Jack in a Box

by Pringle McCloy

  I headed out in my Beemer, top down. Greeted by the fragrance of pine needles, plus myriad species of flora sprouting on the forest floor, I cruised through the causeway, mumbling. This was all Jack’s fault. Jack had corrupted me in childhood and now I was going to die without fathering a child of my own to corrupt. I took Taylor Way to the Upper Levels Highway but I wasn’t in a hurry. According to Tony’s instructions I was to board the Horseshoe Bay ferry and stay in my car until someone found me. Done. I was now hearing the loud speaker ordering everyone to leave their vehicles and make their way to the upper decks. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. Then twenty. Nada. And just when I was hoping for a complete misunderstanding a gruff voice behind me rasped,

  “Mr. Charlie. Please come with me.”

  I followed behind the messenger dressed in black, behind a familiar narrow frame walking stiffly and with a sense of purpose, the no-nonsense King Chin. King led me to a big black van with black windows blending in. Eek! No one could see me in there, I worried. No one would watch me die. Good thing, because I wasn’t going to be brave about my testicles hanging on the end of a bloody knife.

  Inside, the van was dark enough to traumatize a bat. And eerie. I took a seat across from a tall shadowy figure and settled in before the door slammed shut. But I didn’t breathe.

  “Mr. Hampton,” said a male voice in a pleasant English accent. “How good of you to come. I’m Richard Chang.”

  “Charles Hampton,” I replied. “And the pleasure is mine,” I lied.

  He extended his hand

  “Hampton? That’s English, isn’t it? I went to Oxford with a chap named Hampton. But you don’t mind if I call you Charlie, do you? Since it seems we are about to become associates.”

  I fought off the giggles. The great Triad wonder-boy spoke like the queen. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that Richard Chang had a happier face than Elizabeth II and from time to time changed expression. I checked his trademark diamond cuff links, myriad carats each. He was the clever, all right. “Call me Charlie,” I said. “Call me anything you like.” OK. So, I was kowtowing. I liked to live. I liked my expensive lifestyle and it wouldn’t be that easy without feet to put into my soft Italian loafers. So why was Richard ogling my feet?

  “Gucci? We have much in common, Charlie.” He narrowed his thirty-three-year old eyes. “So much so that I think we should be partners.”

  I thought about it. He did the crime I did the time. Richard and I were bonding like cement, a word I found unpalatable at the time. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “Nothing legal.” He chortled at his own brilliance. “I was thinking more like justice. Justice for Leo Cheng.”

  I cleared my throat. “Do you know that someone has already confessed?”

  Richard sat back against the window. “You don’t mean Mr. Jones? Do you take me for a fool?”

  Hmm… From charming to frosty on a dime. The chill in the air could have created an ice flow.

  “You question me, Charlie, so let me tell you what I know. Jack Jones is worth a half-billion, perhaps more. Or perhaps less. With his type of business one never really knows.” He gave a chuckle that I didn’t really like. “He claims to be an honest businessman but does a little of everything, mostly laundry. He has a shrewd sister and a lovely daughter who is the catch of the town. You are like a son to him. He adores you. He nicknamed you the Hamster and taught you the ropes. How am I doing so far?”

  “Excellent. Except for the part where if anything ever happens to me he’ll exhaust every avenue to avenge the crime.”

  “That goes without saying.” Lowering his voice he leaned towards me. “Mr. Jones isn’t my first concern. Although he may have to be moved out of the way.”

  Here it came. The deal. I was going to have to bargain for Jack.

  “It’s about your friend, Willy Chan. Willy is a problem. You see, Willy was double-dipping. He was working for Leo and also working for Mr. Jones. And when Willy went missing so did something belonging to me. And I want it back.”

  Richard had done his homework. The Vancouver Tea Party was more fairy tale than fact since the heroin had never surfaced.

  “You mentioned something about a partnership, Richard.”

  “Well, yes. Actually. I have a proposition for you. Lead me to Willy Chan and I just may spare your dad. Temporarily at least.”

  “And if I don’t like the deal?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just a fucking game, Charlie. Somebody has to lose.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I HAD AMPLE TIME TO think on my way back aboard the ferry. What to tell Jack. Hmm. As if I’d hand over Willy, even if I could. No one could. With his IQ of 170, and his ability to mutate, Willy was likely living as a lizard in Beijing.

  Back in town I headed for the Vancouver jail, mulling the news I had for Jack.

  Peter Selic met me at the desk. “You’re late. Where have you been?”

  “To a nice lunch. With Richard the Cleaver.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He didn’t believe me. “Sammy’s here.”

  “Sammy in the Tree?”

  Peter plowed his fingers through his thick blond hair. “Himself. He came to confess to a crime.”

  Sammy Wong was eighty years old. Jack kept him on payroll because he could still shimmy up a tree faster than a squirrel. Once a year Jack called his gang together to witness the feat and when Sammy reached the treetop Jack would holler up, ‘Anyone gunning for me, Sammy?’

  ‘Coast is clear!’ Sammy would affirm.

  Later the guys would cram into Jack’s office to celebrate – whisky for everyone and doubles for Sammy, who’d need assistance home.

  “He took the wrong bus,” Peter added. “He ended up walking and has blisters on both feet. I figure you’d give him a lift home.”

  “Of course, I will! I’d have given him a ride over had he asked.”

  “Sammy’s too proud. You know that, Charlie.”

  “Better than anyone.”

  Sammy lived in North Burnaby, a long hike.

  He smiled when he saw me approaching his cell. Peter had locked him up at his own request.

  “Charlie!” he said excitedly. He was all spiffed up in his good red cardigan and baggy black pants. Going to the clink was no small event at eighty.

  “So, you want to go to jail, do you Sammy?”

  He showed his missing teeth. “If I have to. The food’s not bad, I hear. And you don’t have to walk too far.”

  I patted his thinning hair. “Why didn’t you call someone? You know how Jack worries about you. Tony or Shoeshine would have been there in a flash.”

  His brown eyes twinkled. “And you?”

  “Of course, me. But I was out of town today. Meeting with Richard the Cleaver.”

  Sammy started to giggle. “You’re so funny, Charlie! You always crack me up.”

  I wasn’t trying to be funny. Mythical in stature, the Cleaver was larger than life, a figment of imagination better left there. “Ok. You got me, Sammy. I was in my office all morning long planning Jack’s escape.

  His eyes grew wide. “You’re busting him out?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Maybe. Are you good with a gun?”

  He cringed a little. “I used to be.”

  “Good enough. You practice up and I’ll let you know when.” I read the statement Peter had given me. “So you killed Leo then?”

  “But it was an accident.”

  “So you say. You say here that you were teaching Leo kickboxing and that you accidentally nailed him in the temple.”

  “He went down like a sack of turnips.”

  “How did you get him up to Squamish, Sammy? You don’t drive. And please don’t tell me that you carried him there. Leo was overweight.”

  Sammy thought for a minute. “I took him in a cab.”

  “I see. So you had an accomplice. A cab driver.”

  “I paid him off.
And then he skipped town. He’s nowhere to be found.”

  After dropping Sammy off I returned to the jail. By this time, Jack had progressed to the maudlin stage and was banging his fists on the table. “I don’t know how this happened to me! When I was a boy all I ever wanted was a black dog named Smokey. Not that I got him. No dogs allowed.” His eyes watered. “And I wanted to be in law enforcement when I grew up. I don’t know how I ended up a cold-blooded killer.”

  Poor bugger. Three nights in jail and he actually believed himself. “You realize that the cause of death has yet to be determined.”

  He grinned. “I could save them the trouble. I know exactly how it happened.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “It was drugs. A whack of them. Enough to kill an elephant.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “Heroin.”

  “What grade?”

  “Pure.”

  “The method?”

  “Injected. Into the thigh. By force. There was bruising.”

  An eerie feeling crept over me. “Good guess, Jack. We’ll know tomorrow.”

  He looked like that cherub again, a cherub with big curls and a stubbly face. “I talked to Tony today. Peter let me use his cell. He has a lot of clout you know,” he said like a proud corrupter. “He told the sergeant and the sergeant said ok.”

  “He did, did he?” Like hell. Peter did exactly as Peter wanted to do. “What’s Tony up to?”

  “Tony is wearing my bathrobe. Isn’t that mean?”

  “And dangerous. He could fall down the stairs and break his neck.”

  “He’s sleeping in my bed, too. Watching my jumbo TV. He’s playing lord of the manor and ordering Maya around like a servant.”

  “You must be missing the old guy.”

  He shot his nose in the air. “Not really.”

  “Tomorrow he can come instead of me.”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring! When the Cleaver comes to blow me away Tony can sing a hymn.”

  On my way out I bumped into Peter on the steps.

  “The results are in, Charlie. They’ve put the peddle to the metal on this one.”

  “And?”

  “Overdose. Heroin. Injected into the thigh. By force. There’s bruising.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ANYONE FOR TENNIS? MYRIAD MESSAGES cluttered my iPhone and none of them good, just some a bit better than others. Tony, in his infinite wisdom, had arranged a tennis match with my new best friend, Richard Chang, causing my face to crack with pleasure. I played tennis once a year, at best, and was registered on the Jericho website as ‘pathetic’. I never played doubles, since no one would partner with me, and Richard never played singles because he never did anything alone. The match was set for the following morning at Richard’s Point Grey hideaway and Tony had magnanimously arranged a partner for me. “Trust me, Charlie’ the text read. ‘I have lined up someone to save your fancy ass. Dress accordingly. Love, Tony.’ And finally the good news. P.S. The women are home. 33 Terrace Place is alive again. T.

  But more bad news rolled in from Peter. A search warrant had been issued for the warehouse and for 33 Terrace Place. Due to Jack’s brilliant confession he was about to be ransacked by the dirty hand of the law. I made a U-Turn in the middle of rush hour and headed back to the jail.

  Jack rose to his belligerent self when they lugged him out, since he’d just said good-bye. “It was a fucking guess. I made it all up.”

  “Right. Even I don’t believe you and I’ve swallowed some pretty goofy stuff from you. So stop keeping me in the dark and feeding me shit. I’m not a mushroom.”

  He giggled. “That’s very strong of you, Hamster. Now here’s what I want you to do.” He rambled on for quite a while. Tony would man the house and I was to handle the warehouse. I was to keep the guys from getting scared even if it meant whisky. A lot of whisky. It sounded simple enough.

  “I’ll do what I can but I’m not happy.”

  He winked at me. “So what am I now, your shrink?”

  When they hit 33 Terrace Place I got the call from Tony who had barricaded himself in the front hall closet. “They’re breaking things, Charlie, and Julia is screaming.”

  “I thought that was a meadowlark. Are the cameras rolling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Jillian? She’s supposed to be screaming too. We have to prove brutality.”

  “She has laryngitis. And a fever of 103. I’ve called the doctor.”

  “Is she in bed?”

  “No. She’s running around bopping cops on the head with a rolling pin. I think she’s cursing them but no one can hear her.”

  So much for brutality. Unless against her. “What about the little alligators? Skid the Mark said he dropped them off.” Since Skid was the worst truck driver in the lower mainland chances of him getting anywhere without a collision were slim. Case in point, the alligators were to be delivered to the zoo three days previously and had subsequently survived two accidents.

  “He did.”

  “Did you let them out?”

  “Yes. And all they did was tear my pants. The SWAT team captured them. They’re here, you know. And the National Guard I think.”

  “Where’s Peter?”

  “He’s outside directing traffic. The media have shown up. We’re dead meat.”

  “You’ll be alright, Tony. There’s nothing there for them to find. They’ll all be gone soon.”

  “They’d better be or I’ll be making some calls of my own.”

  Oh, great. Enter the Asian cavalry.

  “And do you want to know the worst part, Charlie?”

  I didn’t. “What?”

  “That snotty Judge Clark is standing out there on his lawn laughing. I’d like to kick him in the nuts.”

  “Judge Clark doesn’t have nuts. Judge Clark is a eunuch.”

  Tony finally laughed. “Now I know why I called you, Charlie. You’ve cheered me up.”

  It was a no-brainer, really. Any man with balls would have been at the hospital with his daughter who, from the looks of things, might not make it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I ARRIVED AT RICHARD’S RESIDENCE at 7:45 a.m. The sprawling bungalow lay hidden behind tall cedar hedges - freshly-clipped and smelling like Christmas. As per instructions I waited by my car for my new tennis partner to be delivered by Tony Chan but I wasn’t hopeful. Although Tony had insisted that his latest smuggled-in-nephew had won trophies in Beijing he thought they might be for golf. No difference, Tony thought. His nephew was very good at sports so we just had to trust. Great. My trust level on the Richter scale measured -10. Soon the big Phantom IV pulled up behind me and when the back door flew open out popped a grinning, hopping Jackie Chan who reached my side faster than a jackrabbit.

  “Amster!” he cried. “So appy! Appy, appy.” He held out his little hand.

  Tony quickly made the introductions before speeding off. “He can’t say Charlie. He can only say Chow-we. In Chinese that’s not so good. Trust me, you wouldn’t want to be called Chow-we. So I told him to call you Hamster. Hope you don’t mind.” He burned rubber peeling away.

  Jackie just stood there grinning. “Amster! So appy!”

  My heart sunk but not unfathomably, strangely enough. You see, I’d done a lot of bad things in my life so I figured that karma had come to kick my butt. I’d been waiting for the day, actually, so I was somewhat relieved. Maybe I did deserve a partner in a yellow basketball uniform with shorts long enough to trip over if he didn’t keep hauling them up. To his credit Jackie was decidedly eager, hopping up and down and fanning the air with an old wooden tennis racquet still in its press, a relic rescued from Tony’s attic. Maybe we could win, with a little assistance - with help from a tornado, a tsunami, and perhaps an obscure, merciful god.

  At the gate we were met by an unsmiling King Chin who ushered us down a path through thick undergrowth to the tennis court out back. I nodded to myself. It was a Richard tennis court, as one
might expect, complete with armed guards and Dobermans on leashes. And since I wasn’t that fond of AR 15s, or dog bites, I supposed it best to lose. Tony wasn’t stupid.

  Richard and Shorty were hard at it when we arrived, with Richard practicing his serve and Shorty across the net ducking out of the way. “A piece of cake,” I think Richard mouthed upon seeing us, although he said it in Chinese.

  Jackie jumped up and down. “Tennis!” he shouted. “Tennis!” He looked comical with his thick dark hair standing straight as a brush atop his head, four inches high and flowing like a wheat field. His round dark eyes were wild with enthusiasm. Funny, but I couldn’t remember ever being that happy. Or hopeful. He seemed indifferent to the artillery.

  On the sidelines, beady-eyed King Chin, in shirt and tie, was practicing his evil stare while beside him Fat Freddie Fong sat dozing in a deck chair, head backwards and arms dangling like a retired marionette. Dogs barked as assault rifles made happy clicking noises. I got the message. Jackie and I needed to lose and lose badly.

  The consortium won the toss. “Tough luck, old boy.” Richard looked dashing in his Union Jack duds, the show-off.

  Shorty Poo snorted. In a pig’s ass, he implied in Chinese. He looked eager to bash in our heads.

  I turned to Jackie. “You receive, Wildman.”

  He looked over his right shoulder then turned to peer over his left. “Wildman? Who he be?”

  “He be you. And don’t fuck up.”

  He hoisted his pants and held out his hand. “Cash!”

  “Later. Just get back there to receive the serve.”

  He shook his head. “Cash.”

  “Ok,” I said patiently. “You stay here and I’ll receive.” I ran to the backcourt only to be out-galloped by Jackie.

  “Cash!” he demanded, eyes blazing. He meant it.

  I reached into my pocket. “I only have five bucks on me. And it better be enough because if it isn’t I’ll beat your fucking head in.”