B00447820A EBOK

by Mack Maloney

  Twitch nodded. “We want into the Ba Xi,” he said.

  The twins glanced at each other.

  “Are you sure?” one asked. “Or is that the vodka talking?”

  “I’m very sure,” Twitch told them. “We can’t wait to play.”

  The twins did a simultaneous shrug. Then one said: “Just for the record, exactly who do you think our boss is?”

  Twitch winked. “I know enough about him not to speak his name.”

  The men considered this, then said: “Wait here.”

  They picked up their weapons and left Nolan and Twitch alone in the booth. Nolan was painfully aware they were both woefully exposed to a bullet to the skull, or maybe a meat cleaver to the back. Yet he also knew they could not show the slightest fear or the jig would be up. So, Nolan did his best to stay frozen in place.

  Twitch, on the other hand, downed two more shots of the powerful baijiu.

  * * *

  THE TWINS FINALLY returned to the booth.

  “We checked it out,” one said. “Your ship is called the Ocean Song, correct?”

  Twitch nodded.

  “And it’s down on the docks in the Old Harbor?”

  Twitch nodded again.

  “Then your offer of a gift is appreciated,” one gunman said. “Our boss is very impressed.”

  “So we get into the Ba Xi?” Twitch asked.

  “That’s a good possibility,” the man replied.

  Nolan showed no emotion, but he knew this was a big step in reaching their goal.

  “However,” the other gunman added. “There will be a fee of sorts.”

  Twitch was unfazed. “Name it,” he said, fingering the wad of cash in his pocket.

  “Your watch,” the twin said.

  Nolan and Twitch froze. The watch contained their hidden transponder, the only way those back on the ship could keep track of them, especially now that the radio was gone. The watch was intentionally designed to appear cheap and crummy-looking. Why would the twin want it?

  “I’ve had this watch for years,” Twitch told him calmly. “And it’s not very impressive.”

  “But it’s just my style,” the man insisted.

  Twitch was smart enough not to put up a fight. He took off the transponder and simply passed it to the man.

  The gunman put it on and studied how it looked on his wrist.

  “And another thing,” he said. “The cargo of sugar and the ship it is on. It will have to be moved to another location. But no worries. One of our crews will take it over in a couple hours.”

  Nolan felt sudden fear—there was no way they could have anticipated this wrinkle. But Twitch stayed in character.

  “Not a problem,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s all yours.”

  One twin wrote down an address on a table napkin.

  “Go here,” he said, passing the napkin to Twitch. “Tell them you talked to us.”

  Then, the twin gunmen looked at them as if to say, That’s it.

  Nolan and Twitch got the hint. Twitch downed one more drink, and they stood up and walked out of the Red Lantern without saying another word.

  Once they were out in the alley, though, Nolan’s anxiety level went up a notch. Improvising was one thing, but their problems seemed to be mounting up with every new move. They’d just lost their transponder—and maybe a whole lot of precious time as well if the twins made good on moving the Ocean Song before midnight. And because his tooth radio was also gone, there was no way to tell those back on the ship what happened.

  So, should they abort the mission and get back to the Ocean Song? Or carry on and hope the rest of Whiskey could handle an unannounced visit from the twins’ pirate crew?

  Nolan’s gut told him this: Because they were already inside Sunny Hi’s underground network, if they disappeared now, it might raise all kinds of suspicions, which could be disastrous—especially for those back on the boat. And even if they returned to the Ocean Song, they probably couldn’t get out of the harbor safely before the Shanghai mob knew something was amiss.

  Adding these things together, he knew they had to keep going. But they had to do it double time.

  * * *

  GUIDED AGAIN BY their shirtsleeve maps, they fought their way through the crowds, pushing people over when they had to. Still, it took thirty minutes to get to their next destination.

  It was a nondescript building on a particularly slummy side street. A canopy of wet laundry hung from dozens of lines overhead. A pack of wharf rats feasted on piles of garbage nearby.

  Nolan knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a surprisingly well-appointed apartment with clean white walls, expensive furniture and exotic plants everywhere. Calming music was playing over the sounds of gurgling water. Perfume filled the air.

  One word came to Nolan immediately.

  Cathouse.

  As if on cue, four beautiful Chinese girls dressed in short white see-through tunics, appeared. None of them looked older than twenty.

  Sitting on a couch off to the side were two burly Asian men, obviously hired heat. The two looked at Twitch quickly without triggering a significant reaction. He was not a threat. But at the first sight of Nolan, stunned by his appearance, they nervously fingered their shoulder holsters

  One man asked harshly, “Who sent you here?”

  “The twins,” Twitch replied.

  The goon made a phone call. After a brief conversation, he said blandly, “OK, go—courtesy of the Boss.”

  The girls led Nolan and Twitch deeper into the room. Here were two tubs full of steaming, sudsy water.

  “Hot water relax,” one girl kept saying, pointing to the tubs. “Fun time is good for you.”

  Twitch needed no prompting. He made a beeline for one of the tubs, pulling two of the girls along with him.

  But Nolan knew right away this was not good at all. It was clear that taking a bath was a prelude to anything else that happened in the cathouse. But with the goons on hand, he and Twitch were in no position to decline, especially since it was all courtesy of Sunny Hi himself.

  The problem was, the poison pinpoint was still jammed up under Nolan’s fingernail—and he was sure that the hot water would affect its wax enclosure. If that happened, and the ricin inside dissolved, it would quite possibly kill him and the hookers attending his tub.

  The goons were watching him intently. Anyone who hesitated in this situation would doubtless arouse their suspicion. But what could he do? He’d run his left hand along the top of the water and indeed, it was almost scalding.

  He looked at Twitch and nonchalantly tapped the side of his tub. Twitch got the message right away, deflating his enthusiasm. He gave a slight shrug, as if to say: what can we do?

  Nolan had no choice. If he didn’t want to kill them all, he had to neutralize the poison pinpoint.

  He indicated to the hookers that before climbing into the tub, he had to relieve himself. They giggled and pointed him to the restroom.

  He went inside and carefully removed the pinpoint from under his fingernail. Batman had told him the poison could be neutralized by uric acid, and there was one place where lots of uric acid could be found: urine.

  Nolan retrieved a cup from the sink, dropped the poisoned pinpoint into it, and then peed on it. The pinpoint turned from white to red, the sign that it had been neutralized. He reluctantly flushed it all down the toilet.

  Then he sat on the edge of the sink and put his aching head in his hands. Could it get any worse? He and Twitch were now in the middle of hostile territory without the weapon they’d come here to use, without their radio, without their transponder and without any kind of Plan B.

  Plus, the clock continued to tick down.

  Why didn’t we just stay in the Bahamas? he thought grimly.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS Nolan was out of the restroom, all he wanted to do was flee the cathouse and figure out what to do next.

  But then he saw Twitch had climbed into his tub and was getting soap app
lied all over his body. His prosthetic leg was leaning against the nearby wall.

  Nolan was instantly furious. They had no time for this!

  But then he saw the two goons eyeing him again. On their silent commands, the two other hookers accosted him, led him to the second tub and stripped him of his clothes, all with little protest. He had to give the girls credit—his face was grotesque and his body was grossly discolored, yet they didn’t give him a second look. They treated him as if he was the All-American poster boy of his youth.

  He followed their instructions and eased himself down into the steaming hot water. And it was soothing—for about two seconds. Then another disturbing thought popped into his head. Was there a chance his skin coloring, the acidic wash on the outside, would be affected by the hot water and soap?

  He immediately studied his arms and legs through the mountains of suds. To his great relief, the diluted acidic skin dye was holding its own.

  The next couple minutes were a weird combination of anxiety and repose for Nolan. The warm water felt great, as did the hookers’ hands roaming all over him. It would have been so easy for him to just give in, lie back and let the party girls do their thing.

  He had to remember that kicking up a fuss now would surely arouse the goons’ suspicions. As it was, the gunmen were no longer in sight; Nolan guessed they were probably searching their clothes, as part of their job of making sure he and Twitch really were OK.

  But tempted as he was, Nolan had to stay strong, keep his wits about him and try to get out of this place, in one piece, as quickly as possible. He glanced over at Twitch, hoping he was staying strong, too. But what he saw instead was his colleague obviously succumbing to temptation. He had settled very deeply into the tub and, his immediate woes apparently forgotten, was obviously enjoying every move the hookers made. In fact, Twitch seemed particularly enraptured at the very moment Nolan looked at him.

  Nolan just shook his head. Here he was, feeling like he was stuffed into someone else’s body, in pain from head to toe, with all kinds of bad outcomes swirling before his eyes.

  And there was Twitch, flying high on Chinese vodka, getting a hand job.

  * * *

  BATH TIME AND all it entailed lasted more than thirty minutes.

  When it was all over, their clothes were returned to them washed, dried, ironed and folded—a smokescreen for them having been searched.

  Nolan and Twitch had dressed quickly, but found the two goons were waiting for them once they were done. The gunmen silently looked them up and down. Then one took out a tape measure and, without a word, quickly measured Nolan and Twitch, both height and shoulder width. Nolan and Twitch just stood there, totally baffled.

  When it was over, one goon handed Nolan a slip of paper with an address on it. Then he said: “Good luck, Frankenstein.”

  Seconds later, Nolan and Twitch were back out on the crowded, dirty street. It was now almost 11 P.M. That had taken way too long. Time was really slipping away.

  Nolan read the address the goon gave him and they went to check it on their shirtsleeve maps. Only then did they realize the washing process had destroyed their Shanghai street grids. All that remained were two blurry ink stains.

  But even worse, Twitch realized all their bribe money was gone, too, stolen from his pants pockets

  “Those motherfuckers,” he roared, turning back toward the cathouse before Nolan stopped him. “Those fucking thieves…”

  Was God just playing tricks on them now? Nolan wondered. They had no radio, no transponder, and now no assassination weapon, no maps or bribe money. It was like they were suddenly walking around lost and naked.

  Now they had to strongly consider just making a run for it. Get back to the ship and try to get out before all hell broke loose.

  But again Nolan believed they were just too deep into this thing for that. With the promise of the sugar and the ship, and now the gift of sex from the Boss himself—for all he knew, not showing up at the next station might result in half of Old Shanghai gunning for them, and the rest of Whiskey as well.

  So, they no longer had a choice.

  They had to continue on.

  * * *

  LUCKY FOR THEM, their next stop was just a half-block away from the cathouse.

  They found the place by pure chance. They’d stumbled along for a few steps, past a gang of armed men lurking in a nearby doorway, and suddenly the address written on the slip of paper was in front of them. It was another rundown apartment building.

  Nolan knocked on the door, and yet another beautiful Asian girl let them into yet another apartment. But this one was dark and full of shadows. There was no music, no perfume. And while the apartment was packed with people, they weren’t hookers. They were gritty armed men—Sunny Hi’s foot soldiers, no doubt. They were all sitting on the floor, smoking something from glass pipes.

  An opium den—with lots of weapons in sight.

  The gunmen were chattering and getting high. But when they saw Nolan, some began laughing hysterically.

  “Xie mian ju!” one yelled. “Take off the mask!”

  “Wu dai zuo meng shi zher!” another yelled. “My bad dream is here!”

  So much for the intimidation factor, Nolan thought, picking up a few key words. He quickly retreated to a dark, unoccupied corner, while Twitch began a long, rambling conversation with one of the stoned gunmen, a man with a crooked mouth. Nolan couldn’t hear much what they were saying, other than this man knew they were making their way to the Ba Xi and at first seemed to promise help. But by the time the dialogue ended, the gangster was holding up a bag of white powder and shaking it in front of Twitch’s nose.

  All Nolan could think was that the powder was cocaine or heroin, and the guy wanted them to buy or sell it.

  But Twitch told him differently.

  “They want us to snort some of this stuff,” he said, joining Nolan in the corner. “It’s ketamine. Also known as Chinese LSD. It’s intended as a gift, and is a lot stronger than opium.”

  But Nolan shook his head furiously. His expression said it all: no fucking way.

  Twitch grabbed him by the arm. “We got no choice, Major. If we don’t play nice with these guys, if we don’t prove that we are like them in every way, we’ll be in big trouble. Believe me, he was quite clear on that point.”

  Nolan could only glare back at him. He wanted to scream at Twitch that they were already in big trouble. They were stuck in the process of trying to get close to Sunny Hi, yet they no longer had the poison to use on him. So, there was no point in trying to get closer. But if they tried to drop out now, Sunny Hi’s men would definitely smell a rat and, yes—they would wind up as fish food, as would the guys back on the boat.

  It was a classic catch-22.

  The goon with the bag poured out a line of ketamine on a nearby table. With the gunmen looking on, Twitch accepted a rolled-up dollar bill, bent down and snorted the line. The gunmen cheered. They seemed to like Twitch.

  Then the gunman handed the rolled-up bill to Nolan and poured another line on the table. Nolan had no choice. He bent down and snorted it as well.

  The gunmen merely grunted in satisfaction for him, the monster. They went back to smoking their glass pipes. Meanwhile, Twitch and Nolan slid down the side of the apartment wall, landing in awkward sitting positions, to await the drug’s reaction.

  Time went by. A few seconds. A few minutes. A few hours. Nolan couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning, and nothing was making sense.

  At one point, one of the gunmen approached him and asked in crude English, “Do you pee regularly?”

  Nolan tried to ignore him, but the man persisted.

  “How about that one eye you got,” the man said. “You got good vision in it? How’s your blood sugar these days?”

  Finally, Nolan just pushed him away and the man retreated back to the clutch of gunmen smoking their opium pipes.

  The next thing Nolan clearly remembered was looking up at the drug den’s slo
wly rotating ceiling fan and watching it dissolve into a swirl of colors.

  Reds. Blues. Greens. Yellows. Going round and round.

  The colors grew in intensity, taking on the brightness of the sun. Nolan could see the moon and the stars, too, a little galaxy floating above his head. And then, poof! It was gone.

  He was sitting across from a shuttered window; he could see his reflection perfectly. The puffed-up face. The strangely shaped eyes. The missing tooth. The vaguely yellow skin. That line of infected sutures along his neck. What was really going on here? Who the hell was he? Did he live here? Was he from here?

  Orders or not, he had to ask someone, anyone. He opened his mouth and began to speak … but nothing would come out.

  He tried again.

  Still nothing.

  He went to touch his lips, his throat, his tongue. But his fingers only passed through empty space. He felt nothing.

  His spirits crashed. He began to get dizzy again. Someone sitting to his left tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a cigarette. Though he didn’t smoke, Nolan accepted it, took a long drag and handed it back.

  “Thanks, mon,” the person said from behind the cloud of smoke.

  The voice sounded familiar. Nolan waved away the smoke and was astonished to see Charles Black, the Muy Capaz pirate leader, sitting next to him, slit throat and all.

  Black leaned over and whispered: “Don’t worry, mon—I can’t talk, either.”

  Then he got up and disappeared into the shadows.

  Suddenly, there was a knock at the drug den’s back door. The gunman who’d laid out the ketamine for them yanked Nolan and Twitch to their feet.

  “Fun’s over,” he told them. “Time for me to take you to the next stop.”

  He steered Nolan and Twitch to the back door and opened it. They staggered outside and found themselves in yet another smelly, unlit alley.

  An SUV was waiting here, its engine running. It was black, all its windows were tinted.

  The man with the crooked mouth opened the SUV’s rear door and waited for Nolan and Twitch to climb inside. But just as he was climbing in himself, two shots rang out. A dark figure in the SUV’s passenger seat had put two bullets into the gunman’s forehead, knocking him back into the alley.