Asian Pulp

by Asian Pulp (retail) (epub)

“Yeah.” I could tell he was daring me to try grabbing it back. I didn’t fall for it.

  “Yeah? Let’s have a talk.” Riley took my upper right arm in his free hand and pulled me out of my chair. He dropped my .38 into the right outer pocket of his suit jacket.

  “Let me pay them.”

  “They’ll manage without you.” Riley hustled me along.

  I looked around, but all the patrons were now pointedly occupied with their menus and meals. The owners and the waitress seemed to be in the kitchen, out of sight. Nobody wanted to draw the attention of the two cops taking me away.

  Lingo crowded me from behind and jammed my fedora down on my head, chuckling.

  Outside the restaurant, the main courtyard was lit by decorative hanging lanterns and indirectly from the windows of various restaurants and shops. Music blared from the juke box in the penny arcade. As long as we were walking here, among tourists and employees, I wasn’t too worried. When we walked under a big gate of tiled roofs on stilts out to Main Street, I knew I was in trouble.

  We walked through a crosswalk to the other side and into an alley. Riley put a big hand on my chest and slammed me back against a brick wall, where my head thudded. My fedora fell off and little white lights spun around in my vision. He used his hand, with his weight behind it, to pin me there.

  “Let’s have a little talk, Chinaman.” He glanced over at his partner. “What do you think, Lingo?”

  “I agree,” said Lingo. “This is a democracy, so he’s outvoted. Isn’t that right?”

  “Let’s make it unanimous,” I suggested. “So talk.”

  “Okay, it’s unanimous,” said Riley. “You’ve had quite a day, haven’t you? A stylish young redhead comes to see you and suddenly you’re asking questions. And when we go to look, we find your name on the office door as part of George Moorville’s private detective agency. Lingo, do we like George? I can’t remember.” He grinned at his partner, having fun.

  “We liked him when he was a cop,” said Lingo. “If I remember right, we stopped liking him after he retired and hung out his own shingle.”

  Riley formed his free hand into a huge fist and slammed it into my stomach.

  Gagging and gasping for breath, I felt my legs go rubbery, but his other hand kept me up, pressed against the wall.

  “That was to get your attention,” said Riley. “Do I have your attention?”

  “You already had it,” I wheezed.

  “I already had it.” Riley barked out a phony laugh, then punched me in the gut again. “That’s for mouthing off.”

  My knees gave out and I collapsed into a kneeling position. I threw up the chicken chow mein on the alley’s broken pavement, barely missing my fedora.

  “Lingo, I’m getting downright tired. Why don’t you tell our friend here a little story?”

  “Ah, now, the Irish are famous storytellers,” said Lingo, with an Irish brogue he had just discovered. “So here goes. A beautiful colleen goes around asking questions that are really just our own personal business. And as we investigate this matter, we find out that she visited you today.”

  “And we love the colleens, don’t we?” Riley added. “So we weren’t looking to trouble the girl, seeing as how she had reached a dead end in her own search.”

  “We love the colleens,” Lingo agreed.

  Riley’s tone turned cold. “What did you find out in the Wing tong?”

  I was still gasping for breath. “It’s a family association.”

  “Of course it is. There never was any such thing as a tong, was there, Chinaman?”

  “They didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Faith and begorrah,” said Lingo. “Not a thing?”

  “We have a message for you and your tong,” said Riley. “And you might share it with the colleen if you like. Here it is: The old man wasn’t wise. You Chinamen take care of your own business in Chinatown, but China City’s our turf. Just remember, not all the rules have changed. You’re lucky we’re just a couple of soft-hearted micks. Now go on back to Chinatown where you belong and we’ll forgive and forget.”Lingo grabbed my left arm and hauled me to my feet, though I was unsteady. He yanked me backward so I was leaning against the wall again.

  “Oh, I forgot,” said Riley, making a big show of snapping his fingers in my face. “If we see you around again, we’ll kill you on sight.” He slammed his big fist into my gut one more time, and Lingo followed with a smashing left to my side. I fell to the ground as pain in my ribs shot through me with every breath.

  Their footsteps strolled away as I passed out.

  * * *

  “Mac, over here.” A young man’s voice reached me through the fog in my brain.

  Still lying in the alley, I heard two sets of footsteps on the sidewalk and a repeating, rhythmic squeak, as though moving wheels needed oiling. Two strong arms hooked under mine and lifted me up onto a seat, where I sagged sideways. Then two gentler hands took my ankles and lifted, bending my knees and propping my feet on something.

  “Mac, where to?” The voice was Tommy Chee’s. I was in his rickshaw.

  “That way,” said Derry MacSwain.

  The rickshaw began to move, bumping along uneven pavement. Maybe the rough ride helped me wake up. My eyes were open by the time we stopped.

  In the light from the porch of a small apartment house, Derry’s green eyes looked at me closely. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” I got out of the rickshaw and glanced at Tommy. “How did you find me?”

  “Mac asked me about a guy like you, suit and all. And I saw the cops rousting you out the gate, so we came looking.”

  “Thanks. I don’t forget a favor.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Rockefeller,” said Tommy. “I owe you fifteen more rides. But I got to get this thing back to China City before anybody realizes I’m off my usual routes.”

  As Tommy pulled away the rickshaw at a trot, Derry held my left arm in both hands and drew me inside the building. I staggered and my ribs hurt at each step.

  Inside Derry’s small apartment, she locked the door and sat me down in the kitchen under a single yellowish light. Next she unpinned the narrow, feathered hat from her hair and hung it carefully on a standing hat rack. She brought a hot, wet washcloth and cleaned my face as I leaned back in the chair. Her slender fingers were gentle.

  “Here.” She held out an opened bottle of amber fluid. “No mick jokes.”

  I took a long slug. Rye whiskey burned in my throat, helping to bring me around. “Why were they following you?” I asked.

  “Who?” She set the bottle on a table, then returned to cleaning me with the hot washcloth.

  Even in my battered state, anger flared through me. “The two detectives who worked me over. Are you saying you didn’t know about them?”

  “I didn’t know anybody was following me,” said Derry. “What did they say?”

  “They called you stylish and a beautiful colleen.”

  “So they have good taste. What else did they say?”

  “They think the Wing Family Association’s a tong and I’m part of it. But they said not all the rules have changed.”

  “What rules?”

  “I’m guessing here. But I think they meant the ex-mayor.”

  “Shaw? What about him?”

  “Him and his brother Joe.”

  In September, Mayor Frank L. Shaw had been thrown out of office in a recall election. George Moorville had given me all the inside dope about the Shaw brothers. The mayor had appointed his brother Joe to some city position, but Joe Shaw’s real job was to be a political fixer. He ran the police and fire departments, which made them accountable only to him. In 1937 a bomb went off in the car of a private detective and ex-cop who was investigating the Shaw administration. That prompted George Moorville to watch related events closely. The private investigator survived and a police department captain was convicted in the bombing, but scuttlebutt said the order came from City Hall.

  “Paul Wah
-lim Wing,” I said. “Do the shops in China City pay protection money to the cops?”

  “I don’t know,” said Derry. “They killed him, didn’t they? Those two cops in the alley?”

  “They said he wasn’t wise.”

  “Wise to what?”

  “The unwritten rules—a jockey throwing a race, a bribe to certain politicians, or paying cops on the street for police protection. Anything like that.”

  “He wasn’t wise?” Derry drew back with the washcloth for a moment. “He didn’t pay them protection money for his shop in China City, so they killed him?”

  “You said he was killed in August.”

  “Yes.”

  “China City opened in July. I think these two, Riley and Lingo, were trying to set up their usual crooked game in the new businesses. They told me it was their turf, not Chinatown turf. The way I see it, when Wing refused to pay, they killed him, playing by their old rules. But when Shaw got booted from office in September, Joe Shaw went, too, and the whole game changed. Without Joe Shaw to cover for them, they didn’t know what the new rules were. But they knew you were nosing around about the killing. And just in case I turned up evidence about the Wing murder, they wanted me to be wise to the fact that not all the rules had changed—meaning they’ll kill again to keep the Wing killing unsolved.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you tonight?”

  “Because you’re my client. They didn’t worry about killing Wing and they wouldn’t worry about killing me if I was on my own, even without Joe Shaw to cover for them.”

  “Wait a minute. Are they planning to kill me?”

  “If they were going to kill you, they would have already. Don’t you see? A dead young white woman—a beautiful colleen—would be all over the headlines. They don’t want to risk that with Joe Shaw gone and the new city administration in place. And that’s what kept me alive tonight. But if they’re pushed, I’ll be next, not you.”

  “What about your boss? Can George Moorville arrest them?”

  “For killing Wing? Without any evidence?” I noticed she didn’t bother to ask about arresting them for beating me. In her own way, she was plenty wise.

  “He was a grouchy old coot,” she said softly. “In Old Chinatown, he paid dues to the Family Association knowing he’d get real help. He wouldn’t have paid detectives for anything he hadn’t paid for in Old Chinatown. He’d had his old shop for too long and he was damned stubborn.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I answered everything you asked.” Her voice turned cold. “I want them. I want them bad.”

  “How did you know Paul Wing?” I demanded. “Was he a friend of your family, your lover, your fiancé, your sugar daddy, or what?” Even while I was speaking, I decided lover and fiancé were off the list. Given his age, he could have been a friend of her parents or a sugar daddy with a taste for a flame-haired colleen—but I didn’t see how an old man with a Chinese produce shop would get rich enough to be a sugar daddy.

  She looked at my left shoulder, where my unbuttoned suit jacket had opened enough to reveal the empty shoulder holster. “Where’s your gun?”

  “The big cop took it. Now how about answering my question?”

  Her phone rang, interrupting whatever new evasion she had ready for me. She said hello, then brought over the receiver so we could both hear. “It’s Tommy,” she said. “And Lee’s listening,” she added to Tommy.

  “Those cops got some kind of brass,” said Tommy. “By the time I got back, they were having dinner in the same restaurant they dragged Lee out of.”

  “They’re making a point,” I said. “Any patrons who saw them take me out can see it’s their turf. Have you seen them around before?”

  “Sure. They eat lunch in China City every so often, in different places. When they come in at night, they go over to one of the bars later and drink.”

  “Do they pay?”

  “You’re kidding, right? These two? The owners don’t even present a bill. Everything’s on the house.”

  “Do you know if the cops require that? As part of a protection racket?”

  “Well, no,” Tommy conceded. “I just think the owners know what to do. They’re handling it Chinese style.”

  Again, what Americans would call a bribe, a lot of Chinese people considered courtesy and respect—and being on the safe side where the authorities were concerned.

  When Derry spoke, her mouth was close to mine as we shared the phone receiver. “They’ll be in China City having drinks tonight?”

  “Mac, I can see them from where I’m standing. They’re going into a bar as we speak.”

  “Thanks, Tommy. Bye for now.” She hung up.

  Derry MacSwain stood up straight, picked up the rye, and tilted the bottle back for three swallows, making her long, curly red hair fall away from her pretty face and sway in the air. Then she straightened, still holding the bottle, and her green eyes fixed on mine. “You want ’em as bad as I do?”

  * * *

  I waited in the same alley with Derry MacSwain and Tommy Chee. Tommy had his rickshaw and Derry had a plan. I was along for a literal ride.

  “You really think you can lure them out here?” I asked.

  “I’m a beautiful colleen, remember?” She used both hands to flip her hair out from her shoulders. Her feathered hat had been left at home.

  I liked her answer. No false modesty from Derry MacSwain.

  “Just be careful, Mac,” said Tommy.

  “I have whiskey breath and I’ll tell ’em how sorry I am for causing trouble. And I’ll tell the fat one how rugged he looks. They’re drinking up because they don’t have to pay. You think they won’t want to blow that gin joint and take a walk with me?”

  An hour and a half had passed since Tommy had reported the detectives going into the bar. Derry had called him back to get ongoing reports. They were still drinking and flirting with the waitresses when she came up with her plan. She had washed out her mouth with more rye and spat it into the sink this time. Then she had grabbed a big leather shoulder bag and led me out of her apartment.

  Now, without another word, Derry adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and walked across Main Street. She entered China City under the gate with tiled roofs like I had, hours earlier. Music from the juke box reached us even here. Every so often a string of firecrackers went off as part of some event. Tommy and I watched her disappear and waited in silence.

  Nineteen minutes later, Derry stumbled out between Lingo and Riley, laughing gaily and clinging to their arms to keep her balance. The big shoulder bag swayed widely as she walked. I could hear chatter from all three, but at this distance, I couldn’t make out the words. Lingo and Riley grinned and helped her keep her feet as they walked in our direction.

  I got into the rickshaw seat and Tommy lifted the shafts. He trotted away from Main Street, up the alley, to the next block. Then, as planned, he turned left and then left again at the first street corner. A third left took us back to Main Street, but now he was taking me down the block so we would pass the alley on our left with the China City gate on our right. If anyone saw us, I was just a late night customer in a cheap suit and fedora taking a rickshaw ride outside China City.

  Up ahead, I could see the mouth of the alley, just barely lit in the roundish glow of a streetlight. Derry turned her stagger into a kind of playful jig, hanging on the arms of both detectives, laughing and joking as she maneuvered them. She got Riley to turn so that he faced away from us, his right side close to Main Street.

  The outer pocket on the side of his jacket still bulged with the shape of my snub-nosed .38 Colt Detective Special, with five rounds and the hammer on one empty chamber, as George Moorville had taught me.

  Lingo, who was facing our direction, gave a cursory glance up the street toward us. I was leaning low, the front brim of my fedora jammed down, knowing that passing through the lights and shadows on
the street would help disguise me. Riley and Lingo probably figured I had slunk back to my Chinatown tong.

  “Oh, you drunken micks don’t love me,” Derry teased. The big shoulder bag swayed with her movements. “You’d kiss me if you did.” Still holding Riley’s left arm in one hand and Lingo’s right arm in the other, she danced a bit and then stumbled into Riley. He had a wide grin, fully enjoying the show Derry put on and anticipating where it might lead. “Whooo’s going to kiss me first?” She puckered up, offering that bright red lipstick to Riley just as Tommy was passing alongside them.

  I braced my arms and legs, then hopped off the rickshaw and landed at a run right at Riley.

  Tommy Chee continued at a trot, getting himself and China City’s rickshaw away from trouble and back where it belonged.

  Derry MacSwain saw me coming and jerked back on both men’s arms, giggling wildly.In the same moment, I ran up alongside Riley and dipped my hand into his side pocket with my left hand. I grabbed my .38 and tossed it to my right hand.

  Lingo’s eyes widened. “Riley! That Chinaman’s back!” He reached inside the pocket of his suit jacket and drew his handgun.

  Even Riley’s booze-fogged brain understood the danger. Despite his age and his slowed reflexes, he reached into his own shoulder holster.

  George Moorville had taught me about shooting at men who will shoot back. He emphasized that any snub-nosed firearm is only good for close quarters. No matter how true the barrel, he said, your hand is likely shaking with excitement and the snub nose doesn’t have enough length to give the bullet a straight shot for much distance. He said, think of the short barrel as your forefinger and point it at your target with a jerky move each time you squeeze the trigger. I spotted James Cagney firing a pistol that way in “Angels with Dirty Faces” not long after that.

  In comparison, Lingo was drawing a big chrome 1911 Colt .45 semiautomatic. It had a much bigger, truer barrel and a lot more punching power.

  While Detective Lingo brought his handgun out and up to shoot me, I was still running toward him. I jerked the end of the short barrel at his dress shirt and tie and squeezed the trigger at the same time. The bullet hit him in the chest and his hand reflexively fired his gun, sending a bullet past me and into the alley wall beyond Riley. Still closing in on Lingo as he staggered back, I pointed the end of the snub nosed barrel at his torso again and fired. Struck a second time, he crumpled to the filthy pavement.