Beating the Babushka

by Tim Maleeny

  The mock cook straightened into a tough-guy pose and said something in Cantonese. His tone made it sound like a threat. He was just shy of six feet, a good foot taller than Sally and narrower in the shoulders and chest than Cape. But Freddie Wang had his back, so he clearly pictured himself as the Jolly Green Giant.

  Sally smiled sweetly and replied in a low voice, the picture of a demure Asian woman. When the guard leaned closer, her right hand shot forward like a cobra and snaked its way down the front of his pants before he got the first sentence out. Sally twisted her right hand violently as her left caught him by the throat and cut off his air supply before he could scream. The guard’s eyes bulged in a cartoon freeze-frame of intense pain then slammed shut like twin garage doors as he fainted at their feet.

  Cape winced. “I’d hate to see you on a second date.”

  “I don’t believe in foreplay,” said Sally. “Follow me.”

  She led them past cooks who looked to be the real deal, scrambling around a kitchen too small for their frenzied activity. Every wall was lined with four-top stoves, and every burner had a metal pot spewing steam into the low ceiling. Cape’s eyes started to water from all the spices, and his nose twitched like a rabbit’s. He caught a whiff of something that made his mouth water, but the rest was an indecipherable mélange. In the center of the wide room was an island with a wooden counter, and six men crowded around hacking up chickens, ducks, and one or two critters Cape suspected were on the endangered species list.

  The men watched them pass with a mix of idle curiosity and suspicion, but something in Sally’s bearing told them this was a formal visit, not a raid. Either that or they recognized her for what she was and didn’t want their dicks torn off.

  They pushed through a swinging metal door into a different world, the cacophony of the kitchen replaced by the white noise of dinner guests. A barely heard recording buzzed from tiny speakers in the corners, the strumming of a lute accompanied by plaintive Chinese singing. The room had tables in the center and booths along the wall. Sally and Cape chose a booth that allowed one of them to face the kitchen and the other, the front entrance.

  The restaurant was on the ground floor of an ornate two-story building in the heart of Chinatown. Red columns encircled by golden dragons and tigers framed the front door. Two stone Chinese dogs sat on either side of the short stairway leading to the large dining room. It oozed authenticity, a dining experience worthy of a postcard. And while it catered to tourists during the day, it served a very different clientele late at night.

  Cape and Sally arrived just after eleven o’clock, and the restaurant was almost empty. Not far from their booth was a small round table holding a middle-aged couple and their son. The boy was maybe eighteen and had his mother’s blonde hair and his father’s square nose and chin. He wore a sweatshirt with University of Iowa emblazoned across the front. His parents smiled at each other as the boy used his chopsticks to chase the last dumpling across the table.

  “Watch this,” said Sally. Cape glanced over and saw a waiter carefully place a fortune cookie in front of each family member, starting with the father.

  The dad cracked open his fortune cookie. As he read the tiny slip of paper, his brow furrowed. He looked up at his wife. She’d just finished reading her fortune and looked distinctly uncomfortable as she met his gaze. The boy looked in consternation from one parent to the other, his broken cookie still on his plate.

  The husband said something to the wife that Cape didn’t quite catch, but her response was unmistakable.

  “Bastard!” she cried. “I knew it.”

  Grabbing her son by the arm, she stormed out of the restaurant. The husband angrily threw his napkin on the table and ran after her.

  Sally smiled mischievously. Cape stepped over to the table and read the small slip of paper the father had left behind.

  Your wife is having an affair. Ask her about it!

  Cape raised his eyebrows and grabbed the wife’s fortune.

  Your husband will accuse you of his own crimes.

  The son’s fortune was perhaps the most insidious.

  Your parents’ marriage is a sham!

  “Harsh,” muttered Cape. He returned to the booth. “I saw this trick last time I was here.”

  Sally nodded. “Freddie likes to clear the tourists out before the tongs arrive at midnight. He’s developed some ingenious techniques for getting lingering diners to leave.”

  “But how do they get so specific?”

  “The waiters are tasked with profiling the patrons, then a guy in the back writes custom fortunes. Over the years they’ve become pretty sophisticated.”

  “Obviously,” said Cape. Dumplings had arrived while he’d been reading fortunes. Using a single chopstick, he skewered one and raised it toward his mouth.

  “Don’t eat that,” said Sally casually.

  Cape froze, then lowered the dumpling back to the plate. “We’re not eating?”

  Sally shook her head. “I know the cooks.”

  “But I’m starving.”

  “But your bowels still function properly—trust me. That’s Freddie’s next trick for getting rid of unwanted guests.”

  Cape looked at the dumpling as if it were a land mine and pushed the plate away.

  Sally barked something in Cantonese at the waiter, who nodded briskly before disappearing into the kitchen. After several minutes he returned with two fortune cookies and set one in front of each of them in turn. Sally read hers first.

  Come upstairs.

  She passed the slip over to Cape, who handed his over to her.

  You will be dead soon.

  Sally raised her eyebrows.

  “Get in line,” Cape said in a tired voice. Sally smiled.

  As they climbed the stairs, Sally spoke quickly in subdued tones. “Since I’m here, Freddie will probably do his Fidel Castro routine,” she said. “He’ll pretend not to understand English, so I’ll translate—gives him more time to react to questions.”

  Cape nodded. “After we’re done, can we eat?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  At the top of the stairs, a short hallway led to double doors secured with a circular bronze latch almost a foot across. On either side of the door stood a guard, twin Chinese with broad shoulders and expensively tailored suits. Cape knew they carried guns but couldn’t see an outline or bulge under their jackets. He and Sally reached the door and the twins stepped forward to frisk Freddie’s guests.

  Cape held his arms in T-formation while the guard on the right went to work. “Who’s your tailor?” The guard ignored him and moved his hands slowly along Cape’s legs. The guard checking Sally was tentative at first until she barked something in Cantonese that sounded like a reprimand. The guard blushed as he kneeled and patted her down. After a few awkward seconds of professional groping, the twins stepped back and pulled open the doors.

  The cloying smell of incense assailed them even before they crossed the threshold. Cape fought back the urge to sneeze.

  The room was dark, the only illumination coming from a curved lamp perched on a desk. Thick carpeting—a deep red the color of blood. Drapes the same color covered most of the walls, making the room virtually soundproof. Cape glimpsed sculptures sitting on small tables in shadowed corners but couldn’t discern any details. Even the shape and size of the room itself was uncertain in the smoky haze.

  As they approached the desk, a gnarled hand appeared in the pool of light.

  From where Cape was standing, the hand looked disembodied, Thing from The Addam’s Family crawling across the desk to greet them. He started humming under his breath—They’re creepy and they’re kooky—until Sally gave him a dirty look.

  Two straight-backed chairs sat empty but Sally remained standing. Cape stood to her left, following her lead. To Sally’s right, a man emerged from the shadows and stood at parade rest next to her, hands clasped behind his back. He was heavy, his contours more suited to Sumo wrestling than the restaurant bu
siness. Sally did nothing to acknowledge his presence.

  As Cape’s eyes adjusted, the shadowy figure of Freddie Wang materialized behind the desk, his crooked fingers clutching a cigarette that glowed like a red eye in the darkness. To his right sat another man, and despite the dim light Cape saw he was younger, probably in his twenties, with a broad face and shiny black ponytail. He muttered something to Freddie, who leaned forward into the light.

  Freddie Wang commanded your attention, a sepulchral vision from the pages of a Sax Rohmer novel. His left eye drooped, smaller and dim, but the right eye glowed malevolently like a black sun. It was the eye of a demon. He had as much hair growing out of his ears as he did on his head, where it was stringy and gray, falling loosely around the collar of his suit. A finishing touch of repulsion was a cluster of three black hairs sprouting from a large mole on his cheek.

  Freddie’s hand scuttled back into darkness. They say hands always reveal your true age, so Cape figured Freddie was at least a thousand years old.

  Freddie turned his black eye on Sally and spoke rapidly in Chinese. She responded in a different dialect from her exchanges with the waiter and guard. The phrasing was still unintelligible but somehow more distinct. Cape guessed they’d switched to Mandarin.

  Sally kept her eyes on Freddie but spoke to Cape. “Ask your questions.”

  Cape nodded at Freddie. “Frank Alessi thinks you’re planning on taking over distribution of the heroin trade.”

  Sally started to repeat the statement in Chinese, but Freddie responded almost immediately, a guttural cough laced with anger. When he finished, Freddie leaned forward and spat into the ashtray. Sally spoke clearly and succinctly.

  “Frank Alessi is a treacherous pig.”

  Cape kept his eyes on Freddie and not the ashtray. “Frank says you started a war when you killed Otto the butcher.”

  Freddie delivered his answer with machine-gun velocity.

  “Frank Alessi is a lying, treacherous pig,” repeated Sally carefully, “who accuses other men of his own crimes.”

  Cape thought of the fortune cookies downstairs and wondered if Freddie took a turn at writing them. He waited a few seconds before speaking again. “Frank’s unhappy you cut him out of your dealings with the movie producer.”

  Freddie leaned back in his chair and mumbled something to the young man, who shook his head. Freddie looked at Sally but didn’t say anything. Seconds ticked by, and Cape decided to keep talking. “He thinks the movie business could be very lucrative as a new means of distribution, so he doesn’t understand why you’d be so greedy.”

  Freddie remained motionless until the word “greedy,” at which point he banged his fist on the desk and uttered another clipped reply.

  “If I am the one who is greedy,” said Sally, “then why is Frank unable to fit in his own clothes?”

  “You killed the man at the bakery,” Cape said matter-of-factly. “The one who looked like a pretzel.”

  Cape watched Freddie carefully and saw in his expression that he’d registered the deliberate change in phrasing. Cape hadn’t invoked Frank with his last statement—he was representing himself. The young man with the ponytail picked up on it, too, and leaned forward into the light. He twisted his face into a calculated sneer and spoke evenly in perfect English.

  “Father, why do you waste your time with this mongrel bitch and her round-eyed companion?”

  The heavyset man next to Sally chuckled. The young ponytail smiled cruelly at her and the fat guard laughed again, his stomach shaking.

  Sally’s right hand shot out so fast Cape barely registered the movement except for the smack of her hand connecting with the fat man’s Adam’s apple. A violent cough as he clutched both hands to his neck and collapsed to his knees, wheezing. Nobody moved or spoke; Freddie and his son avoided eye contact as if someone had farted. Seconds ticked by. After a long minute of rasping agony, the Sumo fell heavily onto his face, unconscious.

  Sally smiled sweetly at the young man behind Freddie and said something in Mandarin. His eyes grew wide and he scooted back in his chair, pulling himself into the shadows next to his father.

  Freddie took a long drag on his cigarette and leaned forward, smoke swirling around his leering eye. “My son is young—has much to learn,” he said in careful English, consonants bending awkwardly around neglected vowels. “But he has a point. Tell me, little dragon, why do you associate with this gwai loh?” He pointed at Cape with a crooked finger.

  Sally nodded in acknowledgment of the question and held Freddie’s gaze a long time before answering, also in English.

  “Because he keeps his word,” she said evenly. “He understands honor.” Then she added something in Cantonese before breaking eye contact with Freddie.

  Freddie blinked and sat back as if Sally had slapped him, and Cape realized that’s exactly what she had done. She turned toward Cape as if Freddie was no longer in the room. He was dismissed.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  Cape glanced at the man face down on the floor, then at Freddie, the black orb of his eye glowing darkly through the smoke. It wasn’t the look of a cooperative man. Cape glanced at Sally and shook his head.

  “Let’s go find a decent restaurant.”

  They let themselves out, the guards tracking them down the stairs but making no move to stop them. Back on the street, Cape turned to Sally.

  “What did you say to the son?”

  “A Chinese epithet,” she replied. “Loosely translated, I told him that if he spoke again I would inflict so much pain upon him that his ancestors—and all his descendants—would writhe in agony for a thousand years.”

  “He looked moved,” said Cape.

  “It’s more poetic in Chinese,” Sally assured him.

  “He’s obviously not a lover of poetry.”

  “He’s young and bold,” said Sally gravely, “but too inexperienced to take over from Freddie.”

  “But Freddie’s getting old.”

  “Freddie’s already old, but it takes more than old age to kill a reptile.” They walked the next few blocks in silence. “You learn anything tonight?”

  “Yeah,” said Cape. “I’ve lost my appetite for Chinese food.”

  “How about Japanese?”

  “Better—no fortune cookies.”

  “I know a place.”

  “Let’s go,” said Cape. “Maybe with some food in my stomach I’ll be able to make sense of this case.”

  “I doubt it, but at least you won’t die of hunger.”

  “At this rate, that’s probably the only thing that won’t kill me.”

  “See?” said Sally. “Things are looking up.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Anthony felt like an intellectual without his gun.

  He prided himself on his vocabulary and made this weekly trek to Stacey’s Bookstore on Market regardless of the weather. The walk took him far enough from North Beach that he didn’t have to worry about running into any of Frank’s other goons, and he knew he wouldn’t see them in a bookstore unless they’d stepped in to use the john. Most of them couldn’t read the paper, let alone a book.

  That was the hardest thing about working for Frank, the sheer banality of the conversations. Fuckin’-this and fuckin’-that all the time. It was like Frank had attended a training seminar called How to Act Like a Wiseguy, lessons in how to forget prepositions and shave your IQ in half by following a simple daily regimen.

  But Anthony had a talent, a moral detachment and lack of empathy that few professions rewarded except for certain branches of the military, and they didn’t pay well enough. As crude as Frank Alessi might be, he was a businessman, a product of natural selection in the free market. He understood the value of talent, and Anthony had a gift. He could look down his hawk-nose at a man and shoot him in the eye without blinking, then sleep like a baby. His work ethic was unencumbered by conscience, which made him very valuable to a man like Frank.

  Anthony had picked out four ne
w books and five periodicals, paid, and was just leaving the store as a short man in a nice-looking suit held the door for him, waiting until he could enter himself. Anthony nodded his thanks and moved onto the street as a large black man stepped from the curb and smiled as if they knew each other. Anthony’s radar, suppressed during his bookstore reverie, kicked into gear too late. He felt the gun against his spine just as the black cop—he was sure they were cops—swung a lazy arm toward his solar plexus, clenching his fist at the last minute and knocking the wind out of him. Anthony doubled over and dropped his bag onto a pair of size-fifteen shoes.

  “Nice of you to hold the door like that, Vinnie,” said Beau pleasantly.

  “We are public servants, after all,” mused Vincent, bending over to grab Anthony by the collar. As he stood, coughing, Anthony noticed that a ridiculously large handgun had appeared in the black cop’s right hand. Without a word, Anthony put his hands behind his head and waited to be frisked.

  “Ain’t you the cooperative one,” said Beau.

  “We’ll see about that,” said Vincent, pulling Anthony’s arms down to cuff him. Some people were milling about, watching, but Beau gave them a look and they scattered. The two detectives led Anthony to their car.

  Anthony twisted his head around and sighed in relief. The cop in the good suit had remembered his books. It occurred to him that going to jail would give him plenty of time to read.

  Maybe today wasn’t such a bad day, after all.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Cape was north of the city when the earthquake hit San Francisco.

  The Golden Gate Bridge had made it through the 1989 quake unscathed, but this time it was the first to fall. The people on the bridge never had a chance.

  Traffic was light—a small blessing—but there were still over four hundred cars driving across the span when the first tremor hit. The surface of the road buckled and surged like a wave, sending cars slamming into each other. Before anyone realized what was happening, the bridge twisted from a second tremor so powerful it caused the unthinkable—one of the giant suspension cables snapped. The cable whipsawed back and forth, a giant snake scattering pedestrians and cars like leaves. As men and women plummeted toward the churning waves below, their screams were drowned by the shriek of twisting metal.