by Simon Swift
On the way to the East Village I had stopped by at Dyke Spanner's old office in the Bronx. It was a run-down, decrepit building on the edge of the district. Ironic really, the guy lived in Chinatown yet kept an office an hour away.
Nothing.
Not even a chest of drawers.
The door was unlocked so I had a look around. It was a small office with a solid wooden desk and a chair. On the desk was a mug with D.Spanner emblazoned in bright red lettering. The walls were bare and the floor uncarpeted. The only other item in the room without a window was a waste-paper basket. It contained a screwed-up piece of paper. Normal white, drawing paper, without a mark on it. I quickly did a crayon test on it, but nothing showed up.
Typical Dyke Spanner, everything in the head.
I had waited for Marlow for our dinner date but she didn't show. I hung around for over an hour but there was no message, so I ate alone and drank a bottle of red wine alone. By the time I got around to telephoning Ava I was feeling maudlin. She checked the apartment for me and phoned me back. It was empty.
I finished my coffee, feeling a lot fresher and more sober than I was an hour ago, and headed East along St Mark's Place. When I hit Tompkins Square Park I turned south and walked a block before again going east and finding myself right in the heart of the residential Village. Row upon row of old, three or four storey buildings, some of them terraced housing, some converted into fancy apartments, and others stand alone single properties. No two buildings were alike.
I found myself going over the last words Dyke had uttered, inventing meanings for them and then discarding them as absurd. Who did he mean, who would make me smile but then make me cry? Was he talking about Maggie? Hell he knew damn well that she was not going to stay with him after the way he had treated her. Why would he spend his last moments of life telling me such a thing? It just didn't add up. I decided it couldn't be her, it just didn't fit. Maybe the whole diatribe was just the jumbled rambling of a dead man. It sure might as well have been for the good it had done me.
When I approached the house, there was a commotion ringing out. The rest of the street was silent, the flea market providing the only sound, a distant hum in the background. But as I walked up the front path, there was a loud argument in process, the angry sound of a man and the crying, pleading almost of a young girl. Not any young girl, it was Claudia.
I knocked on the door and the shouting temporarily abated. Footsteps padded along the hallway and the door opened slightly. I found myself face to face with a pretty pissed off George Ferriby, his eyes no longer placid and full of romance, were now filled with hate and rage.
I smiled and pushed a foot in the small gap between door and frame. "Good evening," I said, before pushing my head slightly inside the door. "Claudia, are you okay sweetheart," I asked loud enough to carry into the house.
Ferriby caught me unawares, swinging his head forward abruptly. It was a poor attempt at a butt catching me on the forehead instead of rearranging my nose. But it did put me off balance long enough for him to slam the door and once again resume what he had been doing before I arrived. I could faintly hear him shouting accusations at Claudia, calling her a slut and a tramp and her squeals in return.
I didn't knock on the door again. Instead, I kicked it so hard that it was left swinging limply on its hinges before charging through the hallway into the melee. The house was larger than it looked from the outside; the hallway was long with a polished floor and two rooms leading off it to the right, the kitchen was at the end of the house and to the left of the front door was an open stairway. It was there that the noise was coming from.
Ferriby appeared on the first floor landing as I made it to the top of the stairs. He wore a face of incredulity which was soon altered to pain and blood as I swung a couple of right hooks into his nose and cheek. He fell against the wall, holding his bleeding face with his hands. He then became the recipient of a proper head butt, which landed exactly where it was intended and caused him to stumble forward onto his knees. I grabbed him under both armpits and dragged him away from the stairs, throwing him harshly to the floor.
It was then that Claudia came running out of one of the rooms.
"Oh, Mr. Black," she whimpered. "Thank god you are here."
She had tears streaming down her cheeks and was wearing only a small, white nightie, which just covered her panties. It was frilly at the top and hung down off her shoulders and straight from the breasts down. She stepped over her slumped boyfriend and slung both her arms around me, clinging on tightly. I held her firm, stroking her hair and patting her back, unsure where to put my hands but wanting to put them everywhere. I didn't get chance however, as Ferriby was now back on his feet swinging wildly, this time with a knife in his hand. I gently pushed Claudia aside and dodged the blade the best I could in the narrow corridor.
Ferriby lunged forward, I feigned to the left and swung my fist hard, catching him on the chin. He surprised me by lashing out again wildly with the blade and catching me across my front. Pain shot through my midriff and blood seeped out of the cut. I knocked him to the ground with one blow before stumbling myself. This time he stayed down. I hauled him down the steps, careful so not to bang his head and dumped him outside on the sidewalk, closing the door on the way back in.
Claudia ushered me back up the stairs and into a bedroom. The room was big with a large double bed in the center. The walls were painted magnolia and there were fresh flowers in vases all around. Everything was frilly and lacy, very girly and there were cuddly toys and pictures of animals in frames. The furniture was pine and the carpet pink and soft.
I lay out on the bed and Claudia sat across me her skimpy nightie barely concealing her modesty. She ripped open my jacket and began nursing my wound. It was only a small cut, but it was reasonably deep. She expertly managed to stop the bleeding and put a dressing on from her first aid box.
"You poor thing," she said in her beautiful, soft, voice. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm sure I'll live," I answered, before letting out a laugh. "Just thought I'd come and check you got the report okay. I guess you did."
She managed a smile and wiped her eyes. She looked even more beautiful than the other night. Frightened and vulnerable, but incredibly sexy. With only a thin layer of lace between us and her warm body resting on mine I felt aroused. I shouldn't have I know, my stomach was hurting and I was in lust with another woman but I still got the hard on of a lifetime. I don't know if Claudia felt it or if she just flew back to reality but she flushed red, stood up and covered herself with a gown.
"Look at me I have hardly got any clothes on. What must you think of me," she said, as if she didn't already know. "Would you please excuse me for a moment and I will make myself look more decent."
I didn't think that that was possible but I did anyway.
"Make yourself comfortable in the living room," she said as I reluctantly left the bedroom. "Help yourself to a drink I won't be a minute."
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I quietly went outside and checked on the place where I had dumped Ferriby. He had gone and there was no sign of him around. I shrugged my shoulders and re-entered the house, going into the first room off the hallway which appeared to be the living room. There was a couple of large, leather sofas dominating the room with an expensive looking oriental rug in front of the them, between them and the open fire, which was blazing away warmly. The floor was wood throughout and the walls were plain, with several pictures hanging in elaborate frames. There was a sideboard with a wireless and a record player on one side and a decanter and glasses on the other. Behind the sofas there was a large window, covered by thick, heavy drapes that came right down to the floor.
I selected a record, a jazz number by Charlie Parker, set it on the player and made myself a drink. There was a small picture on the sideboard of an old man. I picked it up and studied the grainy, black and white image.
"Would you mind pouring me one also?"
It
was Claudia. She was now wearing a plain housedress and an oversize sweater. The clothes were large and unflattering but she still managed to look beautiful in them. "I think I could do with one."
I poured her a healthy measure and we both sat down on the big sofa, facing each other with our legs in a yoga position. She had composed herself rather well and applied a fresh coat of makeup, but she was still shaking as she cupped the glass of gin and tonic, sipping it as if it would give her safety and protection.
"I'm sorry that had to happen Claudia," I started, "I didn't intend to cause you any more hurt and heartache than was absolutely necessary, but I always do a proper job. The facts are that George Ferriby is no more than a womanizer and a cheat. He has been using you for a good while now and would have continued to do so indefinitely." I sighed. "I'm sorry."
Claudia smiled weakly, "I know. I think I have known that for a long time but I just didn't want to admit to it. Tonight I had finally decided to confront him. I wanted to talk, to discuss things, to reason with him but he never gave me the chance."
I pulled a packet of Luckies from my jacket and put one in my mouth. "Do you mind?" I asked, holding my Zippo.
Claudia shook her head. "No. May I also have one?"
I lit one, handed it to her, and then lit another for me. "How do you mean 'he never gave you the chance'?"
She sucked on the cigarette, coughed a little and then exhaled. "Tonight he came home drunk, stinking of perfume and with lipstick all over his face. He made no attempt to hide what he had been up to and then tried to force himself on me. I fought him off the best I could and threw the report in his face. It felt good telling him that I knew exactly what he had been up to and that I had evidence of it, but it just made things worse."
I finished my drink and sighed. "Did he hurt you, physically I mean?"
"No. No he didn't, thanks to you."
She stood up and kissed me softly on the forehead. "Would you like another drink Mr. Black? I'm sure I would."
I nodded. “Yes, that would be nice, but only if you call me Errol. I'm not your employee anymore, the job is finished."
She poured the drinks and sat down. "Yes, the job may be finished but he will be back. That thought fills me with dread." She flushed slightly and put her hand in mine. "I'm sorry I am being rude. How much do I owe you…Errol?"
"The bill's covered. You probably paid me too much already."
"Well if I did, I'm glad. You're worth every cent."
That almost made me blush. I mean almost, what she said next actually did.
"If I paid you some more would you consider staying the night? I'm a little bit scared he may come back. After tonight I'll be alright, but would you consider it?"
All of a sudden, I came over all professional. The truth was that I would have loved to stay overnight but I don't think she was offering what I was wanting and I had to think of Marlow. I steered the conversation flawlessly. "Is there nobody else you could stay with? A friend, perhaps? I would be happy to see you get there safely."
Claudia sat back and sighed. "Normally I would stay with my friend Marlow. She is the most wonderful person in the whole world, Errol, she is beautiful and kind and intelligent. You'd love her, I'm sure."
"But…"
"But she's gone away for a couple of days. I had lunch with her today and she said goodbye. When she comes back we'll have to all meet up."
I smiled. "Yeah we will, that would be swell," I said, but my mind was wandering. If she had gone away this lunchtime, it meant one of two things; either she had no intention of meeting me for dinner and if so what the hell was the other night about, or something had come up, which made me wonder about the kid. When I had mentioned him at her apartment she had put a brave face on it but it was obvious to me she was frightened. Did she know him after all? I wished I had taken Joe's advice and intercepted him earlier when I had had the chance. Now it may be too late.
At least it appeared she had not mentioned my little piece of housebreaking to her friend. Although she wouldn't would she, as it was her that had been the date.
"Is she not dating?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
Claudia shook her head. "Not any more. She had been seeing somebody but they split a week or so ago. He was a detective too but he was married and so it was never going to work. She'd love you though, Errol, I'm sure."
The music finished and Claudia got up and put another on. "Another?" she asked holding up her glass.
"Do you mind if I change from gin?" I asked.
"Don't tell me," she began as she headed over to the bar in the corner of the room. "Cognac, straight, no ice?"
I chuckled and nodded as she went ahead and poured the drink.
"My father used to drink cognac. He always said it was a real gentleman's drink. Cognac for the boys and vodka martini for the girls. And bourbon for the wild men."
"He's a wise man."
"How's the stomach?" she asked, handing over the cut glass and joining me on the sofa.
"Oh, a little uncomfortable, but it's holding up. You bandaged me up real good, sweetheart."
For a moment, Claudia wondered off somewhere, staring blankly into space. "He used to call me sweetheart..." she muttered, before coming back to reality. "So Errol, what do you say? Will you stay over and make sure I'm okay. Tomorrow I will be fine I promise."
We stayed up and talked well into the night. Claudia lost more and more of her shyness with each drink. She didn't ever talk in specifics but she liked to remember her childhood and background. She sometimes talked passionately and sometimes sadly but always with great intrigue. In spite of us talking for hours I hardly gleaned any real information on her. She had cut herself off from her family when her father died and now wanted nothing to do with them. She had many fond memories and kept throwing in anecdotes about various names, Mario or Mikey, or Stanley but never gave too much information. She was fascinated by my life and I probably opened up a lot more than I had intended, telling her about the roller coaster life of detective work. As the evening wore into night and the night into morning we got on really well. We listened to many more records, we danced, drank and had a thoroughly good time together.
When the daylight came I gave her lift to the Central Manhattan Library where she had being doing a bit of casual work and headed back to my own apartment, a lot happier than I expected to be and a hell of a lot more frustrated than I wanted to be.
Chapter Seven – Tongs
Depending on whom you believe, the triads originated in mainland China anytime between the first century A.D and the seventeenth century. Their main aim was to overthrow the Manchu Ch'ing dynasty and to restore the Chinese Ming dynasty. These resistance movements were born in the monasteries and used the triangle as their symbol, which represented the blending of Heaven, Earth and Man. Each of these elements are represented by a number which is derived from early Taoist numerology.
There are many myths and legends of battles won and battles lost in the early life of the triad resistance, of fighting monks, betrayals, bloodbaths and audacious victories. Much of these are unsubstantiated or impossible to ever prove. What is clear is that these secret societies that started as semi-religious political organizations, or even forms of trade unions, soon evolved into highly advanced criminal organizations. Underground political resistance soon became usurped by the lure of riches gained through prostitution, money lending, drug dealing and extortion.
In the mid to late nineteenth century, over 100,000 Chinese people migrated from their homeland to the United States, mainly to the west coast where they were used as hard labourers building the great America railroads. As a people the Chinese could hardly have been worse treated by authorities and it is this persecution that contributed to the closed societies that expanded across the nation.
Just like the triads sprung up from adversity in the Orient, the Chinese Americans soon formed their own version, the Tongs. The Tongs were on the surface nothing more than social societi
es, but underneath a new criminal underworld was forming which would not directly challenge the Mafia as they kept almost exclusively to themselves but would nevertheless ravage the Chinese community for years to come.
I had heard the stories many times from my good friend Weeny Jung Ping. He had an encyclopedic memory of the history of the Chinese people and never tired of telling the tales of old. I was now sitting outside his shop on the corner of Canal and Lafayette streets waiting for him to return from his daily meditation at the Buddhist Temple.
I had intended to pay Weeny a visit from the moment I found the dying Dyke Spanner, and was even keener to do so after I found the note. It had been waiting for me on the doormat to my apartment, folding neatly between the business section of the New York Post. Giving nothing away but saying a great deal it simply said, "Great Antique Sale. Come and see for yourself. Something for everyone."
Weeny Jung Ping had migrated to America as a young boy, settling in New York's Chinatown in the early 1900s. Through no real choice of their own his family were plunged right into the Tong wars that were raging at the time between the Hip Sing Tong, led by the humouressly named Mock Duck and the On Leongs, the existing power led by the so-called Mayor of Chinatown, Tommy Lee. These wars would rage on throughout the early part of the century and lead to the death of many innocent and not so innocent Chinese people.
Weeny was only five at the time and was seventh son of a family of thirteen. By the time he reached his teens the first Tong War was over, thanks to the intermediacy of the Reverend Charles Henry Pankhurst, but almost all of Weeny's family had perished. All that were left were himself, his ageing mother and two of his younger sisters. They would live in relative peace, running their laundry business in Chinatown for the next few years. By 1924 the launderette had gone into the ground and Weeny left home to open up his own antique shop. This was to prove an extremely lucrative and rewarding business over the years and provided Weeny with a good base to pursue other goals.
