Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Insurance,” Birdie said.

  I nodded. That made sense. That's how John might think. If things went wrong, he could use them as bargaining chips to keep the authorities at bay. And then, once safely on his way, he could simply dump them over the side.

  “It'll be daylight soon.”

  “I don't feel like waiting here until sundown,” Birdie said.

  I sighed. “I thought the Lord taught you patience.”

  Birdie grinned. “He's on the side of the righteous.”

  “Okay. Well, maybe most of the crew are asleep since it's still early. John had about eight guys with him at Christie Pits. We'll have to reckon on that many, maybe more. And if they're like Quan, they'll be heavily armed with M60s.”

  Birdie snorted. “Pea shooters. No good in close quarters anyway.” He snapped open the breech of the 12-gauge, then patted his pockets feeling the comfort of the extra shells.

  “Well, they shouldn't be expecting us,” I said.

  I took a deep breath and shivered. Maybe twenty yards to the loading area. “Let's give it a whirl.”

  I unholstered the .45 and checked to make sure I'd rammed the clip home this time. Birdie went to the far side of the hedgerow and I stayed to the left. On a silent three count, we took off, heading toward the ship, staying in the shadows, keeping low.

  My breath felt loud in my ears. My pulse jumped. We crept along the jetty reaching the bottom of the gangplank from opposite directions. We played Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who'd go up first. I lost. I always lost. I gave Birdie a dirty look and he encouraged me with a grin.

  It wasn't easy going up an incline in a crouch position. At the top, I paused to listen and peer around through the gloom. I heard voices in the distance but no one close by. I stepped off carefully and crouched down behind the last load of crates. Birdie joined me.

  “Someone will be by soon to haul these away,” he said.

  I nodded and we moved around the back to wait. I noticed coils of rope stacked up on the deck. Handy. A few minutes later, we heard a couple of the crew talking, making their way along the deck toward the crates. Two guys. As they bent down to pick up a crate each, Birdie and I went around behind them.

  Birdie slugged one of them and caught him as he crumpled to the ground. I put the .45 against the temple of the other as I placed my hand over his mouth.

  “Any sound and your brains will be splattered all over the deck, do you understand?”

  The guy had gone stiff as a board but he nodded. I pulled him around behind the crates. Birdie had finished trussing the first guy up, stuffed a rag into his mouth and knotted some of the coiled rope to hold it in place. Then he dragged the limp body over to a lifeboat, lifted it up and shoved him under. I brought the second guy to his knees. Birdie set the 12-gauge up under his jaw and hooked his thumb over the trigger.

  “I'm going to take my hand away and you're going to answer some questions very quietly. If you do something stupid, my friend will blow you to kingdom come. Got it?” The guy nodded. Unlike the other guy, he was Caucasian. About forty with a ragged beard and greasy hair. “Okay.” Slowly, I took my hand away from his mouth. I felt his sweat trickle on to my palm. “How many men on board this ship?”

  “Ten crew including the captain.”

  “And?”

  “Seven other guys, all armed.”

  “You all work for John Fat Gai?”

  “No.”

  “Who do you work for then?” I asked.

  “Mr. Li. This is his ship.”

  “Mr. Li?” I glanced at Birdie. “It may interest you to know, pal, that Mr. Li was murdered yesterday by John Fat Gai. Shot through the gut. It wasn't pretty.”

  The guy jerked his head toward me. “What?”

  “That's right.”

  “Jesus,” the sailor hissed. “Look, I'm just a deck hand, okay? I don't get involved in stuff. I just work the ship and go wherever we sail to, load and unload, take orders from the captain and that's it, I swear.”

  “Where's this tub bound for?”

  “Macau.”

  “Are the crew armed?”

  “No. Arms are kept in the gunroom below deck. It's locked and only the captain has the key.”

  “The other guys?”

  “Armed to the teeth.”

  “Okay. You're doing good so far. Keep it up and you'll also keep your head on your shoulders.”

  “Sure. I got no reason to lie.”

  “Anyone else on board? We're looking for someone.”

  “Yeah. Two guys in the brig.”

  “Describe them to me.”

  “An older guy and a young guy. The older guy wears a ducktail and has bags the size of craters under his eyes. The other one, probably his son.”

  “Sounds like them,” Birdie intoned.

  “Where's the brig?” I asked.

  “It's aft, two levels down.”

  “Who's got the key?”

  “That'd be the captain, the exec or the CPO. It's a skeleton key, nothing fancy.”

  “Okay, good.” I had the picks in my jacket pocket. “Guess what?” I said.

  “What?” and the sailor managed a weak smile. I could see his broken teeth.

  “You're going to give us the express guided tour. Let's go. No sudden moves. No noise, right?” The guy nodded. I pulled him to his feet.

  “This way,” he said.

  He led us down a metal staircase to a dimly lit corridor. At the end of the corridor stood a metal door with a wheel lock. The sailor spun the wheel and pushed the door open. Another narrow staircase led into the bowels of the ship.

  “How much farther?” I asked.

  “Bottom of the stairs, end of the corridor and we're there,” the guy answered.

  “Let's go.”

  At the end of the corridor, the space widened out. I saw bars like any jail, similar to the holding cells we had in the city. I looked in.

  “Whatever you guys are going to do, you better hurry up, okay?” The sailor looked agitated.

  Eli and Jake had been trussed up to a reverse pulley that held them taut by a rope passed through a hook-up connected to the ceiling. If they sagged or got tired, the noose tightened. The more they slumped, the tighter it got until they'd strangle themselves. Cute.

  “Hey.” A sailor appeared at the far end of the corridor. He spotted us and before we could move, he yelled then disappeared.

  “Better hurry up, Mo, for a lot of reasons,” Birdie said.

  “Mo,” croaked Eli.

  “Hang in there, Eli. We're going to get you out.”

  I took out the picks and began to fiddle with the lock. Birdie kept one eye on the corridor. The sailor paced back in forth in front of him.

  I heard a burst and the pinging of metal as bullets ricocheted around us. The sailor went up on the balls of his feet.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he cried.

  The air went out of him like a squeezed bulb. Birdie caught him as he slumped to the ground and fired both barrels of the 12-gauge down the corridor. He lay the sailor on the metal floor and reloaded.

  “Make that double time,” he said. Birdie let go of another blast to keep them honest.

  “Almost there,” I said.

  I felt the last two tumblers click into place. The door swung open.

  “Got it.”

  Jake's eyes bugged out of his face, his complexion puce. Eli had managed to hold himself up a bit better but he struggled. I cut Jake down and he flopped on the floor like a dying fish, grappling with the rope around his neck, coughing and wheezing. Eli managed to keep his feet. I helped him remove the rope.

  “I'm glad to see you,” he rasped and threw his arms around me. I pushed him back.

  “Remind me to slug you when we're clear of this. I told you to get outta town and stay out.”

  He put his hands up in a defensive posture but managed a grin. “Okay. If we get clear, I'll let you slug me. C'mon, give me a hand with the old man.” We reached down and hauled
Jake to his feet.

  “Good to see you, boychick. I knew you wouldn't leave us to rot in here.” Jake coughed into his flabby chest.

  “Yeah, yeah. Come on. We've got some distance to cover yet.”

  Birdie fired another deafening blast. We had two directions to go. Forward, toward the firing line or back through a door at the end of the corridor. Door number one. I took door number one. I turned the wheel and pushed it open. Birdie handed Eli one of his holstered .45's.

  “Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Jake said.

  I sighed, looked to the heavens, then handed him the .38 in my waist band. “Try not to shoot one of us, okay?”

  “Listen to him,” Jake said. “Like I haven't been handling guns since you were in diapers.”

  “Cut the crap,” Eli croaked. “Let's get the hell outta here.”

  I crouched and stepped through the door. A metal staircase led up. I motioned with the gun. Jake, then Eli stepped through. Birdie spun the wheel closed before following. I threaded my way up. A shot banged out. We hit the deck. The bullet ricocheted, pinging off the metal floor then up as it deflected near my chin off the metal banister.

  “Sorry,” Eli said. “I slipped.”

  “Might as well just invite the bastards over for a drink,” Jake muttered.

  “All right, all right,” I groused.

  We reached the top stair that opened up into a small platform with another door.

  “You guys get on the other side.”

  Eli and Jake squeezed over. I noticed an acetylene tank propped up against the wall. I squeezed against the opposite side of the doorframe.

  “Okay,” I said. “Open it up.”

  Birdie rotated the wheel. He pulled the door open. A burst from an M60 greeted us. Bullets slammed off the walls. Eli and Jake went into a crouch. Birdie slammed it shut.

  “So we know where some of them are,” I said.

  I opened up the knobs on the tank so the gas could leak out. “What are you doing?” Jake demanded.

  “You'll see.”

  Birdie opened the door again. Another burst came our way. I chucked the tank into the corridor. Birdie blasted two rounds and slammed the door shut. Didn't take long. We heard a roar and a whoosh, then a kind of crumping sound. I felt some heat and the door buckled. We waited.

  Two, three beats.

  Cautiously, Birdie pulled the door toward him. The blast had twisted the frame. He gave it a good yank. It pulled away falling at his feet. We stayed low. A line of flame licked itself along the metal railing. Dark smudges marked the low ceiling and floor. Billows of smoke wafted in the air. I coughed into my sleeve.

  At the far end, we found two guys out on their feet, slightly singed. The muzzles of their M60s had melted. I stepped over them and poked my head around the corner of the stairwell. More metal stairs led up. I could see the suffused light of a dawn beginning to break. I felt a shudder and some vibration.

  “What's that?” Eli asked.

  “The ship,” I replied.

  “What about it?”

  “It's about to move, kid, that's what,” Jake said.

  “What were you saying about superstition?” Birdie asked.

  “Okay, so maybe we forced his hand a little. Let's take a look.”

  I stood on the bottom step and looked up. I climbed the steps slowly, keeping the .45 ready and cocked.

  Two steps from the top, a gun barrel, then a head appeared. The guy gave me a friendly grin. I put my hands up and gave him my best, resigned look. Before he could reply, Birdie grabbed his hand, jamming his big thumb behind the trigger of the M60. The gunsel went to pull and it wouldn't move. Birdie yanked him down where his chin met my knee. I grabbed the M60.

  Jake pushed the guy down the stairs. The gunsel slithered to the bottom rolling over and over like a slinky.

  Another guy looked in from the top of the stairwell. The 12-gauge roared and I saw his body lifted off its feet blown backwards. We surged up on to the deck, staying low. I sprayed the deck using the M60 for covering fire. My ears rang from the shotgun blast. The sound still echoed around the metal fittings down below or maybe it was just inside my head. I spotted Quan on the other side of the deck working the slide in his piece. We fanned out and took cover behind some wooden barrels. Birdie and I checked out the area, sweeping the deck, searching the high points for trouble. John's voice rang out. He'd gotten hold of a loud hailer.

  “Mo. Birdie. Nice of you to drop in.”

  “Kind of you to have us,” I called back.

  “You're trapped, Mo. You'll never get off this ship,” John blared then chuckled maniacally.

  A couple of hands skirted the edge of the deck, untying the lines to cast off. I fired a burst in their direction. They dropped what they were doing and hit the floor. Quan let a burst go at the hawsers holding the ship in place. Birdie let loose a blast. Quan ducked behind a lifeboat.

  “It's a stalemate, John,” I called. “You won't get the ship untied, not with us stopping you. Let us go and you can take off. Sail into hell for all I care.”

  Just to convince him, I fired a burst in Quan's direction. He shrank back. I spotted a few heads bobbing up and down behind the foc'sle. I turned back to Birdie. “How many?” He held up two fingers.

  John came back on the horn. “Generous of you, Mo.”

  “You're running out of time, John. The cops and the harbor patrol will be here any minute. Then you won't be going, anywhere.”

  A pause ensued. “I'm coming down,” he squawked.

  The door to the wheelhouse opened and John Fat Gai, jauntily dressed in a blue blazer, white slacks, a yellow cravat and a yachting cap made his way down to the deck. He lifted his arms and smiled. But I could see the cracks. Eyes unfocused. Unhinged expression.

  He walked toward us, completely exposed. I went to stand up but Birdie put a big paw on my shoulder.

  “It's okay,” I said. “Cover me. He or Quan makes a move–blast'em.”

  “Boychick…”

  “Shut up, Jake.” I stepped out then tossed the M60 to the deck. I made certain to keep John in front of me, using him as cover. He did the same. I held the .45 down at my side. Fifteen feet separated us.

  “Four means death, John. You know it and I know it. You're drowning in it.”

  “But it could be your death, Mo, not mine.”

  I smiled. “Don't think so. You have to believe in that mumbo jumbo and I don't. Today is your judgment day. You have debts that haven't been collected yet. Li said it. His spirit will haunt you forever, don't you remember?”

  John pulled at the dragon pendant. His eyes flicked to the sky then down. “Perhaps I have underestimated you.”

  “You'll never last if you have to sit here all day. The authorities will be on you before then.”

  “Yes, you are probably right,” he replied and chortled.

  A bubble descended around us. I leaned in and whispered to him sotto voce, so the others couldn't hear. His expression didn't change but I saw movement behind his eyes. Some truth took hold of him. He answered me quietly.

  I got distracted by sudden movement from above. Along the bridge and upper deck, the crew fanned out, fully armed with their weapons trained on us. All of us. They had the advantage and the angle. A guy I took to be the captain—Chinese—wearing similar clothes to those of John just dirtier and ragged—began to yammer. He spoke in a high-pitched screech.

  “You are all surrounded. All of you will put your weapons down at once.”

  Quan appeared from his hidey-hole. He stood up, smirking and stepped into view still cradling his weapon. A burst from one of the seamen made him dance the cucaracha on the spot.

  “I mean all of you,” the captain yelled.

  I holstered my .45. “Hey?” I called up but gestured for Birdie and the others to stay put.

  “What do you want?” the captain replied.

  “I understand this is Mr. Li's ship?” I asked almost innocently but shot John a grin.

/>   “Yes,” the captain replied. “That is correct.”

  “Mo,” John said like a dog beginning to growl in its throat.

  “Well, I'm sure it would interest you to know that Mr. Li is dead. Shot in the gut by John Fat Gai yesterday evening.”

  The captain switched his focus to John. Gun barrels swiveled in his direction. “Is this true?”

  John Fat Gai shrugged. “I suppose I should take the credit when it is due.”

  Storm clouds gathered on the captain's face. He barked something in Mandarin. John Fat Gai's face froze, his body stiffened. Quan swiveled, bringing the M60 up aiming toward the bridge. A roar of double barrels lifted him off his feet. He smashed against the railing then eased to the deck and lay on his side folded up like a sparrow with a broken neck.

  Birdie broke the smoking breech open and slid two shells home then snapped it shut. I noticed something now that the darkness had lifted. A line of metal barrels neatly placed around the perimeter of the lower deck. John hadn't moved. He remained standing, his posture loose and relaxed, an enigmatic smile on his face; beatific almost. I heard him humming under his breath. I turned to warn the others. I couldn't get the words out fast enough. The barrels exploded. The ship's deck buckled and lurched. I fell to my knees slamming my chin. I looked around blearily. Saw John wafting through a shimmery membrane of fire. He walked calmly to the gangplank and descended.

  “Come on,” I yelled.

  Up on my feet shakily and pointed. Another round of explosions lit up the sky and the air around us. Threw us off-balance. I staggered up. Birdie turned and grabbed Jake. I pushed Eli in front of me. We stumbled aft and before Jake could utter a syllable, Birdie lifted him up and heaved him over the rail into the water, then jumped behind him.

  “Jump,” I yelled at Eli.

  He hopped over the rail and dropped straight down. I let the momentum of my body carry me forward. I floated in space for a second, felt the impact of the water on the bottoms of my shoes and submerged for a few seconds before coming up spluttering.

  “Swim for shore. Hurry.”

  We'd seen explosions but the ship must have been jammed with so much TNT it made the fireworks displays I'd seen as a kid on Canada Day look like a pathetic Roman candle. A gargantuan roar and whoosh enveloped us and hurled us toward the beach, the water spouting up like a huge geyser.