Asian Pulp

by Asian Pulp (retail) (epub)

  Tao turned her back to him, staring out the window. “And if you don’t come back?”

  “There’s a man named Cheung, he runs an opium den. He’ll be expecting you. If I don’t come back, he can help you leave,” said Xun.

  She nodded slightly. “Okay. But I’d prefer it if you came back, Xun. You’re the first real friend I’ve made since I got dragged to this damned country, and you can’t leave me with nobody to talk to.”

  Xun stood and approached her from behind. He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a light kiss atop her head, as he would have kissed a younger sister. “Be back before you know it.”

  “That a promise?” she asked, now looking up into his eyes.

  Xun wasn’t sure what it was. But he gave her a smirk and a nod. And then he lied to her. “Absolutely.”

  Tao’s smile hesitated before it appeared. She knew it was a lie as well, she knew that there was a very good chance this was the last time she’d see him. But it was a lie she chose to believe in and finally, her smile appeared.

  “Hurry back.”

  * * *

  Zhao wandered around his gambling parlor, with Wong by his side and Byrne stepping ahead of them, apparently not at all impressed with what he’d seen so far. Games the Tongs brought over from China, such as mahjong and fan-tan, were played at the various tables. There were a few tables using more traditional cards or liar’s dice, but even this was not enough to win over Byrne’s attention.

  “There’s a lot of money to be made out here,” said Zhao. “People come in night after night, spend almost their entire pay right here or in the brothels or opium dens.”

  Byrne scoffed. “Not sure if the money is worth the risk.” He paused and scratched his chin. “Look Zhao, things are getting out of control over here. Why would I go into business with a man who may not be around in another few months?”

  Zhao chuckled nervously. “Oh come on, the Morning Dawn isn’t going anywhere. There’s nothing to worry about, our operation is secure.”

  “Is it?” asked Byrne. “That Society of whatchacallit—”

  “Peace,” said Zhao.

  “Society of Peace, thank you,” said Byrne. “Seems they gainin’ ground out here. You may not be the king of the hill for much longer. And I don’t think I wanna risk bein’ associated with someone like you.”

  Byrne continued walking, moving closer to the door, and Zhao and Wong quickly caught up with him. Once they reached the entrance, Byrne turned to Zhao and patted his shoulder.

  “Listen, it’s nothin’ personal. You’re alright for a yellow bastard,” he said. “But you coolies are just too unpredictable. Too wild. Can’t trust a man like that, not in this business.”

  Byrne turned his back on Zhao and left the parlor. After the door closed behind him, Zhao’s smile turned into a scowl. He spun on his heel and faced Wong.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” he asked. “Why is the Society going to war with us? Why are they killing our men anywhere they can find them?”

  Wong sighed. “I did some digging. Asked around. Word on the street is one of our men tried to buy a girl from a Society house. Society said the price was too low, so our guy told him that’s all she was worth. Still refused to pay, and long story short, the Society guy ended up dead.”

  Zhao’s eyebrows rose and his lips curled in a look of confusion. “Wait… who gave any of our guys permission to buy a new girl? We got enough as is.”

  Wong shrugged. “I checked with our men, all of them have been accounted for on the night in question. Someone’s been trading on our name, it seems.”

  “Xun.” Zhao groaned. “He shows up here after years away, starts causing trouble, and then disappears. After that, the Society starts targeting us.”

  Wong nodded. “He probably did this to draw us into conflict with the Society for whatever reason.”

  “We have to take him down, tell the Society what’s going on,” said Zhao.

  “You want me to get a message to Wei that you want to meet?”

  “No, I’ll set it up. I want you to find Xun,” said Zhao. “We’ll bring Wei that traitor’s head on a pike. That ought to calm things down.”

  Wong nodded. “Understoo—”

  A deafening explosion rocked the parlor, blowing a hole in the front of the building. Could only have been dynamite laid there by someone. Wong pushed Zhao to the ground and reached for his gun. He shouted commands to the other Tongs who were still standing, and they brought their weapons to the ready.

  They approached the entrance, peering through the smoke and flames to try and find the man who would dare to attempt such a maneuver. The Tongs waved their hatchets and hands in front of them, trying to clear away the haze. They inched closer and closer to the opening, but they found no sign of the perpetrator.

  “Something’s not right,” said Zhao. “Society wouldn’t leave it at that, and they couldn’t run off that quickly.”

  “That’s because this isn’t the Society,” said Wong.

  One of the Tongs near the rear of the group was so fixated on the damage caused by the dynamite that he failed to notice the hatchet that came from behind, the hilt pressed up against his windpipe. He was pulled back into the darkness before he could make a sound.

  Another Tong who stood a few feet in front turned. “Jiang?” He moved closer and a dagger flew from the darkness, striking him in the center of his forehead and dropping him to the ground. A third Tong felt something hard press up against the back of his head and froze. He turned his head slightly, slowly, and saw the outline of the man who held the gun pressed to his head.

  “Shh,” said Xun, putting a finger to his lips. The hammer was already primed, his finger resting on the trigger.

  “He’s here—!”

  Boom!

  The gunshot drew the attention of the remaining six of the Morning Dawn. They brought their guns to the ready and opened fire. Xun vanished back into the shadows, waiting as bullets filled the air, the stench of gunpowder overwhelming his nostrils. The Tongs fired blindly into the gambling parlor, hoping to hit their former brother, and one by one, hammers clicked against empty chambers.

  While they tried to reload, Xun moved into action. Five shots before he had to reload. The gas lights were dim and he took cover under a table. As one of them came by, Xun rolled out on the ground, firing into the man’s chest. He sprung up, cocking back the hammer and firing off another shot.

  Three rounds. Four Tongs.

  Xun jumped onto the table and slid across, legs parted and fired again, striking a Tong right as his feet hit the dead man’s chest and sent him flying back. Xun hit the ground and crouched, and let off another round. Two Tongs left, one of them was Zhao. But Zhao’s man had managed to reload and fired at Xun.

  The gunslinger jumped as the bullet cut through the air, and struck the ground. Xun rolled a little and then laid there perfectly still. The Tong watched with rapt attention. He kept his Colt aimed at the stationary body. Slowly, his eyes went to Zhao.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

  The Tong looked back and inched closer and closer to Xun. His gun held steady, he nudged the body slightly with his foot. No movement. The Tong knelt down and raised the hat. Xun’s eyes were wide open, his mouth slightly agape. The Tong stood and faced Zhao.

  “He’s dead.”

  Before Zhao could exhale in relief, a gunshot rang out and the Tong dropped to the floor. Xun stood upright and approached the leader of the Morning Dawn. Zhao backed away from him, trying to take aim with his Colt, but his hand was shaking too much to keep it steady.

  “What is this?” asked Zhao. “You were one of us! Why now? Why all this?”

  “Should’ve thought of that,” said Xun, still calmly striding toward him. “Before you killed my family.”

  “Family?” asked Zhao. “What family? What are you talking about?”

  “My family. My village,” said Xun. “You destroyed them both.”

&
nbsp; Zhao’s jaw dropped. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Lies won’t help you any more.” Xun held up the gun and pulled back the hammer. He raised the gun to eye level and pulled the trigger. The hammer slammed against the chamber and…

  Click.

  Zhao breathed, his forehead now slick with nervous sweat.

  “Used all my rounds on your men.” Xun holstered the Peacemaker, and from that holster, his hand moved behind his back, pulling free the hatchet. “But I knew that. Figured you would need a more… personal touch.”

  “Xun… please,” said Zhao, dropping to his knees, laying his hands on the floor in front of him in submission. “I had nothing to do with your family! Didn’t even know you had a family! Didn’t even know you were alive!”

  “What did I tell you…” Xun raised the hatchet in the air, poised to strike, “…about lying?”

  Boom!

  Xun gasped, his arm still holding the hatchet up in the air. Zhao fell, a bullet hole in the back of his skull. Standing a few feet away was Wong. Xun looked up, recognized him as the man he saw in the restaurant all those weeks ago.

  Wong tossed the gun aside. He discarded the jacket of his western suit, a black vest underneath. He also tossed aside his hat. Wong drew a hatchet as well and passed it back and forth between his right and left hands.

  “He wasn’t lying,” said Wong. “Neither Zhao nor the Morning Dawn had anything to do with your family. It was me.”

  Xun eyed him with surprise. “You? But… who are you?”

  “The Knights of Labor are lobbying hard to get the government to crack down on our people,” said Wong. “A hatchet man going on a killing spree? That’s a great way to drum up fear among the whites. Get them paranoid about us Chinese. So I had your village destroyed and your family killed. Knew it would either drive you into a murderous rage or make you kill yourself. With you going on a rampage, that would scare a lot of people. But then you went and caused a war between the Tongs. See now that—I couldn’t have planned that better myself.”

  Xun lowered the hatchet, tightening his grip on the handle. “Why?”

  Wong scoffed. “I just told you why. The Knights of Labor—”

  “No, I mean why me?” asked Xun. “You could have caused trouble without coming after my family. I was gone, I was no longer a threat. So again: why me?”

  “Because my name is Wong.”

  Xun shook his head. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Ten years ago, my father was paying protection money to you. He fell on hard times. He couldn’t pay. You made it a habit of beating him senseless, taking what little he had. Told him if he didn’t pay up soon, you’d start chopping off body parts,” said Wong. “He hung himself.”

  “That’s what this is about. That’s what it all boils down to,” said Xun. “Revenge.”

  “Of course.” Wong twirled the hatchet. “You didn’t think your past would stay buried, did you?”

  “You wanted revenge, you should’ve come after me and me alone. I wouldn’t have raised a finger against you. You would’ve been justified in taking my head,” said Xun. “But you chose to take the lives of innocent people instead. And now, I’m going to see to it that you pay for that.”

  A sinister grin spread across Wong’s face. “You’re welcome to try.”

  Xun rushed forward and raised his hatchet. Wong brought his own up, the metal scraping against each other. Xun pulled away, then swung his weapon at Wong’s face. The Tong bent backwards and then stepped to the side, dragging the hatchet against Xun’s ribs.

  The gunslinger pulled away, his free hand gripping the wound created by his enemy. Wong shook the blood from his hatchet and raised it up for another strike. He made the first move, going for Xun’s stomach. Xun jumped back, but Wong followed the attempted strike with a roundhouse kick. It hit Xun’s jaw and he reeled, spinning back and falling. His grip on the hatchet was loosed and the weapon clattered against the floor.

  “That’s that. You gave it your all, but I guess in the end, you just weren’t up to this sort of thing any more.”

  Wong towered over him and raised up the hatchet, ready for the killing strike. Xun rolled away, taking out his last dagger and stabbing Wong in the foot. The hit man wailed his pain. Xun lunged for his weapon, wrapped his hands around it, and was back on his feet. He pulled his arm back and in a fluid motion, extended it forward, his fingers opening and the hatchet flying from his grip. Wong’s head rocked back once the axe hit him square in the center of his forehead. Blood trickled down the sides of his nose, his eyes still wide, and then he collapsed.

  * * *

  With the help of Tao and Cheung, Xun was stitched and bandaged up. He was laid up in bed for a few days. Cheung even gave him some opium for the pain. On the third day, Xun awoke and saw Tao watching over him.

  “You came back,” she said.

  “Thanks to you,” said Xun.

  She smiled. “We gonna move on somewhere else?”

  Xun shook his head. “I’ll give you some money, you can go off on your own. But this goes beyond the Tongs. The Knights of Labor are making more and more aggressive moves against the Chinese. Somebody’s gotta stand up for them.”

  “That somebody’s gotta be you, don’t it?” she asked.

  Xun nodded. “Maybe this way I can start washing away some of my sins.”

  Tao just grinned. “If you’re gonna do that, you’ll need my help.”

  Xun sat up, cringing as he did. “This isn’t gonna be easy. We’re gonna have everyone against us. Not only the Society and the remnants of the Dawn, but the Knights of Labor, maybe even the police.”

  Tao shrugged. “Not like I had anything better to do.”

  Xun grinned, looking over at his clothes and weapons. The hatchet was right on top. After all the bad he’d done with it, it was time he started using it to do some good.

  CHINA CITY FLAME

  by

  William F. Wu

  — :: —

  February 19, 1939

  Los Angeles, California

  Two crooked cops lay dead in the alley behind me when I regained consciousness in the dead of night. No one else was in sight. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer.

  My blood pulsed with panic as I stood up in the shadows. Across Main Street, red and yellow flames roared inside China City, the walled tourist district. With my ribs and jaw aching from a beating I had taken earlier in the evening, I staggered out to the sidewalk and watched the blaze through the outer gate, made of high stilts supporting symbolic tiled roofs. China City was all business, so no one lived there. The employees were long gone.

  I didn’t know who had set the fire, but right now I couldn’t afford to care.

  * * *

  You might say this case was a beauty. She stopped in the doorway of my office, her pretty features distorted as she looked around with a skeptical scowl. Her fiery red hair was parted on one side and fell in large, natural curls to her shoulders. A narrow forest-green hat was pinned to her hair at a forward angle, with a sharp point in front and a black feather curving back. In her mid-twenties, she was just a few years younger than I was. On a slim frame with excellent curves, she wore a clinging cream-colored silk blouse with padded shoulders and long sleeves over a snug gray skirt.

  “ ‘Lee Gum-Sum Leung,’ ” she read off the black lettering on the glass in the open door. “That would be you, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.” I had barely finished stenciling my name before her four o’clock appointment, so the paint was still wet. Since my boss, George Moorville, had just rented this second story office for me, I didn’t have a receptionist. My desk, where I was sitting, was scratched and dented. As I glanced her over, my suit from a secondhand store seemed cheaper than ever.

  She entered, studying the worn, slightly sagging hardwood floor and blank walls of old white paint.

  “Derry MacSwain?” I walked around my desk. My mother had taugh
t me that a woman should have the prerogative of shaking hands or not, so I let her choose. “I’m Lee Leung.”

  She held out a pale, slender hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Leung.” Her grip was firm and her green eyes met mine as she spoke. A spray of freckles crossed her cheeks and nose.

  “I’m pleased to meet you. Please sit down.” I patted the back of the only chair in front of the desk, an uncomfortable straight-backed piece from the same secondhand store.

  Those green eyes flickered toward the seat of the chair, as though it might be unsanitary. Still, she angled her butt to plant it carefully before leaning back against the upright slats and crossing her legs. I figured her arrival was the best thing that ever happened to that chair.

  “How can I help you, Miss MacSwain?” I sat down.

  Instead of answering, she gazed over my right shoulder, where the window was open without a screen. Like most late February afternoons in Los Angeles, the day was comfortable as long as the sun remained up. The evening would cool quickly.

  “China City,” she said quietly, as though to herself.

  China City had been built to attract tourists on a block inside Spring, Main, Ord, and Macy streets. The place had opened last June, three weeks before the so-called New Chinatown on Broadway nearby. Both developments resulted from the original Chinatown of Los Angeles being razed for the new Union Station, which was still under construction

  I was enjoying my own view.

  The hem of the gray skirt just barely draped over her knee. She held a small red leather purse on her lap. The foot that dangled in the air wore a shoe of deep red, with a three-inch heel and a rounded toe with a little bow. Her nylons were more beige than the pale skin of her arms. The golden sunlight played on her pert Irish nose and classic cheekbones like Katharine Hepburn’s. The red lipstick didn’t quite match her hair or her shoes. Her eyes had a very faint droop, perhaps as though she were sad.

  “Miss MacSwain?” I gave her my most professional voice, disguising the fact that I earned a living hauling crates at my uncle’s warehouse in New Chinatown.

  “You’re from here, aren’t you? You don’t have an accent.”