. Adair, you suppose Miz Ida’s squirreled away any berry pie?”

  Sage was telling Fong, and retelling Mae, about his trip to the Astoria cannery when the sound of heavy boots mounting the stair drew their attention in that direction. Mae craned her head toward the third floor hallway before saying, “Mr. Fong, might that boy galumph a smidgen softer if I bought him a pair of those cloth slippers you wear?”

  Fong shook his head. “No, Mrs. Clemens. I think of that. Problem is, his feet way too big. No slippers to fit him. Maybe teach Matthew snake and crane so he learn to move like bir
d instead of like big tree with feet.”

  Matthew’s red head appeared around the half-open door.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Adair. Ah, you told me I was to come on up when I got back from Mr. Laidlaw’s house.”

  “That’s right, Matthew, I said that. How’s the bicycle running?”

  The boy grinned. This was an expression Matthew seldom displayed in the days before he acquired his two-wheeled treasure. “Oh, crikey, Mr. Adair, she’s a real sweet goer. I pedaled up to Mr. Laidlaw’s house in twenty minutes instead of having to walk for near an hour. He gave me this, too! For being so quick and all, he said.” Matthew held up a coin that glinted silver in the room’s gaslight.

  “And did Mr. Laidlaw give you anything for me?” Sage prompted.

  A flush spread across the boy’s face as he shoved the coin back in his pocket and reached inside his shirt. “Yes, sir. He told me to be careful with it and not let anyone see it, so I stuffed it inside my shirt. I hope that’s okay?”

  “That was exactly the way to handle it. Thank you.” Sage took the proffered envelope and laid it on the table. The adults continued to look at the boy. He shifted uncomfortably before saying, “Ah, looks like you are having one of those restaurant meetings of yours, huh?”

  “Afraid so, Matthew, otherwise I’d ask you to join us.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I told Aunt Ida I’d help with the cleanup, seeing how she’s a bit shorthanded.” He began to leave, then stopped.

  “Anything else you need me to do, just ask, Mr. Adair. Anything at all.”

  “Thanks, Matthew, I won’t hesitate. I appreciate your offer.”

  With grave dignity the boy bowed slightly and exited the room, closing the door softly behind himself.

  The three shared a smile before getting back to the problem of the missing Kincaid and the other union organizer.

  “From the description, it sounds like the man pulled from the ocean is Joseph Kincaid. Anyone else looking like him gone missing around here?” Mae asked thoughtfully.

  “Hanke says no one’s come forward looking for a missing man,” Sage responded before falling silent as he momentarily relived his Astoria frustration and his anger over Fong’s absence. This moment was pushed aside by the worse reality of Fong’s situation. A few days of inconvenience didn’t begin to match it. He looked at his friend.

  Fong lifted a hand, saying quickly, “That cannery is not my tong people. I am Hop Sing man. They all Gee Kung. Most likely they not tell me anything either.”

  “Not your tong so they won’t talk to you?”

  Fong shrugged, saying with a rueful smile, “Well, maybe they talk to me. Our tongs not at war, they might talk to me. Still, much better someone from their own tong ask questions about white man. We Chinese always careful not to tangle in white man’s business.”

  “What? No Chinese are involved in shanghaiing?”

  Here Fong tilted his head in slight assent, “Most Chinese not involved. Sometimes bad Chinese shanghai China man to be cook on ship. Not happen very often. But this is about dead white man. Dead white man is white man’s business. Period.”

  “Guess it doesn’t matter now whether they would have talked to you. There’s no time to send you downriver to Astoria.”

  Fong smiled ruefully and said, “I already possess solution if you give me picture of Kincaid. I will send friend who is Gee Kung man to Astoria. He take photo and carrier pigeon from roof. He find Hong Ah Kay and send pigeon home with message. Time come for pigeon to earn his seed. A few hours after Gee Kung man speaks to Mr. Hong, pigeon message arrive.”

  Sage considered Fong’s simple elegant solution to the problem that had kept Sage chasing his mental hind end like a dog after a burr in his tail. Fong evidently mistook the pause because he quickly said, “I will pay for friend to make trip. Least I can do after trouble I make this week.”

  Sage’s peripheral vision caught his mother’s slight twitch of surprise at Fong’s oblique acknowledgment of the concern he’d been raising. She shot Sage a questioning look but asked Fong, “How long does it take a pigeon to fly in from Astoria? And where does a pigeon carry a note?”

  Sage didn’t listen to Fong’s answers. Instead, his mind snagged on the fact that Homer LaRue, murderer of Fong’s relatives, remained on the streets. He might, at any minute, reappear in Mozart’s. If that happened and he, Sage, was there, he wasn’t certain he’d forego the opportunity to make LaRue pay for his crime.

  From the questioning glances she kept tossing toward Sage, it was clear that his mother wondered what had transpired to bring the three of them back together again. Fong hadn’t asked Sage to stay silent about LaRue, so Sage mouthed the word “later” in her direction and saw her shoulders relax. Since he’d be embarking on a new career as a crimp, he’d be absent in the days ahead. There was no way he’d let Fong carry such a burden alone. Fong needed someone to call on. Nor, did he want his mother unknowingly depending on a man whose thoughts were decidedly elsewhere.

  Sage’s eyes focused on the unopened envelope from Laidlaw. He’d been absently turning it ‘round about in his fingers. As he began to tear it open, the other two fell silent, waiting while he scanned the heavy parchment.

  “When I told Laidlaw I was thinking about investigating the crimps, in order to find out what happened to Kincaid, he promised he’d look into some matters for me.” He looked up at them, then back down at the letter. “What he says is more evidence that the body in Astoria is Joseph Kincaid’s. Listen to this: ‘As you asked, I made discreet inquiries of the seamen coming into the office over the past few days. More than one told me that there is indeed an unsavory pair, newly down from Gray’s Harbor. I am told they fit your description of the two men seen in that Milwaukie saloon and who also waylaid Franklin in the alley.’”

  Sage looked up from the paper. “He goes on to say that he couldn’t find out their names or which crimp they work for. He thinks they’re free agents, runners for hire by anyone needing their services.”

  His mother sighed. “I think, Sage, we must assume, unless Fong’s friend learns differently, that Mrs. Kincaid’s husband is dead. She needs to know it as soon as possible. Not knowing is tearing her apart.”

  Sage compressed his lips into a thin line, hating the fact that she had reached the same conclusion as he had about Kincaid’s and Amacker’s probable fates. “It all fits,” he said. He looked at his mother. “What are you thinking? Should we go talk to her tomorrow? It’s Sunday, so Mozart’s won’t be open during the supper hour. Let’s head out as soon as the noontime dinner hour is over. You’ll go with me to see her? I think maybe we need to talk to her before I start my new job tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll go, of course.” Her brow furrowed. “Just what do you mean by ‘job’? What exactly are you going to be doing tomorrow? And don’t you roll your eyes at me, young man!” The rebuke came sharp as a mother dog’s bark. Not the time to treat Mae Clemens lightly. The last time he’d made that mistake she’d shown an alarming propensity for inserting herself right into the dangerous heart of things.

  Sage held up a hand pretending to ward off a blow and saying in an exaggerated aside to Fong, “Have I not repeatedly indicated my intent to join the ranks of the land sharks to learn their methods of preying upon our seagoing brethren?”

  Much to Sage’s relief, the Chinese man caught the whimsy and chimed in, “Ah yes, Mr. Sage you speak very clear about intention. Maybe mother crane’s head too deep in the water to hear cheeps of baby chick.”

  “Hey, now,” Sage began in mock indignation.

  “You hush, the both of you! I heard your intention, too. It’s just that I recollect that you and Lucinda Collins made some plans. Can’t see how you’re going to follow through with them looking like some hard-luck seaman.”

  Sage flushed with embarrassment and exasperation. He’d forgotten Lucinda and their plans to attend a play at the new theater tomorrow night. Lord, was she going to be disappointed. Still, some things coul
dn’t be helped. And right now, Mrs. Kincaid’s tragedy exerted the strongest pull. He’d have to somehow make it up to Lucinda later.

  “There’s no choice but to cancel those plans. I must discover what happened to Kincaid, who is responsible, and take that criminal out of the picture. That’s more important,” he said. The air of finality in his words was intended to stop further comment.

  It didn’t work. Mae’s face turned disapproving. “Sage, she’s been looking forward to this, and it’s not the first time that you’ve . . .”

  “Mother!”

  She raised both hands in surrender to show she was through with talking on the subject.

  The next words came from Fong and concerned an entirely different topic. It was a topic equally disturbing to Sage.

  “Shanghai mostly take place in tunnels. In dark. Smells like dirt. You afraid of dark places that smell like dirt.”

  “I will handle it.”

  “Sage . . .” his mother started to say.

  “I can handle it!” Irritation rapped in his voice.

  “Mr. Sage . . .” Fong tried to continue.

  Sage raised an eyebrow at Fong. He regretted that he’d told Fong about his fear of underground cave-ins. His mother, he didn’t need to tell. She’d been there, reaching down from the air vent’s opening, as nine-year-old Sage clawed his way into the sunlight, the mine owner’s grandson strapped to his scrawny chest. Besides, there were the nightmares. No way to hide those from her once they’d started living together a few years back.

  “I can handle it,” he said. But he could hear the subdued hesitancy that lay beneath his words. Fong and his mother didn’t bother hiding the skeptical looks they exchanged.

  Sage sighed. “Well, maybe the time has come for me to learn how to handle it. I’m tired of being afraid of the dark like some kid who thinks there’s a monster hiding under his bed.”

  His mother reached over to pat his hand.

  Late that night, three candles illuminated the two men who danced a silent duet of attack and retreat in the otherwise dark attic. Fong intruded again and again into Sage’s space, forcing him back. The student was sweating and breathing heavily while the small Chinese man moved effortlessly, his face expressionless, his drooping eyelids the only evidence of his intense concentration. Finally, Sage could continue no longer. He stepped away and raised both palms in surrender.