“Yeah, something like that, I guess.” I lit up a cigarette and the doc motioned for me to sit beside him. “So…what have you to fill me in about this Chinese dame who’s supposed to be a virgin nymphomaniac or whatever?”
“Well, first of all, legend has it that she’s a virgin because of her—how shall I say—other dimensional status. It seems some beings come to us from other places, other than the normal three-dimensional world. I suspect this lady is one of them. As far as the ‘nymphomania’ you describe—that’s a misnomer. The term really applies to another part of the legend of this lady built on fact. The lotus flower, in this case, the species Nymphaea nelumbo, is said to have virgin seeds that had lain dormant in a dry Chinese lakebed for over 1300 years. When an exceptionally wet winter came upon the countryside, the new waters from the heavens awakened the seeds and resurrected our mystery lady.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to put all this “other dimensional” crap I’m hearing, into some semblance of common sense. “So, I’m to assume this lady is not a common mortal, really is a virgin, but doesn’t hail from these parts of the known world?”
“Yes, exactly. She is also the protectorate of the God of Our Fathers and as such, will stop at nothing to keep it safe. But she has her limitations, too. For example, it is said she cannot appear easily amongst humans without being adversely affected, her energy partially drained.”
“Oh, poor dear,” I joked. “Whatever should she do for companionship—if not good sex? I don’t buy it, doc. A woman’s a woman’s a woman in my book—hair, tits, pussy and desire.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit crude, Cable? Women are persons as well, you know. They are not less than you, even if the Christian babble says she came from one of Adam’s ribs. I think the old Jewish boys wanted to subject woman to their beds, child-bearing and preparing food. Patriarchal control. But other beings have different make-ups and agendas. I suspect this mysterious Chinese lady to be one of them. You know, history does speak of the Amazons, the other extreme of patriarchy—but even today we can observe levels of matriarchy in the Berbers, Taureg people, Basques, Sardinians—so it has not completely died out. Dominant current religious doctrines, such as Christianity, Muslim and Jewish are patriarchal. Woman is relegated to what I mentioned earlier and few male egos can tolerate a dominant female.”
“It’s funny…I find I kind of like the submission part, though. Like Adora looks to my every mood and move and falls in line with it.”
“Do not mistake humility and grace for subservience, Cable. Your Adora is an exceptional person, you must honor that. Her woman surrenders to you out of youth and passion. A woman in love gives up a part of herself for the gift of conception.” He looked at me, winking an eye. “I’ll bet she’s told you she would like to have your babies, true?”
I marveled at this wise old man sitting next to me. “Yep—how’d you know? That’s exactly what she’s told me, like she could have ten of my kids.”
“You see? It’s nature’s compulsion in woman. It’s not right or wrong, just the natural state of things. Man wants to inseminate, woman wants to receive his seed. Just that simple. That’s what makes the world go ‘round.”
“By the way, would you take Adora back to the train station and send her back home? I can’t risk losing her—especially since Ravna said he’d kill her as soon my work was done here and the Chinese thing was over.”
Dr. Penn studied my face. “Yes, I’ll send her somewhere with Polly under the cover of night. Then she can catch the eight o’clock Daylight Limited in the morning.”
“Thanks, doc. I’ve gotta work alone on this one, as you know.”
“You’re a brave man, Cable. Lord knows what dangers lurk out there for you. But I will stay on until you are finished here. I have a feeling you might be needing me at some point.”
I thanked him again and by the time the women had returned from the picture show, Jed Penn had told me all he knew about my next quest. He said he didn’t know how all the players tied in. Were Damianos, Ravna, and the Chinese lady all playing the same game? I knew Jack Dragna and his gang were in it for the money, so I wrote them off. There were still a few lose ends to tie up. Eisenstadt came to mind.
When Polly and Adora entered their eyes were red. Obviously they had been crying. “Ah, no doubt a moving movie, I dare say,” Dr. Penn observed.
“Ya…ya…Garbo vas a spy who fell in love…and lost her…lover…but she killed a man because she loved another. That is stupid! Undisciplined!”
Adora looked at me with pleading eyes. “She fall in love…and die inside. Por qué la vida es compleja. Why is love never simple?”
“Well, well, well, a Kraut and a Latina who get along. How fun is that?” I said, winking at Dr. Penn. “But I’m glad you enjoyed.” I looked at Adora. “Babe, I need to talk to you privately.”
“Use my bedroom,” Dr. Penn said.
I took her hand and we found ourselves alone simply looking at each other. “I see your expresión. Qué paso, Cable?”
“I’m sneaking you out of here tonight to take the train back to your Mama and your sister. This is no place for you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “And if I never seen you again, amor? How shall I live? I am part of you now. Por favor, let me be dangerous lady with you. If I die en tu abrazo—entonces, es suficiente. It is enough for me.”
“I can’t let you do that, doll. I’ll be back in a few days. Hey, look at me—I’ve got nine lives—and I’ve only used one or two so far,” I chuckled, trying to lighten the moment.
“No creo, Cable. I saw that man who hates…and kills…”
I took her into my arms and kissed her. She clung to me as if it was her last breath. “Te lo ruego—I beg you—regreso, return to me, mi amor.”
I worried about some of Ravna’s goons keeping a watchful eye at the station, but I gave her some money and Polly Parker promised to take her in tow and make sure she boarded the Daylight. I thanked Jedediah Penn and told him I’d keep him posted. Adora’s last words to me were three poignant and forlorn-sounding calls as I headed for the elevator. “Cable?...Cable?...Cable?”
I made my way out of the hotel into the night. I could hear that lonely sax again…playing through my head as street cars and traffic noises permeated the streets and alleyways. A dense, low fog crept along the sidewalks as I made my way toward Market Street. I needed some sunshine just about now. Suddenly I was homesick for Honey. I could hear her singing Blue Skies and that filled me with hope that all of this was just a dream and I’d wake up next to her with a bright L.A. day coming through our window. “Never saw the sun shining so bright, never saw things going so right, watching the day hurrying by, when you’re in love, my, my how they fly…”
I got back to my room at the Verona and sure enough, Nazar Ravna was waiting for me. “Where is your amor, Denning? Did you leave her somewhere? I cannot imagine you lost her again…”
“No, Ravna, she just seems to have disappeared. You know, she went to a movie with Doctor Penn’s caregiver—and zip! they decided to stay out and maybe see the picture again. You know how it is.”
“Yes. I know how it is. But I will deal with your deceptions later. First, tell me what the good doctor shared with you regarding the Sacred and our mysterious Chinese lady.”
“It’s simple. First of all, nobody knows whether she has it or not. Not even Dr. Penn. Second, she seems to be some kind of legendary creature, not really human.”
“A shape shifter. That’s what they’re called.”
Yeah, how’d you know?”
“It’s my business to know these things, Denning. I was beginning to like you. Now I don’t know. Ordinarily I would have you destroyed for having disobeyed me by hiding your little señorita. But we always find what we’re looking for.”
“If you touch a hair on her head, Ravna, I’ll make things so complicated for you, they’ll have to carry you out in a straightjacket before
you can figure it out. Do you think I go for all that bullshit you’re giving me—like the Chinese mythology that a woman can transform herself, or that she even exists? What do you take me for?”
“What does Dr. Penn believe? Did he not tell you what I’ve told you?”
“Yeah, and then some. About some dormant seeds in a lakebed coming to life with rains that broke a draught—and this 1300 year-old babe coming to life among the seeds. Oh, yeah, like I believe in Santa Claus and Dracula.”
Ravna kept his composure. “Okay, Denning, I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t touch your Latina lover if you continue as planned—at the very least investigate if such a person exists in Chinatown. Ask around, hang out in the unsavory places—and if you survive it and return with the golden capsule--I give you my word I will leave your señorita alone and just kill you. By then you will have known too much and you’ll be too great a risk. I’m sure you understand these things, after all, you work amongst the very slime that creeps out from under the rocks in Los Angeles. Is it a deal? I’m being very generous, you understand…”
I lit up a Lucky Strike. “Sure…but what about Damianos? After all, he was the one who sent me here after I got the compass directions from Crazy Jack and Madame Palladino.”
“Mr. Damianos is a religious fanatic. He wants the God of Our Fathers to be returned to what he considers ‘its rightful place.’ But I see it differently. And we, I remind you, are much more powerful than the Catholic Church. They come in at a distant second to us.”
I took a long drag on my cigarette. “So we play it your way for now. Go home and leave me alone, will you? It’s been a tough day.” I looked down at the floor and saw that Anne Banning’s body was gone. “What…uh…what happened to the late Miss Banning—was she hanging around too late at night? She did proposition me on the train, you know.”
“Miss Banning has served her purpose for this lifetime. She is safely on her way to a crematorium. We don’t like to leave…how shall I say it? Tell-tale signs?” He got up to go. “You drive a hard bargain, Denning. In a way I admire you for it. You are not a sniveling coward as are many men. I sense you are not afraid to die. But that you’re just choosy about how you will die, does that sound somewhat accurate?”
“Something like that. Good-night, Ravna. I’ll start out in Chinatown in the morning. How do I get in touch with you?”
“Oh, you mustn’t ever worry about that. We’ll be getting in touch with you. Every step of yours will be observed. I promise I will not kill you until I face you. It is my way. I am not a coward either, Denning. I face those I am about to kill.”
“Kinda like the old gladiators, eh?”
“Yes, good analogy. Good-night, and good hunting…”
He let himself out. Now I was thinking of poor Adora in a confused state, in hiding all night and having to take that long ride back to L.A. by herself. I was already thinking of us in the past tense as I heard Honey’s voice sing the lyrics to what I was feeling. Just days ago when I had first looked at Adora Moreno, my heart did stand still. I had never seen a woman so beautiful in real life. ‘I took one look at you, that’s all I meant to do, and then my heart stood still…’ I drifted into a restless sleep hearing Honey’s wonderful voice sing a song that tugged at my heartstrings and memories. How could one man screw up his life in so many ways?
The Hatchet Man
It was November 19, 1928 and the San Francisco air was crisp. A whopper of a storm was brewing out of the northwest from the Gulf of Alaska, bringing rain and a wind that smashed the ocean’s breakers up against the shoreline like an invading army of thundering gods. But I was going the other way, on an open-air Powell Street cable car toward Grant and Bush Streets. I had heard that once the “Zhongs” endured a two-month immigration clearance on Angel Island, they came to settle here in this densely populated little city within the city. But I wasn’t a tourist on a curiosity tour. No, I was going for the highbinders, the opium dens, the “parlor houses” of ill repute—and to watch out for the Hatchet Man. These guys were a highly skilled breed of assassins, pledged to the Tongs to carry out whatever was ordered by their superiors, no questions asked. The traditional weapon for dispatching an unsuspecting soul was a handle-less hatchet hidden in the sleeve, quickly taken out and thrown with great speed and accuracy. I was wondering if the dream I had was a precursor to an encounter with one of these unsavory characters.
I got off at Bush St. and walked to Grant Street. There was a famous landmark at the entrance called The Dragon Gate and it arched over the street as one entered. My first task was to find someone who spoke English. By the time I got to Stockton Street, my task seemed impossible. I mulled among throngs of Asian faces—and you know, most of ‘em did look alike to me! Mario Angelo had pointed that out to me one night we were patrolling the Chinese village in L.A. I suppose we all look alike to them, too. Sounds, sights and smells filled my senses. Even the shop signs were in Chinese, but some did have both languages posted. Finally, I spotted a likely candidate, Zou Du Lee Cleaners. I entered and a very mild mannered older man approached me from behind the counter. “What you want? You got tickee?” he asked in that marvelously clipped speech pattern.
“Ah, no…I—I, uh, I’d kinda like to soak up some of your culture—I mean the real thing. Like bars, opium dens, prostitute hangouts, places like that.”
He looked at me oddly. “No bar in Chinatown. Opium den in Stockton Street—you look to rent lady?”
“No, not actually. I just wanna sample the atmosphere.”
“Go Lung Hou’s—good Chinese food. Ask for Charlie. He help.”
I thanked the nice man and left. I elbowed my way through the crowds. The Chinese weren’t any too polite when it came to push and shove. I guess they were used to it. Lung Hou’s smelled like home cooking, Asian style. I couldn’t remember when I ate last, so I bellied up to the food bar and pointed at a couple of dishes I could more or less recognize. As I paid the man at the register, I asked if he knew ‘Charlie.’ I knew he understood me, but pretended he didn’t. He pointed out to a patio in the back of the noisy joint. I put my food above my head and sandwiched my way toward the patio. One good thing, the Chinese are mainly shorter than I was, so I could maneuver over a crowd of black heads without too much difficulty.
I found a small empty table in the shade of an old olive tree. Damn, the man at the cleaners was right—Lung Hou’s food was good. I stuffed my two plates’ worth of food pretty fast and could’ve used a cold beer to wash it down. I tried to hail a waiter but he couldn’t hear me over the din. Then a nice young man approached me.
“I understand you have difficulty here. I am Bojing Cheung. May I sit?” The young man was probably about twenty, neatly dressed and quite handsome. It looked like his blood was mixed with a little Caucasian along the way. His hair was cropped short and he had a nice smile.
“Sure, anyone who can converse with me. I feel like I’m downtown Peking or something here,” I said, chuckling. “Can you get me a beer?”
“Certainly. We have best Chinese import beer here. Tsingtao very good. Made in Qingdao. I have one with you, okay?” I gave him some money and he promptly returned with two beers in hand.
“Well, that was fast—what’d you do—steal it?”
He laughed. “No, my father is Lung Hou. We have family restaurant. I work here since I was eight. My name in Chinese means ‘I win admiration and have good luck.’ Now I am in San Francisco State College to learn taxidermy.”
I did a double take. “Taxidermy? You’ll need some good luck for that.”
“Yes. Very lucrative. Rich man pay big to have stuffed favorite dog or bear he shoot. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I never looked at it like that. Sounds promising.” I poured the beer into my glass and started to drink. “Blah!” I exclaimed. “This crap is warm!”
“May I ask what is your name?”
“Denning…Cable Denning…call me Cable,” I said,
making a face.
“Cable Denning, nice name. All Chinese beer is warm. In 1903 it was introduced into China by an English/German brewery based in Hong Kong and their original recipe became the standard quality that Tsingtao Beer is known for today.”
“Oh, I see. I’ll drink it, but I’m sure not used to it.” I took another deep sip. It wasn’t so bad the second time around. “I’m looking for a guy named Charlie. You see, I’m—I’m here for some research on the underbelly of Chinatown—you know, the opium dens, houses of ill repute, gambling houses, places where the highbinders hang out.”
Bojing Cheung studied my face. “Why would you want to go there?”
“Isn’t that as much a part of your people’s lifestyle as anything else?”
“Yes. I will say you’re right. How’s my English?”
“Swell. At least we can communicate. So, do you know this Charlie?”
“Yes. But he does not stay when he buys food here. He pays for it and walks away to an opium parlor on Stockton, Soc Ti Lao. I think he gets high on sweet smell of smoke alone,” he laughed.
We spent some time with young Bojing filling me in on life styles here in Chinatown. But when I mentioned possibility of a young mysterious Asian virgin who might also know a Hatchet Man, he drew away from me and a frightened look came over his face. “Was it something I said, or do I have beer all over my face—what?”
“It is bad luck to speak of the Living Lotus, Nymphaea Nelumbo,” he said in a foreboding tone. “I must go now. I wish you well, Cable Denning.” Just like that he was gone. I must have looked like a stranger in a strange land, because I got a lot of weird looks from the locals as I got up to leave. Granted, I did stick out like a sore thumb, being the only Caucasian in view most of the day so far.
Bojing had described the opium ‘parlor’, as he called it. But when I found it and entered, it was a den—maybe even a cave—etched into the basement of a flower shop above it. I’ll bet they sold a lot of flowers for funerals because I’d heard a lot of these guys down here don’t get back up topside alive. Small cots were strewn helter-skelter, and beaten little men with beaten little faces lay on their sides, sitting up or on their backs, sucking away at that sweet, acrid dope. I had studied the green bud-pod with the leaking latex at the police academy and knew that morphine and heroin were by-products of this infamous little poppy. Once hooked, it was a near impossible journey back up to the surface of life, like Orpheus in Hades, the journey had many risks and few made it out alive.
Golden Throat Page 17
