by Dane Hartman
Huang Cheh listened to Harry with a completely empty face. As the cop talked, the Chinese had made a pyramid with his fingers and gently placed the two forefingers to his lips. When Callahan had finished speaking, Cheh remained silent for several seconds, his eyes looking right through the American. When he finally spoke, it was as if he hadn’t heard a word Harry said.
“I am sorry about sending those three men to you downstairs. I hope you can forgive me.”
Harry was not puzzled by Cheh’s response. The fact that he was talking at all was a good sign. The Chinese were a race to whom respect and “face” meant everything. No Chinese worth his salt came right out and said anything. All explanations had to be tempered and cushioned with nonincriminating words.
“But it is a strange time,” Cheh continued absently, looking from Harry over to the video screens. “A time when a peaceful man cannot be sure whether he is safe from attack even in his own home. A time when a man must test even his friends to be sure of no treachery. A time when even the highest ranking of men must mask themselves to avoid danger.”
Harry had to hand it to the crime boss. Only the most vicious and unprofessional killer would murder a seemingly harmless old codger who answered the door. They would charge through to the inner office to find it empty or filled with a small army of angry bodyguards.
“The murders,” Harry quietly nudged him. “The kidnapping.”
“There were more than just two murders in Chinatown tonight,” Cheh intoned. “Nine men were shot down in a corner store tonight, all but one of them innocent of any wrongdoing. One of them wasn’t even engaged in some pleasurable, harmless games of skill. It was messy. It was ugly and unnecessary. It was the act of a naughty little boy desperate for attention.”
Harry put it together. Someone had wiped out one of Cheh’s nickle-and-dime gambling dens. “How does that tie in with the wax museum murders?” Harry wanted to know.
“The boy killed there was the nephew of the store owner,” Cheh said in a remarkably straightforward fashion. “He was known to spend some time in his uncle’s employ. The girl was another innocent. A museum tour guide. She was one with the boy’s heart.”
“He escaped,” Harry reasoned. “And went to get his girlfriend. The killers followed him there.” Cheh remained silent. “Why?” Harry demanded. “This is not the Chinese style. There haven’t been many callous slaughters of innocent bystanders in the skirmishes of the past.”
“These are strange times,” Cheh repeated once again. “These are not Chinese gangs fighting each other for territory, using teenagers as our soldiers. These are Japanese fighting for recognition of their place in the underworld. Nihonmachi.” Huang Cheh said the last word as if spitting out a particularly distasteful hunk of food.
Callahan reacted to his vehemence. He recognized the last word as the Oriental translation for “Japantown,” the section of the city between Post and Buchanan streets, which was completely overshadowed by the five-tiered “Peace Pagoda,” built to “convey the friendship and goodwill of the Japanese to the people of the United States”—as it says on the plaque outside it. The area was so new, so clean, and so small that Harry was about to react to Cheh’s allegation with vehement denial. Then he realized that it was no way to get anything from the crime lord. Instead, his next words were soft and reasonable.
“That is indeed strange,” he said. “If a new underworld faction, using such violent tactics, was to appear in that area, one would think that the police would have at least a glimmer of it.”
“Their core is not in San Francisco,” Cheh explained. “Their evil has just touched this city.”
“So where are they from?”
Cheh returned to his inscrutable self. With a minute shrug, he said, “That is not my concern.” Harry translated that to mean “I do not know.” Oblivious to his hidden meaning, Cheh continued diffidently. “I seek to protect my own from their violence and evil.”
“Come on, Huang,” Harry said with a smirk, leaning forward. “Why did they destroy your crib?”
Cheh leaned back in his chair, put his fingers together again, and lectured to the ceiling. “The two Chinese factions utilize the front of two youth gangs: the Thunderfists and Tiger Claws.”
Harry agreed with that. These two street gangs were barely controlled by the China-based crime families. Cheh was the top-ranking representative of the group who used the Thunderfists. For years these two gangs went after each other, sometimes with, but mostly without, the family blessing. They were the ones out on the street, in the line of fire, making sure protection was paid, gambling was safe, the whores unmolested, and their territory was unsullied by a member of the rival gang. In fact, it was probably three Thunderfists whom Harry had beaten downstairs.
“The Thunderfists are more powerful in San Francisco,” Cheh went on, “but more centralized than the Tiger Claws, whose strength stretches across the country.” Harry was impressed by the man’s candor. The situation was taking on graver and more important overtones as he learned more about it.
“It was they who first crossed paths with the newly born Nihonmachi underworld,” Cheh continued. “And it was they, the Tiger Claws, who felt most threatened by the Japanese crime families’ flourishing. They have fought them every chance they got. The Thunderfists have remained uninvolved until the Nihonmachi evil reached into its very heart.
“I offered to aid the Tiger Claws any way I could,” Cheh summed up softly. “Tonight’s murders were a warning to stay away . . . to remain uninvolved. It is a warning I must consider. Fighting two wars may not be as smart as waiting to take on the victor.”
The crime lord remained silent after that, still staring up at the ceiling. Harry waited until almost a minute had passed. “And the kidnapping?” he finally inquired.
“I shall always be indebted to you for saving my life,” Cheh answered along a perpendicular route. “But I feel that primary allegiance to you has been spent. I will no longer be available to you unless it is in the direst of emergencies. You will no longer be welcome here. If you wish to meet me, perhaps a meeting could be arranged in another place. I must ask you to leave now. There are pressing matters of far greater importance to be considered.”
Harry heard a noise behind him. When he turned, seven men had entered the room. They stood along the back wall. Even if Harry emptied his gun at them, there would be one more to take him on. Callahan looked back at Huang, who was still studying the air above him.
“The day is still young,” Harry said lightly. “I may take a notion to visit some Tiger Claw territory. You wouldn’t happen to have a .44 Magnum shoulder holster I could use.”
Cheh took a moment to casually signal the man nearest the bar. That man opened a cabinet near the floor, rummaged through it for a second, then pulled out a standard .44 holster. He threw it to Harry.
“Think of it as a reward,” Cheh suggested, looking at the cop again. “For your fine performance downstairs.”
Harry strapped it on on the way down the elevator. The last thing he remembered about Cheh’s headquarters on the way out was Ling’s face—infinite with regret.
Violent reverberations of their meeting stayed with Harry even after he had gotten into his car and continued cruising the streets. What Cheh had said with his refusal to answer the kidnapping question was that Harry’s guess was as good as his. But within the crime lord’s last speech were the insidious seeds of great trouble to come. If, by some outside chance, the Thunderfists and Tiger Claws did decide to team up, the police all over the country would be facing a far greater enemy than ever before.
In the major urban centers, at least, the Chinatown underworld would take on a solidarity rivaling the Italian families. It would have close to the same effect that the Irish and Jewish criminals had when they joined the Mafia. In the long run, it might be better for the general peace, but law and order would become a ludicrous phrase. The police would be essentially powerless against them. The underworld would be
far more organized, wealthy, and effective.
But if the two Chinese factions did not unite, the short-range situation promised to be very bloody, with a lot of innocent bystanders getting mown down along with the Oriental soldiers. The body count was already too high, with the most important body—Suni’s—still unaccounted for. From a personal as well as professional point of view, Harry had to get a handle as to where the museum killers and Suni’s kidnappers hailed from.
He was already certain the crimes were interconnected. It was too much of a coincidence that the kidnappers would leave the van outside the scene of the murder. They must have switched vehicles after the wax museum killings, then switched back after snatching Suni. Interviewing passersby as to what cars they saw parked outside the museum would be a waste. And if Cheh couldn’t tell him anything more, being on the outskirts of the skirmish, maybe one of the main armies could.
He pulled his car up outside the “Village Hwa Seung Yuan” restaurant—a tiny hole-in-the-wall corner eatery that looked completely unappetizing from the outside. The appearance was purposeful but deceiving. It had some of the best and most authentic Chinese cooking in the city, but the proprietors didn’t want just anyone coming in.
It was near dawn, but the front door was still open and Harry could see some activity inside. He pulled the metal screen door toward him and slipped past the wood-and-glass door which was held back by a tarnished tiger door stop. The establishment was built like a triangle, with its crown at the door. From there it spread out on two levels. The cop stood on the first level, a hot steamy kitchen/bakery section, where round, perspiring men toiled over pots and stoves. Recessed back on three semicircular steps was the eating section, crammed with mismatching tables and chairs of many different shapes.
At this time of day, about the only people inside were Chinese whores and their pimps, along with a pocket or two of Tiger Claw members. In spite of the small number of diners, there was good reason for the kitchen to be busy. They were preparing for the early morning rush of workers who picked up the fresh pastries and rolls on the way to their Chinatown offices.
Harry moved purposely through the aromatic steam toward the eating area. He ignored the cooks and waiters until one roly-poly Chinese with a round face cut him off in the middle of the floor.
“We closed now,” he said politely but harridly. “Come back couple a’ hours. Ok?”
Harry motioned toward the four women and six men scarfing down food in the other room. “They’re eating,” he said defensively.
“Kitchen closed,” the Chinese countered. “You go away now.”
“I just want to sit down for a second,” Harry told him reasonably. “I won’t be any trouble.”
The Chinese looked worriedly from Harry to a young man who was sitting in the far corner with three other teens. The cop saw the kid nod almost imperceptively.
“Ok,” said the Chinese back to Harry. “Then you go. Come back later, ok? Get nice cookies, ok?”
Harry smiled. The Chinese looked like a slanted-eye “Poppin’ Fresh.” “Ok,” he said, nudging past him toward the dining area. Harry slowly mounted the three stairs, taking good long looks at the patrons. They all seemed oblivious of him while they held steaming bowls up to their mouths and shoveled stuff in with chopsticks, but Harry could see them sizing him up furtively. He took a seat in between the table with four hookers and their man and the corner table with three Tiger Claws. He could see two other gang members sitting by the window in front. They were the lookouts and backup men in case of any trouble. Harry was intent on seeing just how useful they were.
The cop started patting his various pockets as if he was trying to find something. He dug into his jacket pockets, patted his shirt pocket, and then made a rather elaborate show of realizing that he could use the table’s paper napkin to write on. Then he went through the patting routine again, seemingly trying to find something to write with.
He leaned toward the hooker table and asked, “Anybody got a pen? Or a pencil? Something to write with?” The first girl turned around, then turned away quickly, moving her chair closer to her friend’s and shaking her head no. The girl next to her spoke the sentiments aloud. “No.” The third began to rummage through her pocket-book until the pimp signaled for her to cool it. Harry saw the man who had initially stopped him at the door grab a ball-point from the cash register.
Callahan reached under his jacket and wrapped his hand around the Magnum butt. “Never mind,” he called out. “I found one.” Then he pulled the .44 from Cheh’s holster and pointed it in back of him right into the face of the Tiger Claw who had nodded.
The artifice worked perfectly. He had established the fact that he was looking for a pencil, so no one thought he’d pull out a gun. Even if they thought it was possible he was packing a piece, they probably didn’t think he would be stupid enough to call attention to himself and then whip it out. But Harry was stupid enough. The big barrel of the .44 rested comfortably on the end of the lead Tiger’s nose.
The two gang members by the window leaped up as if an electric bolt had zapped through their chairs. The two guys at the table with the threatened teen reared back, then remained extremely still.
“Now everyone relax,” Harry ordered. “This is just a routine investigation into the murder of two young Chinese at the wax museum last night.”
Having set the stage, Harry got up from his chair, wrapped his free hand in the lead gang member’s shirt and bodily lifted him out from behind the table and onto the floor—keeping his Magnum pointed at the teen’s nose at all times. The move was practical for two reasons. First, it showed everyone just how strong he was. And second, it got the guy away from his friends, who could be holding all manner of debilitating weapons under the table top.
As soon as the kid’s feet hit the floor, Harry grabbed a handful of straight black hair and propelled him toward the door, the gun now pushed into the Tiger Claw’s back. Harry was counting on the surprise factor to get the kid out of the restaurant and into his car. There was no way on God’s green earth that the kid was going to answer questions in front of what served as his peer group. Answering any question of a “round-eye,” even “what time is it?” brought derision and shame upon the gang members. But if Harry could get him alone, he might be able to get answers to his very nonpolice questions, so the rest of the gang would never know.
It almost worked. Harry had nearly gotten the kid out the door when he noticed two smirking Tiger Claws blocking him from the other side of the screen door. Both were standing, side by side, with their toes against the bottom of the partition, making it impossible for Harry to get out easily. Callahan didn’t bother talking. He knew there was nothing he could say now. They had called his bluff. He couldn’t legally or morally shoot anybody. He couldn’t force his way out without a fight. And there was no way he was about to get caught sandwiched in between the gang.
Harry moved back quickly, taking the kid with him. He backed around the pastry counter as the two Tiger Claws came slowly through the door and the four diners walked slowly down the steps. The cooks and waiters scattered. Harry quickly checked the layout for details. The ovens were to his right. The stoves were behind him. The register and display counter was to his left—as was the door and windows out on the street.
Callahan kept his tight grip on the kid’s hair. He pushed the Magnum against the side of the kid’s jaw so everyone could see it. Its appearance did nothing to deter the half-dozen teens approaching him. As he watched, two of them pulled out a ko-buda tonfa; which was another martial-arts trainer that could double as a billy club. Made of hardwood, it was a thick stick with a handle protruding from the side.
Another kid pulled a tokusho keibo from his back pocket. This was an Oriental police baton. It was like a switchblade club. When closed, it was six and a half inches long. The kid held it up for a second, then tapped the button at its base. The telescopic design sprang three inner portions out to a full length of twenty and a ha
lf inches. The message was clear. Go ahead. Do your worst. Kill the kid if you want. Whatever you do, you’re not getting out of here easy.
Harry heard the heavy breathing of the kid he was holding. He heard the quiet footsteps of the approaching Tiger Claws. He heard the bubbling of the boiling tureen of soup behind him. He saw the four dining Tiger Claws spread out as they approached and come together in a pack again as they neared. He waited until they started squeezing past the counter.
Then he brought the .44 up sharply and slammed it down on the lead kid’s head. He let the gun fall with the Tiger Claw. It was all but useless to him now. Besides, he had something else to occupy his hands with. As the kid and Magnum dropped, the Tiger Claws surged forward. Callahan twisted and grabbed the handles of the soup pot. With nearly an arm-wrenching pull, he lifted it off the stove and hurled it at the attacking teens.
The boiling hot soup surged over the tureen’s lip and splashed directly down upon the first three gang members. They screamed in pain and shock, falling to the sides and back. The heavy pot slammed into the fourth kid’s chest, knocking him over. The pot bounced and crashed into the pastry display case, sending broken glass spinning across the floor.
The two teens left standing reacted with savagery. The fifth swung his metal club at Harry, but the cop was already ducking down to retrieve his gun. The club was a better trick than it was a weapon. At more than twenty inches, it was too long for the small restaurant. The tip got caught on the stove’s lip. Harry reached up and wrenched the thing out of the kid’s hand. Then he stabbed back with it in a sharp, jabbing motion, first catching the kid in the nose and then the eye. He stumbled back, tripping over the fourth kid, who was trying to get up after the pot had hit him.
The sixth kid swung the ko-budo tonfa at Harry’s head as Harry swung his .44 at the ko-budo tonfa. The cop’s gun blocked the blow and then Callahan slammed the baton just over the sixth kid’s ear. The kid went down, slammed against the edge of the display case, bounced back, collided with the upright oven and then fell for good.
