by Holly Baxter
Tears of the Dragon
Tears of the Dragon
Holly Baxter
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2005 by Holly Baxter
First Edition 2005
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004
ISBN: 1-5905-8146-6 Hardcover
ISBN: 978-1-61595-265-6 Epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
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Dedication
For—and because of—Julia
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Author’s Note
More from this Author
Contact Us
Epigraph
“A legend states that when China was invaded by the Tartar barbarians, the Imperial Dragon shed tears of sorrow, and these tears petrified into jade.”
Richard Gump Jade: Stone of Heaven
Prologue
The fog swirled between the black ship’s side and the concrete jetty as the heavyset man came down the gangplank. Fuel-slicked waves lapped gently at the dock pilings, constantly changing their iridescent pattern as they washed over one another, collided, broke apart, recombined. The traveler glanced up but could barely see the bridge of the ship that loomed above him. He had forgotten how thick the fog could be in San Francisco, but it was nothing compared to what he had grown up with back home. London pea-soupers were legendary.
On the shore vague globes of fuzzy illumination showed where lights struggled against the fog. They edged the roofs of the warehouses, but were unable to penetrate the darkness that filled the gaps between them. There was a smell of diesel fuel, wet rope, sulphur, a stink of rotting cargoes, a sharp edge of something like vinegar in the air. Not the most salubrious welcome to the marvels of America, he thought.
He looked around, his right hand held lightly away from his side, the left encumbered by a heavy leather suitcase. There was no knowing what could come out of the fog at night, preferably not customs officers or police, or worse. He had hidden in the ship until the health inspectors had passed, having paid the captain well for the privilege of traveling from China in secret. He had his reasons, most of which were held in the suitcase he carried. More in there than shirts, more than a change of underwear and a book to read. Few knew of his arrival, but it was best to be ready for anything.
Three figures suddenly emerged from behind a stack of packing cases, and he stiffened, his right hand reaching toward the inside of his jacket. Then, as they came closer, he relaxed, and his hand dropped again to his side. He recognized one, Li Wing, an old friend from Edmonton. The other two, while unknown to him, were also Chinese.
“General—it is good to see you, sir,” said Li Wing, in a low whisper.
The heavyset man nodded. “Is the priest from Chicago here?”
“Yes. We will take you to him. It is not far.”
One of the unknown Chinese stepped forward. “May I carry that for you?” he asked, in Cantonese, reaching toward the leather case, but Li Wing touched his sleeve and shook his head.
“No,” snapped the General.
The man stepped back, eyes downcast. The General smiled. “It is my burden,” he corrected himself, saving the face of the man who had offered to help him. “The danger should be mine alone.”
Li Wing nodded. “We must go quickly,” he said. “A security patrol is due soon. There would be questions.”
“There are always questions,” the General said. “And at least two answers for every one of them.”
They walked down the dock, the fog flowing around them like liquid smoke. Their footsteps were oddly synchronized. Their shapes slowly blurred into the shadows. After a moment they had disappeared, and there was only the wash of the water and the sound of the foghorns like dying dragons in the dark.
Chapter One
“Hey, Deacon, we’re going to bust up a party over on Jefferson. Want to come?”
“No, thanks.”
Lieutenant Archie Deacon didn’t even turn to the voice that called. He was getting damned sick and tired of the raids on clubs and private homes where liquor was being served. He didn’t think people ought to be arrested for enjoying themselves. The bootleggers, now, they were legitimate targets, they were profiteering by breaking the law. An unjust law, to Deacon’s way of thinking. A law that should never have been passed. As an officer of the law he was paid to enforce all laws, but he didn’t have to enjoy it like so many of his colleagues. Nor gain from it.
He lit a cigarette, watched the smoke spin and curl upward in the draft from the passing group of fellow officers making for the door.
The growing levels of corruption in the Chicago police department also worried him. He came from a family of police officers, men who had believed in upholding the law and doing it decently and honestly. It was even getting to the point where some of his colleagues were laughing at him for not taking advantage of the many opportunities offered to them by bootleggers for a little “extra duty” like riding shotgun on big deliveries. The internecine warfare between the various Syndicates was another source of trouble, arguments over territory leading to beatings or homicides nearly every week. And witnesses who wouldn’t talk made things even more difficult.
Racial tensions ratcheted within and between the various ethnic populations of the city and suburbs. The Italians and the Poles and the Irish each had their particular problems, and he had been hearing some impossible rumors from Chinatown, for instance, about bizarre murders. But the police left Chinatown to itself, just as they avoided the other ethnic suburbs unless forced to deal with them because of Prohibition. City center was trouble enough.
Archie Deacon was not a goody-two-shoes by any stretch of the imagination. Especially if you included his bad habits in your evaluation. (He was stubborn, inclined to sarcasm, underweight for his six foot height, smoked too much, liked jazz too much, and had red hair with the accompanying short temper.) It was not fear that kept him at his desk these days. He was not lacking in backbone. But he was becoming disenchanted with Chicago and what it was doing to itself. The politicians, the big businessmen, the bankers, the lawyers—they were profiting from the Volstead Act and the 18th Amendment as much as the bootleggers. Greed was everywhere. The decent people—and they were still in the majority—hadn’t a chance. One by one they were getting dragged down, too.
“This one’s going to be fun, Archie,” somebody else shouted. “A big rich guy is throwing a ‘garden party’ for his kid’s sweet sixteenth. Gonna bag some fancy asses, for sure
.”
“Fine,” Deacon said. He put his feet up on the desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. “Enjoy yourselves.” He could hear them muttering about him as they left. He sighed, knowing what they thought of him, and knowing at least half of them would accept bribes from the rich victims of the raid to “look the other way” while they slipped out the garden gate. It was getting so he could name fewer and fewer honest cops.
It was enough to drive a man to drink.
***
“That was my floor you were on,” said Bernice. “The whole foyer was redecorated last week.” She stirred her coffee absent-mindedly and looked around the cafeteria to see if there was anyone she knew within waving distance. Bernice liked to see and be seen. She returned her attention to her friend. “What the heck were you doing here so late?”
Elodie Browne had the grace to look ashamed. “I had this great idea for a new radio show, and the deadline was five o’clock. Mr. Herschel is very fussy about people meeting deadlines. In fact, he’s a pig about it.”
“So, why didn’t you just come in early, before he got there?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
Elodie shrugged. “I had dinner with my cousin Hugh at the Browning,” she explained. “It’s not far away. I told him about the idea I had, and he thought it was good. I jotted things down as we talked—he’s terrific with that kind of thing—and I was all excited. Hugh put me in a taxi, but I asked the cabbie to bring me here and wait while I ran upstairs. I just hit the wrong button in the elevator, that’s all.” She leaned forward. “This building is very creepy at night.”
Bernice giggled. “Sometimes I think it’s creepy during the day.” She took a sip of her now lukewarm coffee. “So you think someone was dragging a body around up there?”
“Well…”
“Honestly, you and your imagination,” Bernice scoffed. “More likely someone dragging a bag of rubbish to the chute. I worked on the tenth floor all this morning and I promise you, there were no bodies lying around.” She paused. “There were a lot of people, though. I heard a lot of voices at the far end of the floor. Normally it’s pretty quiet.”
“Maybe he put it in a closet or something.”
Bernice grinned. “You don’t give up easy, do you?”
“It was just so…scary.” Elodie felt suddenly cold at the memory.
“It was dark and you were confused, that’s all. Gosh, Ellie, you are some crazy kid. What the heck do you do up there on Fifteen—drink shoe polish?”
“Very funny.” Elodie scowled at Bernice. Here she was trying to be serious and Bernice wasn’t making the right noises at all. It was very exasperating. It had been scary last night in the dark. Even now, in the brightness of the cafeteria, daytime, people all around, she felt a little shiver inside.
“Well, the way you talk. You’re always seeing things nobody else sees, and being dramatic.” Bernice fluffed her hair with a negligent hand.
“I can’t help it if I have a lively mind,” Elodie protested. “Anyway, no harm done. I got back in the elevator and went up and put my idea on Mr. Herschel’s desk and went right back down again.”
Bernice leaned forward, her red corkscrew curls bobbing. “Didn’t make another stop on Ten just to see if you were right?” The scarlet bow of her mouth quirked up on one side as she teased her friend.
Elodie was adamant. “Absolutely not. Anyway, I didn’t know it was the tenth floor I had been on. I would have said something, but when I got down to the lobby, the guard was still asleep. As it was, with the waiting and all, I knew the taxi fare would be more than my cousin had given me. That’s why I brought sandwiches today.”
“Yeah, me too.” Bernice looked around again. “As if I could afford a hot meal in this place every day. Coffee costs enough.”
“And dessert,” Elodie reminded her, glancing at the crumb-strewn plates before them. The Gower Cafeteria was subsidized for the building employees but was still too expensive for every-day eating. These days you had to save wherever you could. Once a month she and Bernice had a hot meal together, invariably on a Friday when they had been paid. Otherwise they made do with buying soup or dessert, which were cheap, and coffee, which was even cheaper and came with free refills.
The employee cafeteria was on the lower basement floor, entered by a discreetly anonymous door in the middle of the row of shops that lined the corridor. Even though it was meant solely for the office workers in the building, little expense had been spared. It had a bold mock Aztec decor. The walls were painted in a soft orange with brown and ochre wall sconces, and large angular chandeliers hung above the tables, shedding a rather unflattering light. The chair backs and the pattern in the linoleum echoed that of the wall sconces, but the floor was beginning to blur with wear. It was unlikely to be replaced any time soon, because the men who ran the building had their priorities.
On the mezzanine, three floors above the workers canteen, was a highly fashionable (and profitable) restaurant with waitresses and tablecloths and little lamps on each table. It served more or less the same basic meals as the cafeteria, but with richer sauces and at three times the price. There the décor was more dramatic, based on the rising shapes of fountains. Elodie had peeked in once, and was impressed with the dramatic scarlet and silver color scheme, the curving abstract murals on the walls, the flattering illumination from lighting recessed in star shapes on the ceiling, the wide spaces between the tables, and the gleaming black marble floor. Despite the tight times, both places were always busy in the middle of the day.
Elodie and Bernice felt lucky to be working in the biggest, newest building in Chicago. In fact, they felt lucky to be working at all. Jobs were very hard to come by in 1931, and there were dozens of candidates for every one that came up. They were lowly employees, but they accrued prestige from their surroundings. Designed by a famous architect, the Gower Building was the latest addition to Chicago’s lakeshore skyline. Completed in 1928, it had been fully leased. Then the Crash came. Now quite a few empty offices stood along the corridors, blank glass doors with no names on, and far fewer footsteps echoed in the long, marble-lined halls. So many companies had folded. Executives who had formerly occupied luxurious offices were now selling apples in the street, others who had once commanded large staffs stood alongside former employees in the lines outside the soup kitchens. Schools were frequently closed because there was no pay for teachers, civic amenities were sporadic and undependable, and crime was becoming a way of life for many.
But there were some signs of hope. There was talk of Chicago mounting a World’s Fair which would bring lots of business to the city, and the bigger companies were beginning to advertise again. “The Depression will bottom out,” people told each other. “Things can only get better.” But they were getting better very slowly for girls like Elodie and Bernice and their families.
“Say,” said Bernice, as they went along to the ladies room to powder their noses before returning to work. “Would you like to earn some extra money?”
“Doing what?” Elodie asked, cautiously. Bernice was a little inclined toward what Ellie’s mother called “the wild life.” This offer could mean anything.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Bernice sounded a little defensive. “It’s nothing bad. My boss, Mr. Lee, is having one of his parties and they need help handing out drinks and stuff.”
“Oh,” Elodie said. “When?”
“On Saturday. Big party…they say Barbara Hutton will be there. She’s one of Mr. Lee’s special customers, you know.” Bernice’s voice was possessive—as if she and the Woolworth heiress were bosom friends. “And maybe some film stars. Mr. Lee has lots of famous clients, you know.”
Elodie knew. Mr. Lee Chang was an importer of jade and other items of oriental art and lived in one of the big houses on Lakeshore Drive, overlooking Lake Michigan. He was at the “new” end, rather than aligned with the old money that
dwelt in the huge mansions closer to the city. Still, it would be nice to see inside his house. Bernice had often talked about how fantastic it was, because she had often “helped out” at Mr. Lee’s many parties. She had gone on at length about the “moderne” decor, with every possible luxury and convenience in the latest style. Mr. Lee was a very, very rich man.
“I hear he has a few other sorts of clients.”
“Oh. Them.” Bernice dismissed the people in question with a wave of her hand. “One or two—they have money to burn and no idea what to spend it all on. They think buying from Mr. Lee gives them class. They have no idea what they are buying, or what it’s really worth.”
“You mean he cheats them?” Elodie was amazed that anyone would take such a risk with People Like That.
“Not exactly.” Bernice lowered her voice. “But you know how it is with art objects…they’re worth whatever anyone is willing to pay for them. And Mr. Lee only brings in the best of the best.” She paused. “Mostly,” she amended. “If they can’t tell the difference, well, it’s their look-out, isn’t it? The way they earn their bucks, who cares how they spend it?”
Bernice was talking about the bosses of the Syndicates, of course. The men who had prospered from Prohibition and continued to do so, although there was word that this source of money might dry up—literally. The President was studying something called the Wickersham Report, which had come out in January. Word was that it was very contradictory. While some men on the Committee wanted Prohibition to continue, most said it wasn’t working. If the Congress eventually repealed the 18th Amendment, what would the bootleggers do then, poor things?
Whatever these entrenched criminals attempted, it was unlikely to be honest. Once a person gets into the habit of killing off the opposition it sort of lingers, Elodie thought. If one day they outlawed chocolate, for instance, these men would simply sell chocolate on the sly, the way they sold liquor. Their kind would always prosper.
