Lone Star 02

by Ellis, Wesley

  Ki knew that even a glancing blow from the three-piece rod could shatter his skull.

  He dodged and feinted before the attacking killer, looking for an opening. His shuriken throwing star was ready in his hand, but he knew that the Tong man could easily deflect the star; the three-piece rod was now a whirling wall protecting the Chinese warrior.

  Meanwhile, Ki reminded himself, there was still the mustached one to deal with. Ki glanced behind him in time to see the man disappear through the oilcloth-curtained doorway into the restaurant’s kitchen.

  It is not like a Tong man to run away, Ki thought, puzzled, but then the answer came to him. The mustached fellow had wisely decided that it was more important to ensure that his master knew of Ki’s presence. Ki could not allow the man to escape. If Chang knew that a Japanese had challenged his men, he would come to the obvious conclusion that it was Ki, and that would implicate Jessie. If Ki did not kill all four of these henchmen, the entire mission against the cartel and the Tong would be jeopardized.

  “Is there a back door?” he asked the girl, who was now huddled against a wall, along with her family and those customers who had not yet found an opportunity to flee the restaurant.

  The girl shook her head. “There is no other door but that one,” she said, pointing to the way Ki himself had come in.

  That meant that the mustached man would be coming back this way, Ki thought. That meant he had to dispose very quickly of this Tong fellow whom he was now facing.

  Scarface, meanwhile, had become quite oblivious to all that was taking place in the restaurant. He’d been hopping from one foot to the other, whimpering and moaning, desperately trying to get a grip on the slippery wedge of steel protruding from either side of his elbow.

  Ki was embarrassed for the man, thinking he was carrying on rather too much for such a minor wound. Then it occurred to the samurai that his shuriken blade must be pressing against a nerve. Only that could explain the man’s obvious agony.

  The pigtailed Tong warrior chose that moment to lunge forward, whipping his weapon sideways, trying to catch Ki’s ribs. The samurai bounded high into the air, drawing his knees up to his chest in order to escape the whistling rods, which skimmed across a table top, shattering plates and dishes. At the apex of his jump, Ki snapped his wrist to send the lethal star on its short journey to its target. There was a glitter of light and a high-pitched whine, like wailing wind, as the shuriken whizzed downward.

  The Tong man tried frantically to twist out of the way, but Ki had taken into account the target’s probable direction of escape when he’d figured the star’s trajectory. As the Tong man lowered his head, the disc seemed to angle down accordingly.

  There was a dull thunk! as the disc buried half of its diameter into the man’s forehead. The Chinese toppled like a chopped tree, three points of the star jutting out from his brow like the silvery visor of a cap.

  As the man twitched himself still, the last few remaining customers stepped over him in their anxious rush to the door. The girl’s family seemed to be in a state of shock. They were standing huddled together, chittering in Chinese and vigorously shaking their heads, as if in denial of what had taken place in their restaurant. Only the girl seemed in control of her emotions.

  She disengaged herself from her kin, to approach Ki. “Who are you?” she began.

  “Hush,” Ki said gently. Breathing lightly, his hands on his hips, he turned to face the curtained kitchen doorway. The mustached one had not come out. That meant he was lying in wait, for surely the man realized that Ki was not about to wander off, letting one of the Tong henchmen go free ...

  Ki stiffened as the curtain moved—but it was only a draft from the open front door. The mustached man now had the advantage, Ki knew. From his place of concealment he could strike at Ki as soon as the samurai barged through the curtain.

  The scarred Tong man was now sitting on the floor, softly mewling. He’d given up trying to extract the solidly wedged shuriken blade from his elbow, and was now simply cradling the bleeding joint with his left arm.

  Ki hurried over to the man, grabbed him by his lapels, and yanked him to his feet. He smacked off the caterwauling man’s derby, and slammed him back against a wall.

  “Who is crying now, dog?” Ki spat into the man’s pale face. He removed his own Stetson and plopped it down on the Tong man’s head.

  “You are ... Jibon-ren ... samurai?” the man asked between his wheezes of pain.

  Ki nodded, and began to drag the man toward the kitchen.

  “Please,” the Tong man whimpered. “Remove the blade!”

  “Do not worry,” Ki replied.‘ “You will not feel it for much longer.” He shoved the man through the curtain, and crouched to somersault into the kitchen, right behind the moaning Chinese.

  As Ki had hoped, the waiting mustached man had mistaken his friend for-the samurai. There was a shot, ear-shatteringly loud within the close confines of the kitchen. The scarred man jerked against the impact of the bullet. He staggered for several more paces into the kitchen, to collapse across a table stacked with pots and pans. His dead weight upended it, sending his corpse, as well as the utensils, crashing to the floor.

  The mustached man’s momentary confusion allowed Ki to take cover behind a large chopping block.

  “Now it is just the two of us,” Ki called to the man, who fired twice more in reply. One of the bullets gouged a furrow along the top of the chopping block, while the other chewed a hole into the wall several inches above Ki’s head.

  “There is no way out of here, but past me,” Ki reminded the man, who answered with another shot.

  “That’s four!” Ki taunted the Tong henchman. He could just see the fellow, hiding alongside one of the two large wood-burning cookstoves in the ten-foot-square room. Steaming cauldrons were on top of the two ranges, and overhead were hung cast-iron racks from which dangled still more pots and pans. Between Ki and the Chinese were one long table stacked with groceries, and the overturned table, beside which lay the dead body of the scarred man. On the other side of the doorway, on Ki’s side of the room, was a large wooden tub. Ki assumed that was where the dishes got washed. He was thankful that the small room was so cluttered; the maze of objects kept the Tong man from merely advancing upon Ki, his pistol at the ready. The Chinese had seen Ki in action, and knew how fast he could move. The samurai doubted that the Tong man had the courage to test himself—even with his pistol—against Ki’s agility and his flashing shuriken blades.

  “Hey, Jibon-ren,” the mustached man called. “You better give up to me. I think more of my men will soon come. This is Chinatown. My town, Japanese dog.”

  “Who will come to save you?” Ki asked, stalling. “None of your comrades escaped to summon help. There is only you, and soon you will be with your ancestors.”

  As he spoke, Ki crawled on his belly out from behind the chopping block. He was after one of the cast-iron skillets lying on the floor beside the scarred man’s corpse. Exposing himself to the other’s gun was risky, but Ki needed one of the heavy iron skillets. He still had shuriken blades, but they did not weigh enough for the plan he had in mind.

  He’d just wrapped his fingers around the handle of the skillet nearest him, when his adversary squeezed off two more shots. One of them richocheted off the skillet, the impact almost tearing the utensil from his grasp.

  Ki ducked back behind the chopping block. There were no more shots. The Tong man was reloading his revolver.

  Ki leapt to his feet and threw the six-pound skillet as hard as he could toward the big, bubbling cauldron sitting on the stove just above the crouching man. The skillet whacked into the big pot with a satisfying clang! Boiling liquid sloshed over the rim of the cauldron, which tottered slowly, and then toppled off the stove’s burner, spilling its contents upon the Chinese.

  The Tong man screamed, rising up from his place of concealment like an apparition. The revolver fell forgotten from his fingers as he clasped his hands to his face. Ste
am was rising from his skin, which was already blistering from the oily, boiling hot stew that clung to his hair and coated his face, seeping into his eyes and running down his neck.

  Blinded, the Chinese could only stagger forward, wailing for help. He tripped over the body of his partner, to sprawl facedown on the floor. His entire body seemed to convulse. He exhaled one long, drawn-out wheeze, and then, incredibly, seemed not to breathe at all ...

  Ki, disbelieving, prodded the still form with his foot. He crouched, suspicious and ready to strike, as he pressed one hand against the man’s chest, and then felt his pulse.

  It was no ruse. The man was dead. Perhaps his heart had stopped from the shock of being scalded; Ki did not know. What mattered was that it was over.

  He retrieved his Stetson from the floor and, holding it in his hand, left the kitchen to reenter the restaurant area.

  The girl gazed at him fearfully.

  “It is done,” Ki said. “They are dead.”

  “And so are we!” snarled the girl’s father. “What do you think will become of us when Chang learns of this?”

  “Father!” the girl pleaded.

  “Silence, daughter!” he cried. “You can see his face now. You’ve seen what manner of weapons he uses. He is a Japanese, a samurai!” Turning toward Ki, the irate man demanded, “What say you, Jibon-ren? Will you return to defend us against the rest of the Tong? Will you fight again?”

  Ki stood with his head slightly bowed, accepting the man’s rebuke, for what the girl’s father was saying was true. Ki had won this battle, but this helpless family might suffer the consequences of his victory. His reckless heart had motivated him to make this visit, but soon he would go on his way. As usual, his karma had led him to violence, and now these Chinese would reap the bitter harvest of his actions.

  “Noble samurai,” the father said sarcastically. “Proud conqueror of China—why have you graced this humble establishment?”

  “To see your daughter,” Ki mumbled. His throat seemed suddenly dry. Why were his words so thick? “To view her beauty, and to experience—to savor—her serenity...”

  “Noble samurai,” the father repeated. “You wish to make my daugher’s acquaintance?”

  Ki, his heart pounding, found he was unable to speak. He looked deep into the father’s eyes, and slowly nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “Your daughter’s acquaintance ...”

  “Noble samurai,” the father spat, “I would rather her throat had been cut! Go now,” he muttered, turning away from Ki. “We will clean up the filth you have left for us, just as we will suffer the retribution meant for you.”

  Ki stood stock-still. His eyes were closed, and yet beams of glittering light seemed to be piercing deep into his brain. His skin felt hot and flushed; was this the agony the scalded Tong man had felt just before he’d died of a ruptured heart? Ringing in Ki’s ears was the cruel tittering of children. “Mongrel !” they were taunting. “Dog fit only for the dung-filled streets...”

  How many men had he killed, Ki wondered? How many taunting, disrespectful men, and yet the children kept up their cruel laughter...

  “I asked you to leave, Jibon-ren,” the girl’s father hissed.

  Nodding, Ki began to walk toward the door. “My blades in the corpses of Chang’s men prove that it was I who slew them,” he said dully. “Tell Chang this: that a samurai was forced to chastise his unruly pets. Tell Chang that I came to Chinatown to see your daughter. Tell him that you rightly refused me this honor. Tell him that you believe I will come again, and that if I should, you will send your boy to fetch Tong men to capture or kill me.”

  “So far, I will have to tell no lies,” the father said dryly.

  “Then Chang will not harm you,” Ki told him. “Chang will leave you as you are, hoping that I will be lured back.”

  “He cannot leave Chinatown alone,” the daughter interrupted. “The news that a Japanese is here will have spread throughout the area. He will be set upon, should he walk the streets this night.”

  The father waved off his objection. “That is not our concern.”

  “I will guide him through the back alleys,” the girl declared.

  “No!” her mother moaned.

  “Daughter!” her father roared. “I forbid this!”

  “I wish to cause no further anguish here,” Ki said. He hurried toward the door, but his way was blocked by the girl.

  “Come,” she whispered, ignoring her parents’ pleas as she tugged at his hand. They took a few more steps, and then they were out of the restaurant, and wrapped in the blessedly peaceful darkness of the nighttime streets.

  The girl was silent and grim until they were far enough from the restaurant so that her mother’s piteous cries had faded. She led Ki around to the back of the building, indicating the narrow path they were to take.

  “What is your name?” Ki asked as he followed her to a narrow, high-walled, trash-filled alley. The only light was that which weakly filtered through the back windows of the tenements on either side. “Please,” he begged, “I must know.”

  “My name is Su-ling,” the girl said reluctantly. Then she glanced up at him, smiling shyly. “Now tell me yours! I have not been able to stop thinking about you since this afternoon!”

  “I am called Ki,” he said, noticing that the girl’s shortcut was allowing them to bypass many of the main streets of the area.

  “But that could not be your true name?” the girl wondered, confused. “If you are a samurai, you must be of noble birth?”

  “I was, but I no longer use my real name,” Ki explained. He thought about how his aristocratic grandparents on both sides of the Pacific had rejected him when he was a helpless child. “I care nothing for my noble birth, and will not honor my families’ names by using them. I took the name Ki when I became a samurai.”

  They left the alley to hurry across a deserted lumber yard. Ki lifted Su-ling up over a low wire fence, nimbly hopped it himself, and then went with her through a small park. With a start, Ki realized that they were no longer in Chinatown. At the top of a low hill, the girl paused. She gestured down toward the wide, gaslit streets below them.

  “We are very close to the waterfront,” Ki observed. “Very close to where we met, earlier this day.”

  “Yes,” Su-ling sighed wistfully, turning to him. “Is it not sad? If I go any further, it will be I who am not safe.” She shrugged. “You can not exist in my world. I cannot exist in yours.”

  “Su-ling,” Ki began, looking into her large, dark eyes. “It is not my world, either. I have no place ... to belong ...” Ki looked away. How could he talk about this? He had never talked about his past to anyone.

  “I understand what you mean,” Su-ling coaxed gently. “You have no place to belong because you are of mixed parentage. You are unable to live in your homeland, for your blood is not pure. In America you are despised, called a foreigner, or worse, a ‘Chinee’!” She laughed bitterly. “Oh, Ki, do you not see that it is the same for me?”

  “You long to be accepted as an American,” Ki said quietly. “But the Americans will not have you ...”

  Su-ling nodded, looking up at him. Ki watched the glistening tears escape her large eyes. They rolled down the perfect smoothness of her cheeks.

  Ki reached out to scoop her up into his arms. She trembled like a tiny bird against his chest. Ki desperately hoped she understood that he wished only to comfort her, to protect her from the world.

  “My parents do not approve of my wanting a life outside of Chinatown. They wish to arrange a marriage for me. They wish our lives to be as people live them in China.” She tilted her head up toward Ki’s. “They mistrust the outside world, the police, the government. They have made their wishes concerning my future clear to me. How can a daughter refute her parents’ desires, and yet retain her honor?”

  She tried to pull away from him, but Ki, worried that this chance might not come again, bent to kiss her. Her fragrant mouth yielded to his. Her arms wrapped tightl
y around him as her supple body pressed against him.

  When their long kiss ended, she did not pull away, but kept her face close to his. Her eyes were halfshut, her mouth partly open. Ki ran his fingers through her shiny black hair, and then his hands moved gently over her body, caressing her firm, round bottom, tracing the curves of her hips and the swell of her warm breasts.

  “Oh, noble samurai,” she breathed, even as her lips nuzzled Ki’s neck. “Twice today you have saved me from harm. Are you strong enough, true enough, to save my honor as well?” Her embrace tightened as her legs parted, then locked around Ki’s thigh. “If you are so strong, please fight this battle for me! I fear that my body has betrayed me, and that my womanly honor hangs by only a few silken threads.”

  Ki knew she would willingly, totally, give herself to him this night. He had only to take her—and then leave her to regret and recrimination, leave her without her honor. And what would life be like without that most precious thing?

  Ki kissed her one again. With his lips lingering against hers, he said, “Those silken threads shall not be torn by me this night, but one day I shall unravel them, slowly, carefully, one by one ...

  Once, very timidly, Su-ling brushed her fingers against Ki’s erection. “I have never touched a man before,” she murmured. “I—I wish you could be mine ...”

  She pulled away from him, and stood staring down at the brightly lit streets below.

  “I will see you again,” Ki began.

  “No!” Su-ling said adamantly. “Once again, you must be strong for both of us. Ki, there is no honor in this. We could not be happy. I cannot go against my family’s wishes. Should I do so, it would poison our union.”

  Silently she began to walk back the way they’d come.

  “Will you be safe, going home alone?” Ki asked uncertainly.

  She turned to smile at him. “Safer than I would be, traveling home with you, Japanese,” she said wistfully. Then she blew him a kiss, and hurried back down the hill toward the small, tree-filled park.