The White Tigress

by Todd Merer

  He showed no surprise. “That we did.”

  I hesitated, unsure of the wisdom of saying more. But tiptoeing around Duke was meaningless; the only communication he understood was in his face.

  “I bet,” I said, “when it came to China White heroin, you and Smitty were the men. Made enough to buy this place a hundred times over. I’m guessing that Uncle Winston Lau, who referred me to you, was your money launderer.”

  He looked at me mildly, as if I were a fruit fly not worth swatting. I wanted to provoke him into hitting me so I’d have an excuse to rip the heroin-dealing prick’s head off.

  “You blackmailing me, Counselor?”

  “Your style, not mine. Just know that everything I said and more is in another lawyer’s office, in a sealed envelope to be opened in the event of my untimely death or disappearance.”

  “Counselor, I have deep regrets—hell, fucking scars—from the consequences of my actions. I quit the business, but you . . . you still suck from narco teats. You’re totally amoral. For you, it’s all about the money.”

  I felt no need to correct his misconceptions. I just wanted to stick needles and draw blood. “Stella’s parents didn’t die in an accident. It was homicide, and . . .”

  “And?”

  “You had the bodies immediately cremated to ensure no criminal evidence remained. Very clever.”

  “You know some things. None of which amount to diddly-shit.”

  “Could be. For example, I don’t know what happened to your daughter, Stella’s real mother.”

  “She died,” said Duke tersely. His face was pale. He reached for Keegan’s button but hesitated. Instead, he opened his gun drawer and put his other hand inside. But then he paused, as if wondering which was better: summoning Dr. Keegan to stabilize his heart, or putting a .45 round into mine.

  Truth or dare. I said, “There’s no statute of limitations on murder for hire . . . a conspiracy that originated here. Meaning US law applies.”

  “You said this wasn’t blackmail.”

  “Blackmail’s just another word for everything left to lose. How many Shan ingots do you have, Duke? Five thousand? You’re not going to live long enough to spend a fraction of it. Be smart. You really want someone to watch over your granddaughter? Give to charity. With a little luck, you might wind up in limbo instead of hell.”

  I pointed to the framed picture of his granddaughter on the shelf. “That photograph shows a strawberry birthmark on Katrina’s forehead. After you made Katrina into Stella, you had it removed . . . but Stella’s got a little scar right where the birthmark used to be.”

  He dipped his head, then looked up at me, anger and something else, perhaps fear, showing behind his eyes. “Enough. No cash, no gold. Instead you’ll get the deed to a property in Phuket. Ever been there?”

  The old criminal still thought I was trying to blackmail him. I shook my head. “I’m allergic to tsunamis.”

  “The Phuket property’s worth more than twenty-five mil. Title’s clear and legal. Right now there’s a bidding war for it between two major hotel chains. I’ll give you the information. You check it out for yourself, all expenses paid.”

  More bullshit. Nor did I want his Thai resort, even if it were real. Yet refusing him outright might get me canned, which meant I’d be abandoning Stella to his mercy. Best to let him think I was like him. I said, “As long as it’s clear that it’s payment for my work with Stella.”

  “Whatever, however. So you’re in?”

  “Not yet. For now, I’m just taking an all-expense-paid vacation to Phuket.”

  “On your way back from Phuket, I need for you to meet with some people.”

  “Not happening. Stella’s my only client.”

  “These people may very well determine Stella’s future. If she has one.”

  From a drawer, he took out a Redweld file. He unspooled the string and opened the flap and took out documents that he set in front of me. They were written in dense legalese, for me a dead language. When my work requires such a document, I subcontract the task to a paper lawyer who gets off on wherefores and in the event of said occurrences. In fact, the reason I chose criminal lawyering over civil litigating was to exercise my tongue instead of my typing. Still, atop the documents I recognized the first page of a deed conveying the Phuket beachfront property to Bennjamin T. Bluestone—for the princely sum of one dollar.

  If this wasn’t a con, it was a no-brainer. A bank-certified deal for $25 million-plus—I’d need a Trumpian accountant to figure a tax-free angle—was a ticket to a cleaner, better life. I paused for thought: I’d sworn off getting involved in drug work, but maybe this wasn’t drug money, and besides, if you trace it back far enough, all money is dirty—

  I was kidding myself. Duke’s money was dirty drug money, and I’d sworn off taking any, whether in the form of greenbacks, gold ingots, or a beachfront hotel.

  I continued thumbing through the papers. Beneath the deed were glossies of the property—impressive if you’re into huge resorts—and purchase offers from lawyers representing both hotel chains he’d mentioned. There was also $10,000 in cash, which I assumed was to cover my trips to Thailand and the people he wanted me to meet.

  “You’ll enjoy Phuket. The people you’ll be meeting afterward are in California. The Bay Area. By way of introduction, personally deliver this”—he handed me a sealed envelope—“to a certain older woman. You’ll know her when you see her. Actually, you’ll be dealing with a younger woman—a fine piece of ass, but enter at your own risk.”

  The envelope was made from expensive stock. It felt heavy, as if it held something else within.

  “Always a displeasure,” I said as I left.

  That night I drank. In the brief acuity following the first sip, I understood the irony of my situation: All my lawyering life, I’d sought the ultimate score that would allow me to retire and find myself a real life. But now that I’d vowed not to accept tainted money—Bingo!—I’d hit the proverbial jackpot.

  Well, I wasn’t going to take the money and run.

  A strangely unfamiliar statement.

  It made me feel, um . . . clean.

  CHAPTER 16

  Rangoon, Siam. December 1942.

  The Tigers had been disbanded as an independent unit and integrated into the USAAF, becoming another of the many squadrons the United States war machine was churning out twenty-four seven. All the AVG unit, young Tiger airmen and gruff old sergeants alike, had descended on Rangoon for a farewell gathering. The milieu was a private party in Mrs. Ting’s whorehouse. Tears and beers flowed. The dearly departed were solemnly toasted. Guys got drunker.

  Smitty and Archie, nursing warm beers and smoking foul, India-made cigarettes, were the only two sober guys in the place. Archie loved the Tigs as a group but wasn’t tight with his squaddies. He’d lost too many friends and decided it was better he kept a personal distance. Except, of course, for Smitty, who hated the Tigers but considered Archie a brother.

  Archie had no more stomach for war. Against all odds, he’d aced his missions, earning a row of departed-Jap flags on the fuselage below his cockpit. He’d loved the fight until his closest buddy, a kid named Vito out of the South Bronx, couldn’t shake a Jap Zero off his tail. Vito’s P-40 flamed as he jumped ship. Archie circled Vito’s parachute as it floated down.

  He’s gonna make it, Archie had thought; luckily, the territory below was controlled by friendlies—

  But a stray spark from the spiraling P-40 had found its way to Vito’s silken parachute. The chute burst into flame like the Hindenburg’s final moments.

  Horrified, Archie watched as Vito, already engulfed in flames, saluted Archie beau geste . . . then smashed to earth. Archie circled one last pass, looking at the still-smoking char who’d minutes ago been his good buddy. Afterward, he’d muttered a mantra to himself during the flight back to the base:

  No more. No more. No more . . .

  With the Tigers disbanding, Archie and Smitty had decided to
insulate themselves from danger—at least combat-wise—by joining a cargo squadron that operated far from harm’s way. But to their dismay, they soon learned they’d stuck their necks in a separate but equally dangerous noose. The cargo birds were underpowered, overused DC-3s. Overloaded with supplies, they flew between India and Burma over the Hump, the top of the Himalayan spine. If the weather went bad, things got dicey. A lot of DC-3 jockeys rolled double sixes.

  The whorehouse farewell party moved to the sing-along drunkenly stage.

  Smitty didn’t join in the songs; his eyes were wet.

  Archie sipped his beer. A bitter brew, befitting the way he felt. Unimaginably insane as it was, he was still madly in love with Kitty. He’d just turned seventeen but looked and acted twenty-five and had been with many women. For him, sex had been something often desired, easily obtained, quickly forgotten. He and Kitty fit so perfectly, but the reason he loved her was because she was strong-willed, yet prone to gentility. Ethereal and pragmatic. Kitty, she was like . . . like . . .

  Fresh air in the stink of war.

  Yes, that was it. Kitty was an immaculate being in a filthy world. He’d been in her company for hardly an hour, yet he knew beyond certainty that she was the love of his life. He drew deeply on his lousy cigarette—

  “Hey,” said Smitty. “You know that guy over there?”

  Archie didn’t reply. Despair gnawed like a rat in his belly. He’d wanted to see Kitty again so desperately that he’d been on the verge of deserting. That changed when he learned she had married a Chinese officer and borne him a girl.

  “You know him, Arch,” said Smitty. “The guy who owns the base PX.”

  Archie glanced up. He recognized the PX guy, some Chinaman.

  But the Chinaman had seen them and for some reason wended through the revelers to their table. He wore a suit and tie and a flower in his lapel; among the drunken, vomit-stained airmen and whores, he looked as if he’d entered the wrong movie set, a Charlie Chan look-alike gone astray.

  He reached Archie and bowed politely. But then, astonishingly impolitely, he sat close to Archie and whispered:

  “No need to worry. Your child is safe.”

  “What’re you talking?” said Archie.

  Smitty stood. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds. There’s a piece of nookie at the bar I’d like to know better.”

  The Chinese took a handkerchief from his lapel and mopped his forehead, refolded it fastidiously, and tucked it back in his pocket. He spoke looking down at the table so no one could read his lips.

  “The child was given to the nurse,” he said. “But the poor woman didn’t have any resources. So I took the child and my cousin transported it safely to India. Sadly, the nurse has disappeared. I fear the worst. But the important thing is that they’re in the United States now. Please accept my apology for intruding into your life, but it was a thing that needed to be said.”

  “What? Say it again,” said Archie.

  But the Chinaman had gone.

  That night Archie lay awake. Instinctively, he made the Chinaman as honest, yet his story was too fantastical to believe. Kitty had had a baby girl by her Chinese officer; it was pure nonsense that he, Archie, had fathered her child. Besides, how could the child be in the States if Kitty was living with her family in Chongqing? A fact Archie had checked and rechecked before finally surrendering to despair.

  It was growing light out when a thought came to Archie:

  The Chinaman had spoken of a child, not of a girl. And he hadn’t mentioned the nurse by name. Nor the mother. So . . .

  Was it possible the Chinaman had mistaken him for someone else? Another man who connected to a different matter?

  Yes, obviously that was it—

  The door burst open.

  Smitty was back.

  Archie figured Smitty would collapse in his sack and snore away the day. But Smitty wasn’t drunk and tired. The opposite: he was sober and energized.

  “I had some kind of night shooting craps,” said Smitty. From his pockets he emptied American bills he tossed atop his bed. Tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds. The pile grew as he emptied his jockeys, his wadded socks, a sheaf of hundreds tucked in his cap.

  Archie was astounded. “You stuck up a crap game? Nobody wins that much money.”

  Smitty grinned. “I did, brother. Nine passes I went seven or eleven. Over three thousand bucks.”

  “I’m glad for you. But just now—”

  “I met this girl, Ky,” said Smitty.

  “Go to sleep, goddamn it.”

  Smitty yanked Archie’s pillow from beneath him. “Listen up, Arch. Ky is from Burma. The Shan hill country. Hates the Japs, hates the Chinese, for some reason loves me. Instead of slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am, after we did it, she begged me to stay all night. For free. She wanted someone to talk to. Me.”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna rip your tongue out.”

  “Do that, and I won’t be able to save your ass and make you rich.”

  Archie sat up. He lit a smoke and listened to Smitty relate Ky’s tale.

  Last December, a few days after the Americans had entered the war, a contingent of Chinese Nationalist troops appeared in Shan country and cut a rough landing strip in the jungle. They hired Shans for the grunt work. One of the Shan workers was Ky’s third cousin by marriage. He’d told Ky the construction work concerned both a Chinese antiquity and a man they called Lucky.

  The evening after the strip was finished, a Chinese Nationalist plane—two-engine, cargo—landed there in the jungle. Ky watched as the soldiers unloaded a wooden crate they set next to a big hole they’d bulldozed, as if they were going to lower the crate into it. But then the Chinese officer in charge yelled for them to stop, and for everyone to clear out.

  Only a shaven-headed, orange-robed monk remained as the officer used a bayonet to pry open one side of the crate.

  “Guess what’s inside?” said Smitty.

  Archie flicked an ash. Shrugged.

  “Gold and jewels,” said Smitty. “Tons of it. The officer and the monk stand there like they’re praying, then they bow and close the crate. Then the officer yells for the Shan to return. Chop-chop, the crate gets lowered into the hole, which gets covered with dirt. Rolled flat like it never was. The soldiers pack up and fly away. Like Porky Pig says, ‘That’s all, folks.’”

  Archie considered, then said, “Your girl’s relative actually saw the gold and jewels?”

  “Not just saw ’em. Was practically blinded by them.”

  Archie considered. “Okay. There’s a fortune waiting to be stolen. How do we get it out of there, and where do we take it?”

  “That’s your job, boss. Figuring the details.”

  Archie winked. “Consider them figured.”

  Archie worked out a timeline. First, Ky had to show them where the crate was buried. Second, Smitty had to make certain arrangements via some Aussies he was friendly with.

  “Ky will do it for me, no problem,” said Smitty. “But how’m I gonna pay the Aussies?”

  “With your crap game score, Einstein.”

  Third, they needed a crew of Shans.

  Smitty nodded. “Ky’s got sixty-seven cousins.”

  Fourth, they’d have to fly the Hump.

  Two days later, their heavily laden DC-3 took off bound for the Hump, Archie at the controls, Smitty false flagging as his copilot. Within minutes, their base was gone from view in the expanse of greenery behind, at which point Archie changed course from northwest to due east.

  Two hours later, Smitty looked at his watch. “I’d say by now the big mountains would just about be dead ahead.”

  Archie nodded. “Carry on, Mr. Smith.”

  Smitty got on the radio and called in a mayday: “The wind’s bad. No way we can clear the Hump. Low on fuel. Request permission to abandon.”

  Air Control Center granted permission. “Good luck, guys.”

  “Affirm—” said Smitty, turning the radio off and looking over
to Archie.

  “So,” Archie said, smiling for the first time in days. “How does it feel being dead?”

  “Not bad at all. Hey, Arch, I didn’t tell you. Knowing Ky was a bar girl, I didn’t believe she was for real. But then she proved herself by telling me her full name. Ky Aung—”

  “Can it.” Archie didn’t want to talk about true love.

  It was nearly dark when Archie expertly set the DC-3 down on the newly constructed jungle strip. The Shan waiting there got immediately to work. One crew offloaded the DC-3’s military cargo while another crew unearthed the crate. It took ten men to lift it aboard the DC-3. Archie asked everyone to leave the cabin because he wanted to personally lash the crate, make sure it was balanced. When he was alone, he saw the marks on the crate where the Chinese officer had opened it. Using the same marks, he pried a plank open—

  And stared in amazement.

  Inside the crate was a mass of solid gold glinting with a rainbow of large precious stones. There was some sort of hat-shaped item as well, also made of gold and studded with jewels.

  Archie removed the hat, crown, whatever. It was heavy. He stashed it beneath his pilot’s seat, then closed the big crate and lashed it securely. He told Smitty to pay off the Shan, have them get rid of the offloaded military cargo, and prepare for takeoff.

  Half an hour later, a parallel line of flame pots ignited along the borders of the strip. The DC-3’s engines coughed to life. They revved higher, and the plane lurched as its brakes were released. It gathered speed and took off into the night.

  Equipped with supplemental tanks, the DC-3 had a range of about 900 miles. More than enough for what they’d planned. Keeping low to avoid Jap fighters, they threaded low mountains into the triangle formed by Burma, Siam, and Laos. As dawn broke, they saw the gleaming surface of the South China Sea two thousand feet below. On the far horizon appeared the faint outline of the Chinese shore.