Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  But it was too late. The gasoline fumes found the flames. The resulting explosion blew Brenner out into the hall and Aspee’s room was transformed into a raging inferno.

  Operating more on the basis of instinct rather than a plan, Brenner fought her way to her feet, heard a man shout, “FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!” and started to run.

  Kissler raised his Glock. Rossi yelled “No!” but a red flower blossomed between Brenner’s shoulder blades.

  The 10mm slug threw the protester forward. She landed face down and slid across the highly polished floor. A fire alarm went off, sprinklers came on, and a visitor screamed. Rossi took one look at the fire raging in Aspee’s room, knew there was no way that the terrorist could have survived, and ran down the hall. A quick check confirmed what she already knew—the suspect was dead.

  Kissler approached from behind. His face was pale and his weapon was pointed at the floor. “Is she dead?”

  Rossi stood. “I’m afraid so.”

  Kissler looked worried. “You saw what happened, right?”

  “I saw you shoot a woman with a birthday cake—if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you ordered her to stop!”

  “True,” Rossi replied wearily, “but I don’t shoot everyone that I order to stop.”

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “You remember the shooting review board you asked about?” Rossi inquired. “Well, you’re about to get one of your very own.”

  In spite of the fact that it had once been called Chinatown, and did boast some Chinese restaurants, Seattle’s International District had become more Asian than Chinese over the previous fifty years, and had never been on a par with similar neighborhoods in San Francisco or New York. It wasn’t all that large for one thing, nor very colorful, although the old brick buildings did have a sort of brooding quality, as if they had secrets to hide—which some certainly did.

  Still, even allowing for that, the International District clung to its traditional ways—some of which were good, like efforts to start new businesses, and some which were bad, like the criminal class that preyed on would-be entrepreneurs. Men like Kango, Hippo, and Weed. Their job was to ensure that bad things happened to bad people—which was to say anyone who got in the way of Sam Chow’s business interests.

  Except that things were complicated sometimes, like when Mr. Chow became upset with his son and sent his heavies to bring the young man in. A no-win situation if there ever was one, especially given the fact that the old man was sick and Joe Chow was going to inherit the family business. But that was the sort of thing Kango was good at—just one of the reasons why the others were happy to follow his lead.

  The black Lincoln Navigator was spotlessly clean and boasted tinted windows. The suspension gave slightly as Hippo hoisted his three hundred—plus pounds up into the front passenger seat. He had a half-eaten HoHo in one hand and a Diet Pepsi in the other, “So?” Kango demanded. “What did you find out?”

  Hippo swallowed the last of the HoHo, washed the mess down with a Diet Pepsi chaser, and wiped his fat fingers on his meaty thighs. He had a shaved head, moon face, and slit eyes. “He’s home alright,” Hippo proclaimed. “The guy who owns the convenience store saw him arrive about 5:00 a.m.”

  Kango was fifty-seven years old and still wore a fifties style ducktail haircut. His hair was so black that everyone assumed it was dyed. He wore shades on cloudy days, rarely smiled, and had personally popped seven men. “Is anyone with him?”

  Hippo belched. “Yeah,” the big man replied. “A woman. The same bitch he’s been using for the last couple of months.”

  Weed flicked a Bic lighter on and off. It was an annoying habit, but part of a laudable attempt to stop smoking so Kango let it go. Weed had acne scars, nicotine-stained teeth, and a rail-thin body. “How ‘bout his bodyguards?” the thin man wanted to know. “How many will we have to deal with?”

  “There’s two of them,” Hippo answered. “One at the bottom of the stairs—and one outside of little Chow’s front door.”

  “Okay,” Kango said thoughtfully. “Good work. Here’s the plan. They don’t know Weed, so he goes in first. Then, while he talks to the first guard, the rest of us enter. He’ll have a radio so grab it. And remember, don’t hurt the bastard, because when big Chow croaks we’ll be working for Joe. Once the first guard is out of the way Weed will head up upstairs and we run the same drill again. Questions? No? Then let’s get this over with.”

  Doors opened and slammed in quick succession as the snakeheads sauntered up the street. Curtains in the surrounding second-and third-story apartments started to close, people scurried in off the streets, and the entire population of Chinatown became deaf, dumb, and blind, because while the police weren’t far away, no one trusted them, and there were plenty of things to be afraid of, like tips to Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), beatings, and mysterious fires.

  The curtains were drawn so that Joe Chow could sleep, and that meant it was murky inside the messy second-floor apartment where Lena Ling lived in virtual slavery. She had long black hair, a small heart-shaped face, and a very shapely body. And that was just as her grandmother had said that it would be—a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because her body had been her ticket out of China, and a curse because of the way in which it was being used. The present user, clad only in boxer shorts, said something unintelligible and rolled onto his side.

  Ling lit one cigarette off the butt of another, drew the comforting smoke deep into her lungs, and let it dribble out through her nostrils. She treasured such moments since they were the only times when she could be herself instead of a well-dressed accessory, or what Joe Chow often referred to as his “fuck toy.”

  And, not having a life of her own, Ling liked to borrow her sister’s. Because, thanks to the bargain that Lena had agreed to back in Hong Kong, her sister May Ling was a student at the University of Southern California—something made possible by the younger girl’s facility with the English language, a well-executed identity theft, and a number of well-placed bribes. May would graduate in four years, which was when Lena would be free. Until then, the older girl liked to imagine what it would be like to live in the California sun, go to classes with the sons and daughters of movie stars, and prepare for a life of wealth and privilege. And that’s where she was, walking across an imaginary campus, when Hippo hit the front door with his shoulder, and it shattered, pieces of wood flew in every direction and Ling screamed.

  Like his father Joe Chow had enemies, lots of them, which was why he slept with a .9mm Browning High Power. But the pistol had migrated during the night and Chow was still in the process of searching for it when Kango placed a hand on his back and pressed downwards. “There’s no need for a gun, Joe…. Your father sent us. He wants to speak with you.

  Chow swore into the rumpled sheets and rolled out of bed. He was tall, about six-two, muscular, and heavily tattooed. A highly stylized python occupied most of his hairless chest. It had a widely flared hood, a long, thin tongue, and ruby-red eyes. The snakehead could have lived rent-free in one of his father’s properties, but had chosen to have his own place instead, and didn’t like the way in which his hard-won independence was being violated. “Couldn’t the old bastard call? And why break the door down? You could knock for Christ’s sake.”

  Kango spread his hands. “I’m sorry Joe, I really am, but you know the old man. He left a message, waited for you to call, and when nothing happened he ordered us to pay you a visit. A noisy visit. It ain’t nothing personal. You know that.”

  Chow had known Kango his entire life. That, plus the conciliatory tone and the reference to his father’s foibles served to cool his temper. A jumble of clothing, fast food containers, and other detritus covered the floor. He went fishing for some pants, came up with a pair of reasonably clean pair, and started to pull them on. “You were lucky I didn’t find that gun…. Where would my father find another old fart like you? Especially one who looks like a Chinese El
vis Presley?”

  Kango smiled. The insults, which were intended to restore some of the face that Joe had lost, were a cheap price to pay for his future well-being.

  Little Chow was ready five minutes later. He eyed Lena Ling. She was still on the bed, still smoking a cigarette, and still half-dressed. “I’ll be gone for a while,” he said emotionlessly. “Get up and clean this apartment. If you get hungry you can lick the sheets. They have some of my cum on them.”

  That elicited a hearty guffaw from Weed who was staring at the scantily clad girl with open lust. Kango saw the danger, ordered Weed and Hippo out of the apartment, and followed Chow down into the street where the SUV idled by the curb. Doors slammed, the motor purred, and the entire neighborhood let out a sigh of relief as the snakeheads left the area—but not unobserved because even as they left, an ICE agent continued to snap photographs from an apartment on the other side of the street.

  Ling peered through what remained of her front door, saw that one of Joe’s bodyguards had been left to keep an eye on her, and turned away. Maybe, if she was fast enough, there would be enough time to tidy up the apartment and take a bath before her owner returned. But, even if there was, the young woman knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Scrub though she might, Lena Ling would never be clean again.

  The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of the twenty-story Chow building. It was located on First Avenue, just a few blocks south of Seattle’s Public Market, and offered a sweeping view of Elliott Bay. It was vista that Sam Chow never tired of, partly because of the ships that came and went, and because of how beautiful the sunsets were, and partly because the gunmetal gray water held special meaning for him.

  It had been chilly on that June night in 1947 when he had slipped over the side of the old Singapore Star, and swam through the inky black brine to a floating landing stage. Once there he had been forced to wait in the cold water for what felt like an hour before the night watchman left to take a pee.

  And it had been then, while a fat Caucasian emptied his bladder, that the United States of America received its newest citizen. Not an official citizen, that ceremony wouldn’t occur until many years later, but a citizen nonetheless. It was the realization of a dream conceived after the Japanese captured Hong Kong during World War II, slaughtered Chow’s parents, and left a young boy to fend for himself, not as the son of privilege that he had originally been, but as a coolie, working on the docks. It was there that the teenager came to understand ships, and after many months of careful planning, hid himself deep in a fetid hold. For that was his single-minded ambition, to travel to America, and become very rich. How didn’t matter.

  There was a gentle bong as the white-jacketed Vietnamese boy who served as Chow’s majordomo tapped a large, richly decorated gong, and thereby summoned the old man back to the present. “Your son here. You like refreshments?”

  Chow touched a control and a motor whirred. His wheelchair turned a tight circle. It, like everything else in the penthouse, was the best that money could buy. The old man released the green oxygen mask and let it dangle. “No. Send him in.”

  The boy bowed in a show of old-world respect and withdrew.

  Though relatively small, the reception area was nicely decorated. Stylized dragons dominated the red, black, and gold foil wallpaper and the silk-covered couch, which fronted a spectacular aquarium. Except, rather than the fish that most people would expect to see, this enclosure was home to a five-foot long Black Headed Python. It was currently rather torpid, having recently consumed a rat, and was draped over an artfully placed limb—all of which was lost on Joe Chow, who felt mixed emotions as he waited to be shown into his father’s home. Resentment that stemmed from the way he had been treated, impatience, because he didn’t like to wait, and fear, because Samuel Chow was a ruthless man.

  Never, not so long as Joe Chow lived, would he forget the day fifteen years before when he had been forced to watch while Sam Chow slit one of his competitor’s throats. “You must cut deep,” the old man explained, “or risk running into the bastard out on the street!”

  The doors swung open, the majordomo bowed, and Joe did what he could to project an aura of confidence that he didn’t feel as he entered what he thought of as the museum. The room was a study in carefully chosen colors, strategically placed furniture, and valuable art. A piece of Neolithic pottery rested on a sleek, black stand, a vessel from the Shang Dynasty stood on a well-lit shelf, and a two-foot tall Ming burial horse stood with one foot eternally lifted. And there were paintings, too, including important works by the likes of Chen Chun, Chang Dachien, and Tang Yin. All perfectly illuminated, staged, and juxtaposed.

  But what really dominated the room were dozens of snakes. Wood snakes, brass snakes, and bronze snakes that slithered across the walls, sat coiled on tabletops, and twisted their way up chair legs, because Sam Chow had been born in 1929, which along with 1917, 1941, 1953, 1965, 1977, 1989, and 2001 was the year of the snake, a portent the old man took very seriously indeed.

  The snakes were cool, but the rest of the furnishings were junk insofar as Joe was concerned, and he would sell them one day. He bowed long enough to convey his respect and straightened again. In spite of the fact that his father’s face looked gaunt and his color was bad, the old man still looked formidable. Thanks to the multiple layers of clothing that he wore, and the bulk of the chair he sat in, he looked larger than he actually was. “So,” Chow senior said disapprovingly, “they found you.”

  “I was asleep,” Joe replied resentfully. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait for a few hours?”

  “Everything is important,” Sam Chow responded sternly. “Rapidity is the essence of war.”

  The younger man sighed. He had been raised on such quotes. “Sun Tzu.”

  “Yes,” the old man hissed, “and Sun Tzu was right. Things happen quickly these days and the quicker we respond the more likely victory is! Have you seen this morning’s paper? No, of course you haven’t…. You were asleep. Go ahead. The article is on page two.”

  Joe saw that a copy of the Post Intelligencer had been placed on the coffee table in front of the couch. He sat down, opened the paper, and scanned the second page. The sub-head, “Body Found,” quickly caught his eye. A quick read revealed that the body of an Asian male had washed up near Port Angeles. There were no signs of trauma, so in spite of the fact that the John Doe had been dressed in a marine survival suit, hypothermia was the presumed cause of death. An unfortunate occurrence, but not unheard of, especially given the number of ships and fishing boats that traveled through the Strait. What struck local authorities as strange was the fact that no one had been reported missing. The Coast Guard had been notified, and efforts were underway to contact ships that had passed through the area forty-eight hours prior to the discovery, but no one had come forward with useful information.

  Joe felt something cold trickle into the pit of his stomach but knew better than to let any of the uncertainty he felt register on his face. He tossed the paper aside, leaned back onto the couch, and braced his Air Jordans against the antique map table. “So?” he said disdainfully, confident that his father’s technicians would have found listening devices if there were any. “They have nothing! The survival suits are untraceable, I made sure of that, and the rest of the cargo is safe.”

  Sam Chow started to speak, felt a distinct shortness of breath, and was forced to take three long pulls from the oxygen mask before he could continue. His tone was conciliatory but firm. “Let’s say you’re correct, and I truly hope that you are. The man who washed ashore was worth fifty thousand dollars…. That’s how much money our clients would have paid for his services.

  “Yes, we’re bound to lose some inventory during shipping, but the Triads hope to move humans with their drugs, and we must operate more efficiently than they do. Hard work, entrepreneurship, and increased productivity. That’s what makes America great. Are we agreed?”

  Joe heard the change in tone, and knew
his father was right about the increasingly aggressive gangs called Triads, which were typically based in Hong Kong but were busy expanding their operations into North America. He lowered his sneakers to the floor by way of a concession. “Yeah, Pop. We’re agreed.”

  “Good,” Chow senior replied. “Everything will belong to you soon, and I want you to succeed.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “Will you stay for lunch?”

  “No,” Joe said as he came to his feet. “I have work to do.”

  Sam Chow knew it wasn’t true, but had been expecting the reply, and kept his face empty of emotion. “Joi gin.” Goodbye.

  “Joi gin,” Joe Chow said carelessly as he made his way to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

  Sam Chow watched the doors close behind his only child, allowed himself a heartfelt sigh, and turned his chair back towards the bay. A container ship had nosed its way into the harbor from the north—and had already started to lose speed as a tug went out to meet it. There weren’t very many real stowaways anymore but a few got through. Young men armed with little more than their wits, a desire to succeed, and a large share of courage. Perhaps one such individual was hidden aboard the newly arrived freighter. If so, the old man wished him luck.

  Chapter Three

  Strangely enough, in a city known for gray days and incessant rain, the day of the funerals was sunny and clear, a boon for the hundreds of media types sent to cover the memorial service for the FBI agents who had been killed in the line of duty.

  Helicopters circled Capital Hill like a flock of mechanical vultures, streets had been blocked off so that the hundred-plus vehicle procession could make its way up to the Lake View Cemetery, and specially trained elements of the SPD, the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team (HRT), and various branches of the military stood ready to respond should the ELA or a similar organization attempt to disrupt the proceedings.