Prince looked me in the eye. “So far I haven’t liked a fucking thing you’ve said.”
“I’m not out to get you, Prince. You seem to be doing well in that department yourself. I’m only interested in an address.”
Chapter Nineteen
DURING ONE OF MY FREQUENT hospital visits to check up on Tina, still in a coma, I met a hot blond nurse, Pamela in Pink, who was now texting me with updates. East Hastings Street hadn’t changed much in forty-eight hours either. The bar was still dingy; the bartender cranky, Biker in the polka dot bandana still teetered on his customary stool. Robocop’s nose was still crooked. He continued to be large, repetitive and dull. Dumbbell resented pouring my whisky but had little choice since I patted my gun.
“I’ll have it from a fresh bottle, soldier. One you haven’t had the chance to water down.” I have this nice way about me, you’ve likely noticed, a way of making bad friends.
Dumbbell obligingly cracked a new bottle of CC, set the glass down in front of me, poured a double, then promptly knocked it over.
“You’re welcome,” he grunted as he stomped away.
Oh, well. I mopped my pants with my shirttail before extracting a mickey from my pocket. Two could play this game.
Since the night was off to a monotonous start I bit my lip when Robo started in. “You deserved that, son. You’re not that nice. You should try being friendlier.”
“I’m working on it. I’m putting up with you aren’t I?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been working on your enemies. You have quite a few.”
“No kidding.”
He shifted in his big brown coat. “You have more people out to get you than anyone I know.”
“I have more unpaid parking tickets than anyone you know too. Over thirteen hundred last time I counted.”
As usual, Robo had no humor. “You will be caught.”
“Not if I keep changing license plates. And addresses. And cars.”
He changed the subject. “Marcus Fuscilli is out. Did you know that?”
“No I didn’t.”
“He’s been out for over a month. And apparently he wants you.”
Marcus of the Mob. The shady Sicilian. The extortionist I’d entrapped and testified against in court, although he tried to shoot me first. “He missed me the first time, Robo.”
Robo stood up. “You need to take this more seriously, son. A girl is fighting for her life because of you.” He thumped away.
I waited until Robo slammed the door before muttering, “I am not your son. I wear Gucci in case you haven’t noticed. Not horse coats from the Sally Ann.”
Biker was standing behind me cracking up. “How you doing, son?”
Apparently, I’m never short on fathers. “Not bad, Biker.”
“Heard about your little friend. Too bad. I figured she was in trouble. She was hanging out here with lowlifes. Creeps, mostly.” He tossed Dumbbell a look. “Someone may have tried to shut her up.”
Tony had been right about his illegal alien nephew. Jackie Chan quickly earned points by posing as a roach inspector to gain access to Reynolds Woo’s suite. There, with the phony paperwork supplied by Peter, he planted the cameras and microphones for our surveillance. In the meantime I signed a two-year lease on a furnished apartment that I planned to keep for a week, one floor below Mr. Woo. Around midnight I returned to Chinatown to lug the monitor in and to collapse onto my new lumpy bed. I slept poorly.
The following morning, after three cups of thick coffee I’d brewed myself and spiked, I tuned in to the Chinese soap opera upstairs. For this torture I apparently needed two additional shots of whiskey, followed by a jigger of rum. Hmm… Define weird. If you look it up in Webster’s it says strikingly odd or unusual just before it says Reynolds Woo. About Reynolds. Where to start… The little guy was unusual, to say the least. Firstly, he had tremendous hair, which shot sideways and wide but flat as a board on top, mostly due to the kippah he wore incorrectly on the front of his head. He didn’t look Jewish to me. He had tiny hands and feet. Tinier extremities come only on Ken dolls or GI Joe action figures or newborn chimps. Little wire-rimmed glasses rested near the tip of his nose and above them a set of piercing brown eyes searched the Web as he bounced back and forth between three computers, juggling virtual ‘B and E’s. I got dizzy just watching him.
“Taboo!” he hollered in a surprisingly big voice.
An Asian man about my age – well dressed and balding - came rushing down the hall. “You called?” he asked, in the respectful tone mostly reserved for the elderly.
Reynolds pointed to the scrunched papers he’d thrown all over the floor. “Clean up this mess, will you? It’s a pigsty in here.” As Reynolds sat back to enjoy the dedication that only money can buy, Taboo attacked the debris. Meanwhile, the boss turned on his karaoke machine and started to wail along with Katy Perry, and to murder Roar in a brutal way. It was awful. I was about to be sick when Reynolds’ horrid mom arrived on the scene to save me.
Mini Chin was not overweight but the triple-chinned, short-necked, vertically-challenged individual may have appeared that way to a taller, thinner individual. She had a plastic look to her, like a creepy old doll preserved in paraffin. Well-dressed, she wore the appropriate amount of gold jewelry for her status in life; wealthy. An expensive grey suit, coupled with her thinning grey hair, gave her the overall composite of being just that; grey.
“Mama!” shrieked Reynolds, who scurried down the hallway like an escapee from Toy Story. “Why didn’t someone tell me you were here?”
“Wen Wen!” Mini headed right past him and straight for the living room bar. “My boy.”
Her boy followed. “Did you bring widdle Wen Wen anything?” he asked in a baby voice.
Mini poured a brimming tumbler of single malt scotch. “Glenfiddich is my favorite.” She spoke in a raspy, munchkin voice. “Make sure you have it next time.”
“Of course! I’ll have another case brought in just for you.” Reynolds looked like a cocker spaniel about to sit up and beg.
Mini opened her purse. “Here it is then. Your second favorite. Sour gummy worms. I couldn’t find a Kinder Surprise in this whole fucking town.”
Reynolds’ eyes watered. “Thanks.” He extracted a blue and yellow striped worm, grimaced, then dropped it back into the bag.
“Thanks who?” demanded Mini.
“Thanks Mama.”
“Mama who?”
“Mama Mia.”
“That’s better.”
Mini poured herself a second tumbler of inferior scotch. The woman had a hollow chin. “I’ve arranged for extra protection. Some of the best. Naturally your step brother will lead the team.”
Reynolds turned white. “You mean Bugs Zee? You can’t be serious! Bugs Zee doesn’t know his rectum from a hole in the roof.”
Mimi sighed. “And exactly how will he learn if we don’t give him the chance?”
Reynolds was burning tracks in his Persian rug. “It won’t work, Mama Mia. It just won’t work.”
“It has to.” She scratched her chins. “So, in addition to my baby Bugs Zee I think we should consider Albert Noe. Albert is a stockbroker and can handle our investments while the others are standing around waiting for an attack. Albert can make us money during the downtime.”
Reynolds went cold. His mouth froze into a hard, thin line as paralysis gripped his face. I mean, a stockbroker with a weapon? “Don’t you think we could text him? He doesn’t have to be here.” He pointed to the floor.
“It’s not the same thing. Often it takes hours before he gets back to us and by that time the opportunity is lost.”
Reynolds sadly capitulated. “Alright. Albert can be number two, I guess.”
So now I was thinking that Reynolds may not be the favorite son. Mini swaggered across the room to slap her offspring on the head. “That’s my boy! Always thinking of others.”
Reynolds had fallen into a sour mood. “I’ll just jump off a cliff. It woul
d be easier for you I think.”
“Not at all!” chirped Mini. “I’m only too happy to rescue my boy. Haven’t I always done?” She looked at him sideways. “And by the way, Wen Wen? You are not Jewish. You need to stop wearing that silly hat. The Jewish can be very mean when mimicked.”
Right. Like the little agoraphobic was going to wear it outside.
In the foyer she shooed the guards away. “One more thing, Wen,” she whispered loudly. “You will win this thing with Richard. Guaranteed. You are a pureblood. You will prevail.”
Reynolds looked puzzled. “So is Richard.”
Mini shook her head. “There are stories about Richard. Stories I can’t get into right now. But this much I know. Richard has tainted blood. He’s only half Chinese. Richard is a mongrel.”
Chapter Twenty
RICHARD CHANG A MONGREL? I could almost hear him bark. Ruff! Good boy. I could then feel his perfect white teeth tearing the flesh from my leg. Ouch! Bad doggie! Later that evening I laughed my way down the rickety back stairway of Reynolds’ apartment building but I didn’t laugh long. Before I reached my Beemer, Peter called to say that Jack had been stabbed in jail.
He was sleeping in a secured room at Vancouver General when I arrived but since Peter had left instructions with the guards outside his door I was ushered inside. He looked like a pincushion with needles and tubes and blood bags - some on the go and others waiting for a turn. I pulled up a chair to watch him snore for what seemed like hours before he finally opened his eyes.
“Hamster.” he said weakly.
“Yeah, Jack. It’s me. In the flesh.”Oops. I picked a bad time to talk about flesh.
He smiled a half-smile that needed some time to mend plus a whack of good drugs. “Good of you to come.”
I checked my watch. 4:33 a.m. “That’s ok. I wasn’t doing anything at this particular hour anyway.”
He groaned when he tried to sit up. “I’m a bit stiff. But you should see the other guy. He’s in bad shape.”
I pressed the button to raise his head. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“You’ll think I’m a pansy.”
“Would I be right in assuming you were attacked by a knife?”
He tried to nod. “A butterfly knife.”
“Was it the big guy?”
“No. It wasn’t a prisoner at all. It was a guard. A new guy. Asian. He was in my cell when I woke up.”
“What happened to the guard?”
“He fled. I managed to turn the knife on him. By that time guys were hollering because they heard the ruckus. I can’t remember what happened after that. You were here when I woke up.”
“You have wounds on your hands.”
He held up his bandages and squinted at them for a while.
“And a big one in your gut. They told me at the desk that you’ve lost a lot of blood.” I pointed to the paraphernalia. “Thus the transfusions.”
“Jesus!” His eyes grew huge. “I hope that’s not from a good guy. Like a preacher or a saint.”
“I doubt a bit of blood could reform a reprobate like you.”
“You are correct. I’m not about to change overnight. I won’t be heading to church anytime soon if you get my drift.”
I did. “Was there anything distinctive about your attacker? Like a missing arm?”
His eyes lit up. “There was. He had a tattoo on his right hand. I kept my eye on that hand because it held a knife.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“A serpent. A large one. It went up his arm”
“The color?”
“It was too dark to tell exactly. But I think it was a cobra. Yeah,” he said, after some thought. “It was a cobra. A blue one. Odd color, don’t you think? It’s the Cleaver isn’t it? One of his hatchet men.”
I chose my words carefully. “It’s too soon to tell. But you’ll be alright. You’ve got a couple of guards outside your door so they’re taking this seriously. They’ll keep you safe.”
“You think?” His eyes twinkled. “I think there’s two because they know that one alone could never keep me here.”
Peter had arrived and was motioning me to the hallway. “I’ll be back later.” I pinched his toe but he was already sleeping.
We walked to the end of the corridor where we could speak privately.
“It’s bullshit,” Peter said. Everything was bullshit to Peter. A sunny day was bullshit. Even a decent pay raise was bullshit to him. And since he’d been burned by more than one woman, well, most were that too.
“Yeah. It pretty much sucks.”
Peter ran his fingers through his hair. “The guy isn’t even on staff. He came out of nowhere. And no one questioned the fact.”
I nodded. “Someone is on the take.”
“Pretty much. Someone let him in.”
“Richard’s boy?”
“Yep. Someone on Richard’s payroll.”
“Someone who needs a lesson in decency?”
He scowled. “Decency, my friend, is a lost art.”
Well, a crooked cop ought to know.
Chapter Twenty-One
COMFORTED BY A FLASK OF whiskey I flopped down on the bed in my Chinatown spying apartment fully clothed. In the distance sirens wailed as police cars went chasing and ambulances went carrying the sick, the bleeding, and the dead. The poor went hungry, the elderly lonely, the rookie gang member desperate to prove himself, if only to himself, was likely to die a hero before dawn. But there were celebrations too, with houses on the mountainside lit up for partying and people and all the gaiety money could buy. Not for me to condemn. I’d grown up in a mansion in the Properties – a hive of illicit activity with all the amenities laundered money could acquire. Alas. Poor me. And yes, I might have followed in Jack’s criminal footsteps, except that his feet were too wide. Was my mickey of whisky half-empty or half-full? Glug. Glug. Glug. I drifted off thinking it was neither.
Mechanically I answered my cell. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You lust for me baby. Every day.”
“Peter! I’m trying to get some fucking sleep.”
“Fools sleep. Conquerors never do. Napoleon never slept more than two hours a night and Attila the Hun paid people to sleep for him.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Get your ass out of bed and listen to this.”
I sat up. “Hold on.” I fished the mickey out from under a pillow. “Shoot.”
“There’s a body in the morgue.”
“No kidding. That’s a strange place for a body.”
“This is a special body. Remember what you told me about Jack’s attacker?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s here. In the flesh. Or, without flesh I should say. He’s mutilated. Hands dangling. Balls off. You know the routine.”
My knees went wobbly. “Spare me the details. I skipped food today and my stomach’s weak.”
“Asian. A blue cobra on his right hand winding up his arm. Or what’s left of his arm. Do you want more?”
“No. I get it. The guy failed in his task so Richard iced him. Torturously.”
“You got it.”
“Nice guy.”
“He’s a prince.”
By seven a.m. Jackie and I were glued to the monitors while munching sausage and egg muffin breakfasts, one for me, four for him.
“You got any bubble tea, Amster?” Jackie had already polished off two large OJs. He looked handsome in his blue striped pullover and clean jeans and with a fresh haircut showing off his brush – now only three inches high.
“Bubble tea, phooey. Real men don’t drink bubble tea.”
Jackie flopped back in his chair. “Kow Gong does.”
Well, that settled things. If Tony Chan drank bubble tea it was sanctioned. I had a feeling my new sidekick was going to leverage his uncle Tony a lot.
In the apartment above, Reynolds was bouncing back and forth between his karaoke machine and computers, dismembering Katy’s Fi
rework. Still in his silk pajamas - and his kippah in defiance of Mama Mia – he seemed about to enjoy a leisurely Saturday morning. I shrugged. Jackie shrugged.
It was Jackie’s job to flag emails that may say something about Willy. “No,” he said. “No. No. No. No way.” He started to giggle. “This one is from a porno queen. She says she can do fings on her website to make Weynolds feel good. She doesn’t say what. For a fousand bucks.”
Reynolds was frantically typing.
“Weynolds wants to know exactly what she’ll do for a fousand bucks.”
I could hardly wait. Not.
Jackie let out a shriek that hurt my ears. “It’s from Willy!” He grabbed the notebook and pencil from the little table beside him and started to scribble.
“What does he say?”
“Shush!”
Reynolds looked confused. He read the email several times.
Jackie set the notebook and pencil on his lap. “It’s in code. And Weynolds can’t wead it.”
“Can you?”
He tossed me a quizzical look. “If Weynolds can’t wead it how am I supposed to?”
Great. An encrypted message. “Can your Uncle Tony?”
He shook his head. “It’s in code. So I doubt it. He knows Mandarin and Cantonese but not code.”
“Will he know who can crack it?”
Jackie nodded. “That much he’ll know.”
Jack was propped up in bed when I arrived back at the hospital but this time he had a visitor. Jillian was busy arranging flowers in a vase. “I didn’t know they let thugs in here,” she hissed.
I smiled. “They do. The biggest one is in bed.”
Jack giggled. “It hurts when I laugh, Hamster. So cut it out.”
“So they let prisoners have flowers now do they Jack? It must be a new policy.”
“I sent them to myself. Peter said I could since you seem to have deserted me.”
I bit my tongue. “I haven’t been gone long. I’ve got a job to do trying to save your ass and I can’t do it from here.”
Jack in a Box Page 9
