Dragonfire

by Bill Pronzini

  I passed the offices of the Young China Daily, a couple of social clubs, and several doorways that led to tenement apartments. The door to Number Sixteen was painted green; the mailbox attached to it had no name on it. Public anonymity was a big thing among Chinatown residents. Even somebody as notorious as Mau Yee observed the custom of unmarked mailboxes.

  Across from Sixteen were a row of benches and some spindly trees and a fenced-in section of tennis and volleyball courts. I sat sideways on one of the benches, looking up at the fire escape and the windows in Jimmy Quon’s building. There was not much to see. The fire escape had a potted tree on it; some of the windows were shaded and some had curtains and one was open partway. A young woman moved around behind the open one, doing something I couldn’t see. Quon’s woman? I wondered if he was in there somewhere. I wondered if Lee Chuck had got in touch with him yet.

  But I wasn’t here to confront Mau Yee; that would have been another blunder. I just wanted to see where he lived, familiarize myself with the surroundings in the event I had to come looking for him here. So I did not stay long, just a couple of minutes. Then I got up and went back the way I’d come.

  I would need to familiarize myself with Jimmy Quon, too, I thought as I headed down toward Portsmouth Square. As it was, I knew little enough about him; I didn’t even know what he looked like. Kam Fong could supply a description and some information about his habits, but that could wait. There was something else I needed to do first, outside Chinatown. Something more important.

  I needed to get myself a gun.

  Ten

  Milo Petrie opened the door of his house in the Western Addition, saw me standing there on the porch, and said in surprised tones, “Jesus Christ, what’re you doing here?”

  He was a lean, hawk-nosed guy in his sixties, with plenty of spunk left in him—a retired patrolman who had spent most of his years on the force at the Ingleside Station. Nowadays he worked part-time as a security guard and field operative for private agencies like the one that used to be mine. He also had a collection of guns, and because I didn’t own one myself, hadn’t since I’d left the Department, he had let me borrow a handgun a time or two in the past for special jobs.

  I said, “I need a favor, Milo.”

  “Yeah? How come you’re not home in bed?”

  “Why should I be home in bed?”

  “Man, you just got out of the hospital. You shouldn’t be out in weather like this.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Can I come in?”

  “Hell, yes, you can come in. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I will be if you’ve got some coffee.”

  “Always a pot on the stove.”

  He led me into the kitchen, pulled out a chair for me at the table, and poured coffee into a couple of mugs. “Wife’s not here,” he said as he handed me one. “Visiting relatives up in Oregon. That’s where I was too, until Sunday; that’s why I didn’t come see you in the hospital. I didn’t even hear about the shooting until three days after it happened.”

  I nodded, drank some of the coffee.

  “Christ, what a rotten thing,” Milo said. “You think Eberhardt’s gonna make it?”

  “He’ll make it,” I said.

  “The boys have any idea who did it yet? Or why?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “A Chinaman—that’s one for the books. But they’ll get him. A thing like this, a cop getting shot, they don’t let up. You know that.”

  “Sure.” The coffee was bitter, full of chicory; it warmed me, but it also irritated my stomach and reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day. “About that favor, Milo.”

  “Just name it,” he said.

  “I want to borrow a handgun.”

  He frowned. “What do you need a piece for?”

  “Protection.”

  “From what?”

  “I’d feel safer with it, that’s all. I got shot once; I don’t want it to happen again.”

  “You mean you think that Chinaman might come after you? I thought he was trying for Eberhardt and you just got in the way.”

  “That’s how it was,” I said. “But he might figure I had a better look at him than the Department let on. I don’t want to take any chances.”

  Milo was silent for a time, watching me. Then he said, “You sure that’s all it is?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “Like maybe you got ideas about hunting the Chinaman yourself. That wouldn’t be smart.”

  “Milo, look, I want the gun for protection. You don’t want to let me have one, just say so. I’ll go somewhere else.”

  He watched me a while longer. “Okay,” he said finally.

  “I guess you know what you’re doing. And you sure as hell got a right to protect yourself. What kind you want?”

  “Thirty-eight Special. Same one I borrowed last time, if you still have it.”

  “I have it. The holster, too?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve still got my carry permit.”

  “Drink your coffee,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He went away, and I drank the coffee and looked through the window into his backyard. There was a barbecue pit out there that reminded me of the one in Eberhardt’s yard; I quit looking through the window.

  Milo came back pretty soon, carrying the .38 tucked into its belt holster. When he gave it over to me he said, “It’s loaded. You want any extra ammo?”

  “If six rounds aren’t enough, I won’t be around to worry about extras.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t have to use it.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  I declined his offer of another cup of coffee, said I would keep in touch, and got out of there. There was a chance he would report the loan of the gun, if he thought I was up to something, but I doubted it. Milo was the type to mind his own business. And even if he did report it, it wouldn’t be a problem. I had a right to protect myself, just as he’d said, and nobody at the Hall was going to hassle me on that score.

  It was after four by the time I entered my flat. I stripped off my overcoat and jacket and went into the bathroom. Wrapped inside the sling, my left arm was like something that no longer belonged to me, a prosthetic device where the arm used to be. The fingers were cramped up so that the hand resembled a claw; I could barely move them.

  Cripple, I thought. One-armed bandit with a gun.

  I went back into the bedroom and dialed Ben Chadwick’s number in Hollywood. “I’ve got the information you wanted,” he said. “Get yourself something to write with.”

  “Just a second.” I rummaged around in the nightstand drawer, found a pen and a notepad, and then tucked the receiver between my chin and shoulder so I could write. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Carl Emerson. Thirty-seven Camelia Drive, Burlingame. Divorced, four years. Ex-wife’s name is Jeanne Emerson; she lives in San Francisco, twenty-eight sixty Vallejo, apartment four-B. I figured you’d want her address too.”

  “I do. Does Emerson have a criminal record?”

  “Not even a traffic citation.”

  “Uh-huh. Go ahead.”

  “Philip Bexley. Thirty-four nineteen North Point, San Francisco. Married, two children. One arrest, in 1969, for assault; charges dropped. Bar fight, no big deal.”

  “Got it.”

  “Orin Tedescu. Eighty Cypress Lane, Pacifica. Married, no children. Three arrests for drunk driving, all in the past four years, the latest one ten months ago; had his license suspended for half a year. Nothing else.”

  When I finished writing I asked, “Did you find out anything about Mid-Pacific Electronics?”

  “Not much. Emerson, Bexley, and Tedescu own the company; you already know that. Successful outfit, respectable, no hint of anything going on under the table.”

  “Have any of the three got a sideline? Another business, anything like that?”

  “I didn’t turn it up, if so,” Chadwick said. “But I didn’t dig all that deep.
You want me to do some more checking?”

  “If you would.”

  “Sure. You’re into me big in the favor department, you know that?”

  “I know it. Just say the word if you need anything.”

  “Even though you don’t have a license?”

  “Even though I don’t have a license.”

  “Call me tomorrow,” he said. And added meaningfully, “If you’re still out and around.”

  After we rang off I took another look at what he’d given me. Not much there, aside from the addresses. The link between one of those three men and Mau Yee, if there was a link, was buried. I still did not know enough even to speculate on what it was.

  I went and got my notebook out of my coat and then dialed Kam Fong’s number. Eight rings, no answer. The description of Jimmy Quon, the background data, would have to wait until tomorrow.

  In the kitchen, I opened a can of soup and dumped it into a saucepan. While it was heating I set out some cheese and crackers, a package of mortadella, an overripe tomato. I didn’t want any of it, but I kept telling myself I had to have the nourishment. The first few bites seemed to want to lodge in my throat; after that everything went down all right.

  Fatigue had begun to drag at me, winding me down like an old clock. There were things I could do yet tonight, but the smart thing was to get into bed and rest. And the smart thing, after a not very smart day, was what I had better do.

  Off the kitchen was a small utility porch; I went out there to make sure the back door, which opened onto a flight of stairs tacked onto the Victorian’s side wall, and the porch windows were secure. Then I came back into the living room to put the chain on the front door and the lights out. Only I did not get a chance to do either of those things because in the hallway outside, somebody started scraping around in the door latch.

  I stopped, tensing, and dragged the .38 out of its holster. The scraping sounds continued—either a key or a lock pick. I backed over toward the couch, half bent in the middle, with the gun out in front of me and my heart slugging away in my chest.

  And the door opened and Kerry walked in.

  When she saw me standing there with the gun she made a frightened bleating noise and dropped the ring of keys she had in her hand. “My God!” she said. “What are you doing?”

  The tension fled all at once, leaving me limp. The .38 felt hot now, as if it had already gone off in silence, and my hand was shaking enough to make it wobble; I shoved it into the holster as I straightened up. On the carpet between us, the keys glinted in the room light. I had given her a key some time back; that was how she’d got into the building without buzzing from downstairs, how she’d got into the flat.

  “Christ,” I said, “I might have shot you. Why the hell didn’t you ring the bell?”

  “I thought you might be in bed. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Why have you got that gun?”

  Dull anger made my head pound. I moved around the couch and sat down, panting a little; something had gone wrong with my breathing. Kerry shut the door, bent to pick up the keys, and then came over and perched on the far side of the couch. She was no longer frightened, but her face was full of concern. The green chameleon eyes were almost black with it.

  I said, “Why did you come here unannounced like that?”

  “I wanted to see you. I drove straight over from work.”

  “You could have called first.”

  “I did call, twice this afternoon. You weren’t here.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Answer my question,” she said.

  “What question?”

  “About that gun. Why are you wearing a gun?”

  “For protection,” I said.

  “Protection from what?”

  “I got shot last week, remember?”

  “And you think the gunman might come after you a-gain? That’s ridiculous. He wasn’t after you, he was after Eberhardt.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. Neither do I.”

  “Is that who you thought I was? The gunman?”

  “What else was I supposed to think? I wasn’t expecting you. I told you I’d call when I was ready to see you again.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. “There’s something else going on, something you’re hiding.”

  I was still having trouble with my breathing. Hyperventilation, maybe. I lay my head against the back of the couch and made myself take air in slow inhalations through my mouth.

  Kerry said, “Will you please, for God’s sake, tell me what’s happening!”

  “No. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You think I’m blind? Look at you: you’re exhausted, you’re tense, you’re white as a sheet. You’ve been acting funny for days, you went out somewhere yesterday and you were gone all day today. And now you’re wearing a gun. I may not be a detective, but I can figure out what all of that means.”

  My lungs were working better now. I lifted my head and looked at her. “Can you?”

  “You’re hunting that gunman,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I think you are. What I can’t understand is why. Vengeance, is that it? Some sort of crazy vendetta?”

  “No.”

  “If you find him, then what? Will you shoot him down in cold blood?”

  “I’m not a killer. Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Then don’t think anything. Let me take care of myself.”

  “But you’re not taking care of yourself, that’s the point.

  What if the police find out what you’re doing? What if they find out you’re carrying that gun?”

  “I’ve got a permit for the gun,” I said.

  “They could put you in jail for interfering with a police investigation. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Nobody’s going to put me in jail.”

  “Or else you’ll wind up right back in the hospital,” she said. “Don’t you care about your health?”

  “I care about it. I care about a lot of things.”

  “Including me?”

  “You don’t have to ask that question.”

  “Then why won’t you confide in me? Why won’t you listen to reason?”

  “Kerry, look, I know what I’m doing. I’ve got reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “I can’t tell you right now.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because I can’t. Let it go at that, will you?”

  “I don’t want to let it go. Don’t you see that I care about you too? More than I ever did—more than I was willing to let myself believe the past few weeks. It can be good for us again; we can start over, we can move ahead, we can have a future. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “You know it is.”

  “But you’re not letting it happen. The shooting, Eberhardt in a coma … it’s monstrous. But something good can come out of it; it can bring us back together, if only you’d let it.”

  “I will let it.”

  “When?”

  “When this thing is over.”

  She pursed her lips. “It might be too late then.”

  “It won’t be. I’ll be all right.”

  “Will you? I don’t know if I will be. I don’t know if I’ll still want you then—a man with secrets, a man who carries a gun. The man I want is the one you used to be, not the one you are now.”

  “Kerry, I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

  She was leaning toward me, with one hand spread on the cushion in front of her. I reached out to touch it, but she moved it away. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe it isn’t.”

  “Try to understand. This is something I have to do. I couldn’t walk away from it now if I wanted to. And the less you or anyone else knows about it, the better.”

  “Why? Because it might get you killed?”

  “Because it’s something I ha
ve to handle alone.”

  “All right,” she said stiffly. “Have it your way.” The ring of keys was still in her hand; she took mine off it, laid it on the coffee table. “Here’s your key. So you won’t have to worry about me coming back uninvited.”

  “You don’t have to do that—”

  “You don’t have to do what you’re doing either.” She stood. “I’d better go.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a while longer?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It wouldn’t do either of us any good.”

  “I guess maybe not.”

  “I won’t bother you again,” she said. “Call me if you want to talk, or if you decide to come to your senses.”

  She crossed to the door, opened it, looked around at me as if she thought I might change my mind and call her back. I just sat there. It was a hard thing to do; I loved her, and maybe she loved me and was ready to give me another chance, and I hated this new crisis between us. But the other thing was in the way, like a wall I had to knock down before I could get to her or back to myself. There was no way to explain it, no way to make it any different. That was just the way it was.

  “If I have to go to your funeral,” she said from the doorway, “I won’t cry. I just want you to know that.” And then she was gone.

  I sat in silence for a time. I could feel the gun digging into my side—that damned gun. You could have shot her, I thought. Who the hell do you think you are, Mike Hammer? The wild-eyed crusader, the vigilante with a gun and a “get them before they get us” philosophy? Borderline lunatic stuff. Don’t let it happen, brother. Do what you have to do, but don’t cross that line.

  After a while I got up and put the chain on the door and took myself into the bedroom. I was asleep as soon as I flopped into bed.