The White Tigress

by Todd Merer

  I raised her face to mine. “Tell me . . . why did Richard save us?”

  “He didn’t save us. He preserved us until he can take Lucky.”

  “What’s he waiting for?”

  Her reply was to look pointedly at the crate with Lucky’s hat atop it sitting on rollers just a few feet from the opened stern flap. “If he approaches us prematurely, he’s afraid we’ll dump Lucky over the side. He needs to personally hand Lucky to the Chinese, or they won’t pay him. Not that I suspect they will, anyway.”

  “They’re gonna stiff him?”

  She smiled. “He’ll be a stiff, all right.”

  “Why would they kill Richard?”

  “I didn’t say they would.”

  Javier rejoined us, followed by Stella and Derek. I gave Derek a look, and he shrugged. Stella seemed preternaturally calm, but I sensed something simmering beneath her placid surface. They stood looking out to sea, where two patrol boats were bouncing over the waves, fast approaching us. One flew the Chinese flag, the other the American flag.

  The White Rose’s engines stopped.

  The ship was dead in the water.

  CHAPTER 63

  The Chinese patrol boat reached us first. Dolores nodded to our captain, who gave an order, and the Filipino crewmen draped a ladder over the side of our hull. The Chinese swarmed up it like a horde of ants: armed and determined-looking. First a squad of sailors, automatic weapons unslung. Then a quartet of civilians laden with duffel bags. Then an officer—a wide man with a narrow face—who wore the shoulder boards of a full colonel. Then, very slowly, a large, extremely old man whose knotted arms bulged as he slowly lifted himself rung by rung.

  “Eff me,” whispered Derek. “It’s General Ming Chan himself.”

  I recognized the same ancient man Derek had met with in Chinatown. I’d learned who and what Ming Chan was but still didn’t know why he’d met with Derek.

  A hoarse voice broke the silence. “Mother of all fuckers.”

  It was Duke. From the bridge, he glared at Ming Chan.

  But Ming ignored him as another figure appeared, lightly clambering from the ladder to the deck: Missy Soo, trim in customized army pants tucked into high-fashion boots. She glanced around, then paused, glaring hatefully at the bridge.

  Derek was on the bridge now. He said, “Oh no . . .”

  Duke had his arm around Stella, as if restraining her; understandable, for she bristled with hostility directed at Missy. Duke wore the same hateful expression, clearly restraining himself as well—

  All at once in my mind’s eye, a big piece of the puzzle fell into place: the document written in Burma in 1942 by a British Army doctor that Duke had left in a file for me to read: “Diagnosis of Rare Double Pregnancy,” describing a phenomenon known as superfecundation, which may occur when a woman has sex with two different men during her same menstrual cycle, resulting in the birth of two babies who are “half twins” because they have different fathers.

  And now I understood:

  Missy and Stella were both Madame Soo’s granddaughters, although each bore similarities to their respective grandfather: Ming and Archie. The whole business had been ignited by a family dispute. I’d once been a reluctant witness in a divorce trial and never before or since had seen such utter animosity, in or out of court, until now. I decided it was best to keep my eye on both Missy and Stella, who appeared to be on the verge of violence.

  They were not the only ones. Duke’s face was a portrait in hatred as he wielded his blackthorn stick. Ming had untied what looked like a leather-braided whip he’d been wearing around his waist, his thick brows arched angrily, good eye fixed on Duke.

  It felt like the silence before a storm.

  The Chinese sailors had formed a protective circle around the colonel and Ming Chan and Missy Soo. From the deck and the bridge, the Filipino crew stared at the Chinese balefully. No love lost between these undeclared enemies. I knew beneath their shirts the crew carried automatic weapons.

  The White Rose was now becalmed, the humid tropical air redolent with tension. And I wondered:

  Had Dolores lured the Chinese into a killing ground?

  Javier was videotaping the scene. Why?

  Dolores approached the Chinese. The sailors parted, and she addressed the colonel in English. “It’s good to see you again, Colonel Tso.”

  “And you, Miss Dolores,” replied Colonel Tso in nearly unaccented English.

  So Dolores had been scheming with the Chinese—

  There was a clunk, and everyone turned.

  The American patrol boat that had bobbed alongside The White Rose had thrown a weighted ladder on our deck.

  Colonel Tso seemed unconcerned. “May we begin?”

  “By all means,” replied Dolores.

  Colonel Tso nodded to a sailor, who spoke into a phone, listened a moment, then pointed: a quarter mile distant from our stern, a Chinese freighter turned toward us.

  Colonel Tso nodded again. The civilians carried their duffels to the stern, where the barnacled crate perched on steel rollers by the lowered stern flap—

  “Hello, boys,” said Richard as he climbed aboard, followed by half a dozen armed American sailors. Unslinging their rifles, they leveled them at their Chinese counterparts. He air-punched a jab at me, then winked at Dolores. “What’s the haps, babe?”

  “Not you, Dickie,” said Dolores.

  He grinned. “Forgot my flyboys saved your ass?”

  “Noble of you. Protecting your fee.”

  “So smart, the lady is. One of the reasons I was crazy for you. But then you had to go off on your own. So maybe you’re not so smart after all. Choosing this rust bucket over my ship. A bright girl like you should know to stick with the man who has the biggest one.”

  Dolores put her arm through my elbow. “I am. Not to mention Benn’s teeth are real, his hair isn’t dyed, he doesn’t use sunlamps, and he doesn’t take Cialis.”

  For the first time, I saw Richard falter. Dried saliva had gathered in the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were pinpoints. The maniac must’ve been popping reds for days, amping up for this moment. He fixed his glare on me.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Bluestone?”

  “Negotiating my client’s business,” I said.

  “The negotiation’s finished. Me and the colonel here, we dotted every i and crossed every t.”

  Yet Colonel Tso continued to ignore Richard’s presence, and I realized something: He had expected Richard to be there but didn’t care; the Chinese had their own agenda that excluded him—

  From the aft deck, a hammer echoed, a crowbar squeaked. The Chinese civilians had set Lucky’s hat aside and were now opening the crate. Missy stood watching, her eyes hungry. Behind her, Ming hunched, rheumy gaze on the crate.

  Ignored by all, Javier videotaped.

  Richard sidled up to me, spoke quietly. “Just so you know, when this is over, I’m dropping a RICO indictment on you. The predicate acts include treason and murder. This is the last time you’ll see free daylight.”

  “So buzz off and let me enjoy it,” I said.

  The Chinese freighter had turned itself around and now, stern first, was reversing toward us. Like The White Rose, it had its rear cargo flap lowered. Clearly, the intent was for the two vessels to meet stern to stern; then the crate would move atop the rollers from The White Rose onto the Chinese freighter.

  Richard motioned his sailors to stand aside. When they had, he held a phone out to the colonel and said, “Colonel Tso, it’s time to give the okay to transferring the twenty-five million dollars to my account.”

  Colonel Tso shook his head. “Not until our scientists verify all is as it should be, and both sides sign the necessary documents. I have such authority. Who has authority for you?”

  “You’re looking at him,” said Richard.

  “Wrong,” I said. “I have the authority.”

  “Wrong.” Richard thumbed at the gray mass of the amphibious assaul
t ship. “Along with my US Navy command, I was given the authority.”

  Dolores said, “Colonel Tso, I suggest you ask the commanding officer of the American ship to join us. If he is made aware of the situation, this man who calls himself Richard will end up in a navy brig, and all his dealings canceled.”

  Richard shook his head. “Dream on, Dee. The US military is conditioned to follow orders, no questions asked. The dildo in command of that assault ship will obey my orders.” He moved closer to Dolores and, sotto voce, said, “You’re okay for a one-night stand. Thing is, you’re just garbage I left behind. After this is finished, I have a genuinely gorgeous Chinese lady waiting to spend a cushy life with me.”

  Dolores laughed cruelly. “Missy Soo will chew you up and spit you out.”

  Richard shook his head, called to Missy. “Straighten her out, baby.”

  As if she hadn’t heard him, Missy didn’t respond.

  “Your papers?” Colonel Tso asked me.

  I wear a money belt when I travel. It’s made of a stretchable but sturdy synthetic. Strong enough to hold a .25 belly gun—which it did now; I’d found it in Duke’s cabin—and large enough to hold some other things. Like a bunch of business cards. My own, and others I’d glommed over the years; cards that had belonged to the kind of people that can do—and undo—the undoable.

  “In five minutes, you and your lover boy are fish food, doll,” said Richard. “Colonel, please place the call. By the time the bank’s on the line, Lucky will be all yours.”

  I glanced at the bridge. Along with Duke, Derek, and Stella, Madame Soo and the monk called Lucky were there. It was almost as if they were waiting.

  “Papers,” repeated Colonel Tso, impatiently.

  I handed several business cards to Colonel Tso. Mine was bold script embossed on heavy blue paper, very classy, if I say so myself. The others were a mix of Washington prosecutors and agents, heavyweights with impressive titles. I’d taken the liberty of stamping the backs of their cards with official-looking authorizations naming yours truly as duly authorized by the laws of the United States of America. I’d bought the stamp for $49.99. The scam had worked before, dealing with minor functionaries who’d allowed my loitering where I shouldn’t. My way of going low among those in high places.

  But Colonel Tso was no slouch.

  “Not sufficient,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Richard. “I’m the only one with authority. Come on, make the call—”

  Colonel Tso said, “No call. No deal. China has regained Lucky without your help.”

  “Shit on you, Mac,” said Richard. “I’ll call your boss.”

  Ignoring him, Colonel Tso left Richard furiously punching his phone and turned his attention to the crate. Its top had already been removed, and the Chinese civilians were prying the side planks open. Already some were looking inside the crate, studying the object within through loupes, measuring its dimensions, scraping samples into test tubes, mixing in chemicals and watching colors change.

  I could barely see a corner within the crate because it was elevated atop the steel roller, but I made out a massive dark shape; and then, as another plank lifted, sunlight reflected off gold and embedded green and red and diamond-white stones.

  “The writing,” Colonel Tso called to the civilians. “Is it there?”

  Another plank fell away, and I saw the bejeweled object was a huge, golden Laughing Buddha. I supposed it bore some sort of engraving that confirmed it as genuine. Was this the Ming Treasure?

  After a moment, the answer came in rapid, positive-sounding Mandarin.

  Even as the Laughing Buddha was confirmed as genuine, an eerie moaning commenced, rising and falling and rising again:

  “Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om Mani Padme Hmm . . .”

  I followed Dolores’s gaze to the bridge deck, where the monk I’d made as Lucky wailed a mantra:

  “Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om Mani Padme Hmm . . .”

  “What does that mean?” I wondered aloud.

  Dolores said, “Six syllables describing the path of wisdom that removes impurities so the exalted mind of a Buddha can emerge.”

  “Now you’re a hippie? What means exalted?”

  Dolores shrugged. “A blank page, a new life.”

  The chugging grew louder, the Chinese freighter now a mere fifty feet away, its aft slowly backing toward The White Rose’s aft.

  Duke had hobbled from the bridge, closer—too close, I thought—to Ming. Stella was close behind him. Duke drew his .45, but Stella snatched it from his hand.

  “Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om Mani Padme Hmm . . .”

  Another voice, reed-thin and weak, joined the mantra. It came from Madame Soo. As she sang, her face seemed strangely youthful and carefree, as if she’d somehow regained her departed beauty.

  “Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om Mani Padme Hmm . . .”

  PART SIX:

  THE VERDICT

  CHAPTER 64

  While everyone was concentrating on the emergence of the Laughing Buddha, Ming limped toward Duke, wielding his weapon of choice: the braided leather rope he wore around his waist. Duke looked for Stella, but she had left his side and stood on the aft deck near the Laughing Buddha, Duke’s gun in her hand.

  Ming’s whip lashed at Duke, its end snapping against Duke’s cheek, drawing first blood. An inch higher, it would have taken Duke’s eye, no doubt Ming’s intent.

  He flicked his whip again, pulping Duke’s ear. Again, he flicked the whip, but Duke raised his blackthorn stick, entwining the braided leather, yanking it from Ming’s grip.

  The old men, wincing with effort, faced off. Ming reached beneath his tunic and withdrew a short, pointed dagger. Duke unscrewed the top of the blackthorn stick and from its hollowed interior withdrew a needlelike sword. They went at each other without hesitation, thrusting and parrying. Blood spurted from their wounds and darkened their clothing. Grunting in pain, Ming put an elbow in Duke’s gut. Duke went to his knees as Ming paused for breath.

  From nowhere, Dr. Keegan appeared, trying to assist Duke. But Duke brushed him away, saying only, “Give me your piece.”

  From his satchel, Dr. Keegan took a small-caliber handgun and handed it to him. At nearly point-blank range, Duke aimed the gun at Ming. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

  Duke looked to Keegan. “You didn’t load it?”

  “The safety’s on,” said Keegan.

  Fingers trembling, Duke found the safety. The gun went off immediately, but the shot struck Dr. Keegan, who fell atop the rollers between the crate and the opened flap. Duke turned the gun toward Ming, but before he could shoot, Colonel Tso snatched the weapon from his hand.

  “Fight honorably,” he said to Duke, then turned to Ming. “Kill him, General.”

  Round three. Ming and Duke went at each other again, grunting like wounded bulls.

  Neither the Chinese or American sailors dared interfere in this last round of a fight that had begun three-quarters of a century ago. Amid an array of the most advanced weapons on earth, two men from another era were fighting to the death by hand.

  Duke slipped in his own blood. Ming’s thrust narrowly missed Duke’s throat, a failed move that earned Ming Chan a shoulder stab that left him gasping on hands and knees. But he rose again.

  And still they fought.

  CHAPTER 65

  Madame Soo felt as if a great burden had been lifted. At last, her destiny had appeared. Everything was clear to her now . . . except her true name. Was she Kitty or Li-ang? But then, as if by magic, the answer came to her. She was both. The final pieces of the puzzle had come together, and the mosaic of her life was completed.

  There were so many parts to it. The dualities.

  Her two dead daughters: one pure Chinese; the other Chinese-Caucasian. Her two granddaughters. So strange she loved the gweilo more than the one who was her image. Or maybe not so strange, for she disapproved of Missy’s aggressive behavior; it reminded her of the cruel choices she’d mad
e in her life. Choices concerning two men she’d once loved: Ming, her loyal husband; Archie, who’d first touched her.

  They didn’t even know how alike they were.

  She watched as the two old fools dueled for her withered wedding finger. As if she’d ever wear either man’s band.

  The struggle went on, now reduced to sporadic thrusts between long pauses for oxygen.

  “Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om Mani Padme Hmm . . .”

  Ming Chan and Duke were unable to continue. Mere feet apart, they gasped for air, hated adversaries in the past and present, and yet . . . now here was something new in their expressions . . . a camaraderie born of respect, a mutual understanding of life’s irony.

  Duke raised his bloody sword to Madame Soo, a dying knight saluting his lady.

  Ming, brows knit in a scowl, ran the side of his hand across his belly, pretending to commit hari-kari like the samurais in the Japanese movies he’d always derided Li-ang for watching.

  Too little, too late, thought Madame Soo.

  Yet, she cared for both, in her way.

  But neither was her true love.

  So sad . . . and yet . . . so funny. Her last moments before joining her ancestors, watching Yojimbo and John Wayne fighting for her hand.

  So fitting they’d fought to a draw. At last, their spilling blood over her was done. And now, as her final act, she’d make sure their nations would also be spared. She yearned for what would then follow:

  Eternal sleep deep beneath the good earth of China.

  Her hand found a lever set on the deck at her side.

  She drew her last breath and pulled the lever.

  “Om Mani Padme Hmm . . .”

  CHAPTER 66

  When the lever was pulled, the low grinding of a belowdecks engine began, but none of us on board was aware of it at the time. We all watched as the Chinese freighter drifted closer, narrowing the gap between its stern and that of The White Rose. Twenty feet now. The crate had been disassembled and the great Buddha sat, exposed, laughing in all his glory.

  Missy stared at it, enraptured.