Asian Pulp

by Asian Pulp (retail) (epub)

  The proprietor emerged from a back room with a broad smile beneath his thin mustache. But the smile quickly vanished when he saw the man who stood before him in his shop. “Boo how doy…” he muttered in his native language.

  “That’s not what I am, Cheung. Not anymore,” said Xun Han. “But I’m pleased you haven’t forgotten me.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” said Cheung. “Five, ten years?”

  “All I need is one piece of information. Give me that, and I’ll leave you in peace,” said Xun.

  Cheung tapped his fingers against his chin. “What sort of information do you need?”

  “Things have changed a lot since I left,” said Xun. “Tell me where to find the Morning Dawn.”

  Despite the opium-induced haze of the patrons, Cheung had noticed that many of them now turned their eyes to him and Xun. Ears had perked up and were listening intently. Cheung glowered at Xun and pushed a finger against his chest, feeling an inhuman firmness.

  “What do you think this is? You think I’m going to risk my business for some wash-out? Get out! Out of my shop!”

  Xun was prepared to push right back, but took note of Cheung’s lips. In between Cheung’s taunts, those lips silently moved, mouthing a message to him, accompanied by movements of his finger. Xun deciphered it quickly and backed away to the exit.

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “Just be careful of who you make an enemy of, Cheung.”

  The threat was empty, and both Xun and Cheung knew it. Instead, it was simply for the benefit of the patrons. Ten years ago, he would have taken Cheung’s finger and broken it into pieces. But now, appearing to run with his tail between his legs would actually serve Xun’s purposes better than his old reputation. It made it seem as if he’d grown soft, which would get around to the various Tongs in Chinatown.

  That would make them sloppy.

  * * *

  What Cheung had mouthed was for Xun to meet him later and with his finger, traced out the Chinese characters for twelve—the time they would meet. Which gave Xun about two hours to kill. He stopped by one of the restaurants and was served a dinner of chop suey with hot tea. Xun ate in peace, and for the most part was ignored by the others in the restaurant. A few glances lingered on him, indicating some familiarity, but Xun ignored these people.

  There was one exception, however. Another man, tall and dark, as if he walked in a shadow, sat in the corner of the restaurant. The brim of his hat was pulled low so his eyes were completely out of view. Xun noticed the man’s western-style suit, contrasted with the long wisps of hair that extended from the edges of his lips, and saw that he had no dish, just a cup of tea that he nursed. Xun stirred his food with the chopsticks, pulling up a few pieces of chicken to his mouth.

  He would steal glances at the mysterious stranger, and although he couldn’t tell whether or not the man was actually looking at him, Xun felt as if the man’s eyesight never let go of him. Perhaps he was just getting paranoid in light of everything that had happened, but then again, paranoia was what had kept him alive.

  Once finished with his meal, Xun quickly paid his bill and retreated out into the streets. He still had another hour before he was to meet Cheung, and Xun intended to use it to figure out who this stranger was. He moved toward the alley, finding a spot where he could stay out of sight behind the edge of a shop, invisible to anyone who emerged from the restaurant. But it gave Xun a perfect view of the street. From here, he fixed his gaze on the door to the restaurant, his hand parting open his robe. Hidden beneath the coat was a holster containing a Colt Single Action Army revolver. Xun paused there, ready to draw the weapon at a moment’s notice if necessary. The only problem is that this plan would only work if Xun could see the person coming for him.

  A meaty hand fell on his shoulder. Xun realized his mistake, and once he craned his neck around, a fist made up of thick fingers connected with Xun’s cheek. He stumbled into the street and reached a hand to his lip, wiping away a thin streak of blood. Xun got the first good look at his attacker, and the guy was big. He was only slightly taller than Xun, but about twice as broad and with strength gained from years of working in the mines. When Xun went for his gun, the mammoth beast of a man moved with uncanny speed, fingers wrapping around Xun’s arm and pulling it while tightly squeezing. As Xun cringed, he stared into the dark eyes of the bald behemoth.

  Xun’s free hand shot out, his fingers straight and erect, and jammed them into the big guy’s throat. The foe gagged, releasing Xun’s hand and reaching for his neck. He recovered quickly, despite his coughing, and charged forward. Xun jumped, grabbing the big guy’s bald head and flipping over it. He landed, his braid fluttering behind him, and his speed so great that his hat hadn’t had a chance to fall off.

  The crowd had made room for the two combatants, forming a makeshift ring around them with their bodies. Xun and the big guy circled each other, keeping their eyes locked. Whenever Xun’s hands moved toward his coat, the big guy seemed ready to lunge forward.

  “I’m not sure what your problem is, but let’s be rational about this,” said Xun.

  “Liu never backed down from a fight before, he’s not ‘bout to start now,” he said.

  “I’m to guess that’s your name, eh?” asked Xun.

  A grunt from Liu confirmed it.

  “Listen Liu, I don’t have any problem with you.” Xun held his arms out to the sides in a gesture of good faith. “So what do you say we just leave this be. You can go ahead and tell people you won, I don’t care.”

  Liu grunted again. Evidently not good enough. He charged at Xun, and the smaller man slid to the side, but kept his leg out and the big man tripped on it. He stumbled and the crowd quickly parted, leaving Liu to go crashing into the restaurant.

  “Like I said, I don’t want any trouble with you. Just walk away.” Xun’s hand parted his coat, reaching for the butt of the Peacemaker as he walked up to the restaurant. “Before someone gets seriously hurt.”

  The restaurant was small, and Liu was hunched over the counter. Xun could smell the scent of oil and fried meat. Lurching up from the counter, Liu turned to face Xun, gripping the wooden handle of a wok. The oil inside the black metal pan gave off a symphony of pops and crackles. Liu grinned, coiling his arms, about to swing the wok.

  In an instant, the Colt .45 was drawn by Xun’s right hand, his left slamming back the hammer. The gun cocked, Xun pulled the trigger, and a single round struck Liu’s hand. The roar of pain came not solely as a result of the injury to his hand, but from the hot chicken and vegetables, not to mention the searing oil, spilling over the right side of his face.

  Liu ran screaming from the restaurant, trying to find some relief from the burning. Xun went to the door, watching the big man stampede through Chinatown. He holstered the Colt and took a cigar, striking a match on the wood door frame and lighting it. Shaking the flame from the match and dropping it on the ground, Xun stepped back into the street. Everyone regarded him with caution and parted from him. Xun wasn’t interested in any of that, but he did scan the crowd, trying to find the man from before. The one in the suit who’d been watching him.

  No sign of him.

  * * *

  Most Chinatowns contained a number of joss houses—temples containing shrines to Buddhist and Taoist deities. What Cheung had mouthed to Xun was the name of one such joss house. It was an old one, barely a shack, and not visited as often since newer, larger ones were built elsewhere in the neighborhood.

  Cheung lit an incense stick and bowed three times before a Buddha statue, placing the incense in the sand. The stench of another kind filled the room, that of Xun’s cigar. He stood in the entrance of the joss, watching Cheung carefully.

  “Why did we have to meet here?” asked Xun.

  “Get inside, and keep your voice down.” Cheung’s old face was fraught with worry. Xun stepped inside and patted his elder on the back.

  “Calm down, old friend.”

  “Calm down? Yeah, that’s a good
one,” Cheung scoffed. “Don’t hear anything from you in years, and then all of a sudden you come storming into my business. To top it all off, you pick a fight with a Tong enforcer? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “The big guy came at me, I was just defending myself,” said Xun.

  Cheung sat down in front of the shrine, folding his legs and resting his wrinkled hands in his lap. Xun crouched down beside him and the two men sat in silence for several minutes. Cheung’s eyes were closed, and for a moment Xun thought the old bastard may have fallen asleep. But then he spoke.

  “Why are you back? I thought you were done with all this?”

  Xun slowly sucked on the edge of the cigar, the embers receding along the rolled tobacco leaves. When he lowered the cigar, the smoke escaped from his lips as he spoke. “I was.”

  “Not many of us find a happy ending in this country,” said Cheung. “Our families are stuck in China and the government won’t let us bring them over. Then we struggle with the unions blaming us for everything wrong. And now the Tongs fighting amongst themselves, giving the unions exactly what they want. But you, you got away from all that.”

  Xun reached behind his back, under his coat, and pulled something out. A hatchet with a short handle, the blade having seen better days. Xun tested the weight of the weapon in his hands. “Ella wanted me to get rid of this old thing. Was gonna do it, too, but something stopped me. Couldn’t quite part with it. So I buried it behind the house. Even then, I knew something would bring it back.”

  “Xun, you aren’t boo how doy, not any more. Your hatchet man days are over,” said Cheung. “Why would you want to go back to the Morning Dawn?”

  The younger Chinese man stood and tucked the hatchet behind his back into his belt. “You’ve got it wrong, Cheung. I’m not looking to join up with the Morning Dawn again. I just need to know where I can find them.”

  “Zhao’s still the man in charge, mostly dealing with protection and prostitution. He owns most of the brothels in Chinatown. Been trying to get into opium as well, coming after my business,” said Cheung. “But finding him won’t be easy. He mostly stays out of the spotlight. They’ve been at war with some of the other groups, particularly the Society of Peace, and he’s afraid of assassination attempts.”

  Xun snorted his derision at the names. The Tongs, despite their criminal and violent activities, used these names that sounded peaceful. At one point, their goal was simply to assist Chinese immigrants, but over time, they evolved into criminal enterprises.

  “He should be scared, but it won’t be the Society of Peace that gets him,” said Xun.

  “What’s this all about? You still haven’t told me much.”

  “I’m going to work my way through the ranks of the Morning Dawn, and I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

  Cheung’s mouth was agape. “Wh-what are you talking about? You want to go to war with Zhao? Get embroiled with them?”

  “They brought it on themselves,” said Xun. “If they’d just let me live out my life in peace, none of this would need to happen.”

  * * *

  Although born and raised in China, Zhao quickly adopted an American identity upon arriving on the West Coast. He stroked the beard, which extended from his lips to the jawline and up his cheeks, leaving only his chin shaved. Zhao reached into his vest pocket and produced a gold watch. His appointment was late, by at least an hour. But Zhao knew he had no choice except wait longer.

  Zhao reached for the cigarette holder lying on his desk. At that movement, the tall, slim man who had stood in the corner of the room stepped out and lit the cigarette in the end of the long pipe. Zhao nodded to him.

  “Thank you, Wong.”

  Wong nodded and backed into the corner once more. His hat had a wide brim and thin wisps of hair extended from the sides of his lips. Wong clasped his hands and stood still, almost like a statue, and waited for his master to issue another command.

  “Are you ready to tell me about what happened last night in the town square?” asked Zhao.

  “Xun is back. He saw me watching him,” said Wong. “So I saw to it that Liu dealt with him.”

  “And?” asked Zhao.

  “Liu has burns over half his face. He’s still in pain. Xun vanished without consequence.”

  Zhao coughed, hacking out tufts of smoke. “He defeated Liu?”

  “Almost effortlessly,” said Wong. “I saw it happen.”

  Zhao groaned and sucked once more on the end of the cigarette holder. “Xun was one of our deadliest hatchet men. If he is running around Chinatown, causing trouble and attacking my men, this could pose trouble for the deal with our white friends.”

  Wong offered no response, just stared off into space.

  The silence broke by the door bursting open. A white man with dark hair and bright blue eyes entered the room, taking off his hat as he did. He sported a thin mustache above his lips and walked into Zhao’s office as if he owned the place.

  Zhao snapped up, standing at attention almost instantly and putting on a false smile. “Mr. Byrne, a pleasure to see you.” As Byrne approached, Zhao offered his hand in a gesture of friendship, but Byrne would not even acknowledge it. He stared down at Zhao’s desk, examining the cigar box. He opened the box and looked at the contents.

  “They’re quite good,” said Zhao. “Please—”

  Byrne took one from the case and bit off the end, spitting it on the floor. He sat in the chair before the desk and began to light the cigar.

  “—help yourself.” Zhao sighed and sat back in his chair. “I had been expecting you a little earlier.”

  “I had things to do.” Years of suppression had dulled Byrne’s Irish accent, but hints of it still remained. “ ’Sides, I got no desire to stay in some Chinky pit longer than I have to.”

  The slur made Zhao want to snatch the cigar from Byrne’s lips and plunge it in his eyes. But instead, he remained still and kept the smile on his face.

  “I am hoping, my friend, that we can count on the support of the Knights of Labor,” he said. “My men are working hard in those mines, and if we could bring an end to the tensions that exist between our two races, that would please me greatly.”

  Byrne puffed on the end of the cigar. “We’ll see what we can do. But don’t expect no miracles. You Chinamen need to remember your place. Long as you’re tryin’ to take jobs away from decent, hard workin’, God fearin’ white folks like my mates, we’re gonna have trouble.”

  Zhao just smiled and folded his hands on his desk. “Mr. Byrne, we have no desire to cause trouble. My men just wish to earn a living, to accomplish the American dream.”

  Byrne paused, staring at Zhao for a moment. He broke into a sudden smile and threw his head back as a boisterous laugh shook his entire body. “American dream? You lot? Yer not Americans. You’ll never be Americans. Even the government doesn’t want you here. Only reason you came over at all was because you work for nothin’.”

  Byrne settled back into the chair and puffed on the cigar. “But… I’m not unreasonable. We can come to some sort of arrangement.”

  “What sort of arrangement?” asked Zhao.

  “Upfront payment, and a cut of your businesses,” said Byrne. “And you start openin’ ’em up to white folk—that means the opium dens, the brothels, the gambling—no more exclusivity.”

  “O-of course,” said Zhao with a wide smile still.

  “And what’s this business about fights breakin’ out in the middle of town?” asked Byrne. “That kind of uncivilized behavior makes people nervous about you Chinamen.”

  “I’ll see to it that it is addressed,” said Zhao.

  “See that you do.” Byrne stood and put his hat on. Zhao stood as well, offering his hand once more. Again, Byrne ignored it, just turned and left the office. Once he’d gone, Zhao allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Hypocrite,” said Wong. “All the micks ever do is get drunk and fight.”

  “The Society
of Peace is gaining ground, they’re threatening our position,” said Zhao. “If the Morning Dawn is to survive, we need powerful friends. The Knights of Labor can be a boon to us, help us gain ground over the Society of Peace. Negotiating this deal has been a long time coming. Xun’s presence could cause trouble, make them think twice. What I don’t understand is why is he suddenly coming after us?”

  Wong shrugged, taking a silver cigarette case from his suit jacket.

  “See to it that he doesn’t,” said Zhao.

  “How would you like me to do that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” asked Zhao. “Kill him.”

  * * *

  Xun had been away all week. It was a three day ride out to San Francisco, where he could sell what was left of the harvest after his own family was taken care of and the stock was full in his town. The small village bordered Indian Territory, but they were mostly left alone. Their village was mostly made up of runaway slaves and disgruntled Chinese who tired of the persecution from white labor groups on the railroads and in the mines. They also grew increasingly frustrated with the Tongs, what were once called Benevolent Associations before they started representing criminal interests as opposed to the betterment of the Chinese immigrants.

  It was here that Xun met Ella. She worked in the fields of Mississippi, and so had some knowledge of farming. Xun had also worked as a farmer before coming to America, and had been eager to return to his roots.

  The horse drawn cart moved at a leisurely pace. Dusk was setting in. He longed to be back in his own bed, in the arms of his wife. On his approach, the scent of cooking meat wafted up his nostrils. Xun smiled. Hunters must have gotten lucky. It’d been some time since he had some good meat.

  But this was different. He’d smelled this before, and it struck him that this wasn’t some feast being prepared. Xun snapped the reins, the palomino whinnying before kicking up her pace. He could see the light of the flames as he came up over the hill. Another furious crack of the reins, and the horse sped up. Xun tugged back on the leather straps, and before the animal came to a complete stop, he’d already leapt from the wagon.