EQMM, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "That is the biggest lie you could tell,” Roy said. “There is nothing at all un-attractive about you.” He held her a little tighter. “You are probably the loveliest woman I have ever met."

  "Then why have you not taken me to bed? You know I lust for you."

  "I have a lover already, back home, and I cannot be unfaithful to her."

  "But she would not know."

  "I think she would. She would sense it somehow. I'm the only man she's ever been with."

  "My bad luck,” Jin Jin said.

  "Mine too, in a way.” Roy kissed her cheek. When their meal was ready, they ate, and afterwards Jin Jin had Kim drive them over to Fu Chen Road to the Pudong Shangri-La Hotel. Jin Jin said goodnight in the lobby.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Roy had an American breakfast sent up and ate on the balcony of hissuite overlooking a section of the Huangpu River called the Bund. Centuries earlier, the barges of Genghis Khan and his Mongol army had rowed along that river, but now it was a magnificent broad boardwalk along the Zhongshan Road waterfront, and its only water traffic were spotless white local ferries and bright yellow cruise boats.

  At eight the previous night, after his in-room steam bath and massage, he had tried calling Fiona on her apartment phone, but it was two in the afternoon in Chicago and he got no answer. He did not try her cell number because he never knew who she might be with and whether she had the privacy to talk. She spent a lot of time out at the North Shore mansion with her grandmother, Flynn's wife, and also at her cousin Daisy's home helping take care of Daisy's two-month-old son, Flynn Fain's first great-grandchild.

  Jin Jin and Wang Ching, the slot-machine manufacturer, arrived as Roy finished eating, and the three of them had tea in the living room. Wang Ching, a portly, smartly dressed man of fifty, spoke fluent English with no British accent, but in negotiations later that morning with the Minhangs, he would resort to Mandarin, which was required when discussing business in front of a foreigner. That, ostensibly, was why Jin Jin would be along, to act as translator for Roy. The Minhang family had no knowledge of her ties with Wang Ching or his with Flynn Fain.

  This morning, Jin Jin wore a plainer cotton suit and flat-heeled shoes, eyeglasses for show only, and her luxurious hair twisted into a bun at the back of her head. She was playing the part of a language conduit hired temporarily for the day.

  "You look like a schoolgirl,” Roy kidded.

  "Sign up for classes anytime,” she countered impishly.

  They discussed various ways to approach the Minhangs, possible bargaining positions, what they speculated might or might not work with them.

  "To be honest,” Ching said, “I don't think any offer is going to be acceptable to them. The son, in particular, is extremely difficult to deal with, and the two grandsons are like puppets when he pulls their strings. They never disagree with him."

  "The old man who started the firm has no say at all?” Roy asked.

  "None. He is ninety-two and has to be spoon-fed."

  "Well,” said Roy as he knotted his necktie, “we'll do the best we can and see what happens."

  As he spoke, he exchanged glances with Jin Jin. She knew what could ultimately happen, but Ching did not. Wang Ching was totally unaware that Royal Shaheen was prepared to commit murder if necessary to resolve their problem.

  * * * *

  Kim drove them, in the Bentley limousine, out to the Fengpu Industrial Park, where the Minhang Metals plant was located. In a high-tech office on the top floor, furnished in custom-made chrome, aluminum, and stainless steel from the Minhang factory itself, they met the president of the firm, Nathan Minhang, and his two sons, Alexander and Caesar. Cordialities were exchanged and tea was served by two conservatively dressed young office women. Roy and Wang Ching sat facing Nathan Minhang, with Jin Jin to the side and slightly behind Roy, in position to quietly translate for him, while the Minhang brothers sat side by side behind their father.

  With Jin Jin translating, Roy politely presented his case. “My employer in America has a contract to deliver five thousand slot machines to a new resort casino soon to open. Mr. Ching here has the slot-machine shells and internal mechanisms ready for final completion, but he cannot finish the manufacture without the ball bearings he ordered from you—"

  "Please, Mr. Shaheen,” Nathan Minhang held up a hand like a teacher demanding silence, “I do not need another synopsis of this situation. I have already been made more than aware of all the ramifications of your problem by Wang Ching, who I see at the moment is somewhat shocked by my impolite interruption of your presentation. However, in the interest of saving all of us valuable time, I must tell you that I can do nothing to help you. It is not my fault that your ball bearings are at present scattered on the bottom of the Taiwan Strait—"

  Now Roy held up his hand and said firmly, for Jin Jin to translate, “I'm sorry, but my employer feels that it is your fault. The typhoon did not destroy the Minhang factory, which is where the ball bearings were contracted to be made."

  The two men proceeded to argue back and forth for half an hour. Nathan Minhang held fast to the position that he was not at fault. He was running a business. A better contract had come along: more profit, more prestige with his government. In good faith he had arranged for the ball bearings to be made elsewhere. Were it not for the typhoon, they would have been delivered on time. There was nothing further that he could do.

  There was, Roy stubbornly insisted. Postpone the second job, for the Korean automobile hood ornaments, and fulfill the ball-bearings contract first. Impossible, Nathan Minhang argued. His factory was already being retooled for the hood ornaments.

  At that point, Wang Ching interjected his opinion. Stop the retooling. A day or two would be lost, but the ball bearings could still be produced in time for the slot-machine order to reach America—

  "Never!” Nathan Minhang declared. He would proceed with the hood-ornaments contract. The hood ornaments, he pointed out aloofly, were much more important than some gambling machines to be employed by decadent, corrupt Americans to cheat their own working people of their money.

  At that point, Roy rose to leave, Jin Jin and Wang Ching doing the same.

  "Perhaps we can discuss this further tomorrow,” he said.

  When he offered his hand, Nathan Minhang stiffly refused it, an enormous insult in the eyes of Wang Ching.

  * * * *

  Jin Jin had Kim drop off Wang Ching at his own manufacturing plant, which was in the same district. Then she and Roy discussed the situation.

  "He will not cooperate with us,” she said. “Ever."

  "I agree."

  "He has taken a stand in front of his sons. To back down now would be to lose their respect."

  "Yes, I agree."

  They fell silent for a moment, as Kim maneuvered the limousine in and out of what was mostly truck traffic. Finally Roy decided what had to be done.

  "Do you have his schedule?"

  "Yes, I have had him under surveillance since he created this problem.” From a fold-out compartment in the rear passenger door, she retrieved a flexible binder and handed it to Roy. In the binder were several pages showing dates, times, and movements of Nathan Minhang over a ten-day period. Roy studied the schedules carefully.

  "He leaves the factory at the same time every night—"

  "Yes, just before dark—"

  "And he alternates destinations every other night—"

  "Yes. One night he goes home to his wife and three daughters. The next night he goes to the apartment of his mistress. His home is in a highly affluent neighborhood with close private security. But the mistress lives in a building on a quiet cul-de-sac with many trees. He owns a parking space at the side of the building. It is dimly lighted."

  "So you think that would be the place?"

  "Yes, Roy, definitely."

  "Is tonight a wife night or a mistress night?"

  Jin Jin smiled. “Mistress."

  The weapon Jin Jin obta
ined for Royal Shaheen was a Kel-Tec P32, the lightest thirty-two caliber automatic pistol made. With it, she provided a parabellum sound suppressor that would all but silence the sound produced by firing the Kel-Tec.

  Kim was Roy's driver on the hit. He drove a nondescript rental car with Roy in the passenger seat. The vehicle was parked in a public space at the entry to the cul-de-sac in which Nathan Minhang's mistress lived.

  Jin Jin, meanwhile, was in the passenger seat of an unmarked white panel truck, parked outside the Minhang Metals factory. The truck was driven by Kim's cousin, Lee Ti, another of Jin Jin's nephews. When Jin Jin observed Nathan Minhang leave the factory just at dusk, she contacted Roy by cell phone.

  "He's leaving now. He is driving a new dark blue Geely, four-door sedan."

  The Geely, Roy knew from previous visits to Shanghai, was an almost perfect knockoff of the Rolls-Royce Phantom. “He's heading toward the ring highway,” Jin Jin advised. “We are now following and will keep in touch."

  The white panel truck followed the Geely at a circumspect distance as it made its way out of the industrial park and proceeded toward the city. Every three or four minutes, Jin Jin reported the Geely's location to Roy, who had his cell phone set on speaker mode so that Kim could monitor the call. Open on the steering wheel in front of him, Kim had a city map and was tracking in yellow marker the Geely's progress toward a red X, which was where he and Roy were parked. The yellow line kept getting longer and longer, closer and closer to the red X.

  After nearly thirty minutes, Kim said to Roy, “Getting very close now, sir."

  Roy retrieved the Kel-Tec from under his seat, checked the Parabellum to assure himself that it was securely attached, and jacked the first round into its chamber.

  "The Geely is about to enter the cul-de-sac,” Jin Jin finally said. “Roy, please remember the pattern."

  "Yes, the pattern,” he replied. “I will."

  Kim started the engine just as the Geely rounded the corner, and moved easily in behind it. The last vestige of daylight faded and overhead vapor lights came on and turned the little side street a pale green. The Geely pulled into a private parking space next to a modern new low-rise apartment building, and Kim drove slightly past it and stopped. Nathan Minhang and Roy exited their vehicles in unison, a dozen feet apart.

  "Nathan,'’ Roy said, just loud enough for Minhang to hear and turn toward him. Standing sideways and holding the pistol at arm's length, Roy fired.

  BLIP—BLIP—BLIP was the only noise to escape the sound suppressor.

  The first shot hit Minhang in the groin, the second in mid chest, the third dead center in the forehead.

  Head, chest, groin. The pattern. Three shots that would convince the police that the killing of Nathan Minhang had been a Tong assassination, a murder by a Chinese organized-crime family. Jin Jin had planned it nicely.

  * * * *

  Early the next evening, when Jin Jin picked Roy up in front of his hotel, as Kim was putting his bag in the boot, she said, “Your flight has been delayed an hour. We have time to stop for a drink. To celebrate."

  The celebration would be in honor of the fact that Wang Ching had already met with the two Minhang brothers who now owned Minhang Metals. Offering condolences for their father's untimely demise, he had pointed out that in ancient Chinese lore, great misfortune always befell a person who failed to keep his word, and that he was certain that the bereaved sons would now honor their father's memory and avoid further family grief by retooling the plant to manufacture the ball bearings, thereby venerating the memory of an honorable man who had kept his word. The two sons had readily agreed.

  Jin Jin had Kim drive to the same restaurant where they had stopped to eat after Roy's arrival. This time they ordered a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Champagne. As they toasted, Jin Jin said, “I wish you didn't have to leave."

  Roy touched the soft, perfectly sculptured, flawlessly manicured hand she extended across the table. “I kind of wish I didn't have to either,” he admitted.

  "Suppose,” she said coyly, “this was to be the last time we ever saw each other, would you regret that we never went to bed together?"

  "Yes, I think I would."

  "I would too, very much.” She sighed a soft sigh. “I suppose my sisters will be greatly disappointed again when I see them next."

  "As I told you before, you can always lie to them."

  "No,” she said almost timorously, “in Chinese families sisters cannot lie to each other.” “As Time Goes By” was again playing. “One last dance?” she asked.

  "Yes. One last dance."

  Both removed their shoes and padded over to the corner dance floor, which was now deserted. Fluidly coming together, as if designed to fit perfectly, they slow-danced several times around the floor.

  "I wish we could dance all night like this,” Jin Jin whispered, “and then go to my apartment and make love as the sun came up."

  "Maybe next time,” Roy said. And he meant it. If things did not work out well back home, if the thing with Fiona exploded—

  When the song ended, they walked, holding hands, back to their table and drank the last of the Champagne.

  Downstairs, Kim held one of the passenger doors open for Jin Jin, as Roy went around the limousine to the other door.

  "Roy,” she spoke to him across the roof of the car. “Mr. Fain has already told Fiona about the terrible car wreck in which you were killed over here."

  Roy froze. “What—?"

  She was in the car, the door closed behind her, as Kim walked briskly around to Roy and raised the sound-suppressored pistol and fired.

  BLIP—BLIP—BLIP.

  In the Tong pattern.

  Two men hurried out of the shadows and dragged Royal Shaheen into eternity.

  Copyright © 2010 Clark Howard

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  Fiction: THE PIPER'S DOOR by James Powell

  In English, we know of the Pied Piperof Hamelin mostly through the Robert Browning poem of that name, but the legend goes back further than that in German literature and story. In typical-ly inventive fashion, James Powell makes use of the legend in fashioning a new adventure for Ambrose Ganelon, of the multi-generational Ganelon Detective Agency. Mr. Powell is a Canadian who has lived in the U.S. for many years. There's no one in the field more adept at combining mystery and fantasy.

  In late October, 1938, amid a light snowfall, a gray twin-engined Pasternaki bomber lumbered down out of the Carpathian sky. Peering out from the steel-and-isinglass blister be-neath the tail assembly Commissar Anton Bibikov, deep in fur against the cold, spotted a curl of wood smoke and then the small log cabin with its roof of thick thatch alone on the foothills sloping up toward the mountains.

  Bibikov remembered the smell of vodka on the old shepherd's breath, vodka the inn owner flavored with anise, as the man jabbed his finger on this very spot on the map which now lay across Bibikov's knees and swore a band of partisans were holed up there.

  As the airplane banked for its bombing run, an old man—he could have been the informant's twin brother—came hobbling out the cabin door on a stick and tried desperately to wave them off.

  The first bomb fell from between the skis of the plane's landing-gear assembly and hit short of the cabin, sending the old man diving into the snow. When the Pasternaki came back around, the man was on his feet again and waving his stick. But this time in defiance. The next bomb blew the cabin to pieces.

  There were no partisans. Bibikov imagined the shepherd informant back in the inn laughing to himself as he drank away the money he'd been paid. What was his grudge against the old man down there in the snow, a forgotten insult, a woman?

  As the Pasternaki straightened out and set its course northeast back toward Lvov, Bibikov sagged back in his seat and scowled. This assignment had been a disaster from the start. Because he knew the area, Moscow had sent him to suppress the Ukrainian partisans hiding out in the mountains. Each autumn the threat of winter forced them down to ta
ke shelter in the cabins the shepherds abandoned when they drove their flocks from the mountain meadows to the farms below. Then the partisans would raid the farms and village stores for supplies to get them through the winter. Bibikov's plan was to be there to meet them when they did. But there were administrative delays and then the snows came early.

  As the setting sun guttered red amid the mountain peaks Bibikov suddenly noticed something emerging from the high mountain shadows beneath him. A terrible creature with many legs and a back finned like a dragon's. Then he realized he was watching the long shadows of a handful of men fighting their way across a meadow deep with snow.

  Bibikov smiled.

  * * * *

  In the summer of 1939, Ambrose Ganelon, the third of that name, was struggling to keep the doors of San Sebastiano's famous detective agency open. After two generations of great detectives, major criminals were keeping shy of the principality. To get by, Ganelon had decided to start the Famous Detective Correspondence School, promoting it among the advertisements for patent medicines in the backs of almanacs and pulp-fiction magazines. His own advertisement, already on the drawing board, showed a voluptuous brunette with a frightened look speaking on a telephone to a voluptuous blonde at an office desk. The balloon over the blonde's head said, “Hello (Your Name Here) Detective Agency. How can we help you?” The copy underneath said: “Be a Private Detective. Make Secret Investigations. Earn Big Money. Fascinating Work with Fascinating People. No Experience Necessary."

  But Ganelon still had the lessons to prepare and writing didn't come easy to him. On top of all that, he had also promised to deliver the annual Jean-Loup Garrigou Memorial Lecture at the Cloak and Dagger Museum. His subject (which was not of his choosing) was “Espionage, Whither?"

  Why had a detective of the womanizing, hard-drinking, two-fisted school been asked to speak on the future of spying? At the end of the nineteenth century San Sebastiano became the winter playground of Europe's espionage community, where every Peter Pry and Mata Hari came to conduct their business under the Mediterranean blue sky, moderate climate, and carefree atmosphere. (Carefree because General Jean-Loup Garrigou, head of the Slyboots, the principality's counterintelligence service, was so blind to his beautiful young wife's many blatant affairs that Europe thought him incompetent.) For its part, San Sebastiano believed Garrigou a mere figurehead and that Ganelon's father, he of the enigmatic smile, master detective of the scientific school, was really in charge.