S Hockensmith - H03 - The Black Dove

by Steve Hockensmith

She picked up a little mallet on a table by the door and struck a brass gong the size of a dinner plate. It didn’t make much of a sound—more of a clink than a bong—but it did the job.

  The door opened, and a dozen girls scurried into the room with small, quick steps. Their eyes were downcast, their slender bodies wrapped in colorful silks or sheer chemises.

  The madam had summoned her harem.

  The girls took up positions against the far wall, arranging themselves at slight angles to us so as to maximize our view of the merchandise. Some stood, some knelt. Nary a one looked us in the eye. When they were all in place, they went motionless, almost lifeless—we could’ve been looking at the “Slave Girls of the Orient” exhibit in one of the tawdrier wax museums.

  “A gift—or a down payment, maybe,” Madam Fong said. “From ‘us’ to you. Choose what suits you and . . . enjoy.”

  I turned to my brother wondering just how far we’d take this charade. The answer made itself plain pretty quick, at least to my eyes: not very.

  Old Red looked worse than he had coming over on the ferry that morning. And the thing that was seasicking his stomach now, I saw when I followed his hollow gaze, was one of the fallen women before us.

  Or “fallen girl,” I should say. She was a ghostly pale, wispy-thin thing with no womanly curve to her anywhere. And for good reason. She couldn’t have been any older than twelve.

  Gustav wiped the revulsion off his face fast—but not fast enough to fool a sharp-eyed man-reader like the madam.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  Old Red shrugged and looked down at his boots and put on an awwshucks shit-eating grin, the very picture of the unpolished bumpkin flummoxed by big-city sin. My brother’s no William Gillette, but he’s not a half-bad actor when he cares to make the effort.

  “It’s just that I . . . well . . . I had my heart set on a certain gal, and I don’t see her here. Not if my cousin described her right, anyhow.”

  “Oh? You know her name?”

  Gustav nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah. It ain’t exactly what we white folks’d think of as purty, but I hear the little lady’s enough the looker to make up for it a hundred times over.”

  He leaned so far forward in his chair it barely seemed he could have enough cheek on cushion to keep himself from falling off.

  “ ‘Hok Gup.’ That’s what Cal called her.”

  It took all the acting skill I have to hide my surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to me that “Hok Gup” might be somebody’s name. Yet when I thought back on how that old coot kept repeating the words over and over while creeping around Chan’s place, it seemed obvious he’d been searching for a who not a what. If someone steals your boots, you don’t wander around calling for them.

  And I wasn’t the only one to get a jolt from my brother’s words. A few of the chippies peeked up at him wide-eyed. The little urchiny girl dared the longest stare—though she looked down quick when she noticed I’d noticed.

  As for the madam herself, she just nodded slowly and said, “You want the Black Dove. I should have known. So many men do.”

  She gave the gong another clang, and her girls scampered from the room. Most of them seemed relieved to be going. But the waif dragged her feet, one ear so obviously cocked to catch whatever should be said next her head practically spun on her neck like a lazy Susan. She was the last one out, by her own design, and as she left she began to shut the door.

  The madam slid over quick and caught it before it closed.

  “Wait here,” she said to us.

  And then she slipped away, pulling the door of the velvet cage closed behind her.

  16

  THE WORST

  Or, Our Hosts Decide to Bury the Hatchet—in Us

  “So,” I said after giving Madam Fong a few seconds to float off into the shadows on the other side of the door, “Hok Gup is a gal.”

  “Looks thataway.”

  Gustav stood and started making a slow circuit of the room, inspecting the madam’s bric-a-brac like a judge sizing up the pies at a county fair.

  “Well, hurrah for us—we’ve actually learned something,” I said. “Only I don’t see how it gets us any closer to whoever killed Doc Chan.”

  “The old man was huntin’ for the girl over at Chan’s place.” Old Red turned around just long enough to offer me a shrug. “She must tie in somehow.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Only why was Grandpa lookin’ for her over there if she was here all along? I mean, he didn’t have no trouble gettin’ in here—unlike us. Oh, and thanks for the thanks for that, by the by.”

  “Thanks,” Gustav mumbled, distant and dreamy, as if talking in his sleep.

  “Don’t mention it,” I said. “So anyway, if ol’ Methuselah was tryin’ to find the girl, why didn’t he check with Madam Fong first? And where’d he go after he did finally come in here?”

  “Well,” Old Red said, his tone turning sour, “could be he’s with the Black Dove this very moment.”

  “Oooooo,” I groaned, my mind conjuring up a picture too frightful to describe. “That is one deduction I could’ve lived without.”

  Gustav stopped before a small, platformlike structure sticking out of the far wall. “Well, don’t dwell on it too much. It ain’t very likely the old man would . . . hel-lo.”

  “Hel-lo what?”

  “Didja notice this thing here?”

  My brother stepped aside to give me a clear view of the wall-mounted whatever-it-was he’d been eyeing. It reminded me of a crèche, except with one big figurine—a stern-looking Chinaman with a long black beard—instead of a bunch of small ones.

  “No, I hadn’t noticed it,” I said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a lot to notice ’round here. Any particular reason I should have set my sights on that thing?”

  “There’s a whole bundle of reasons right there.”

  Old Red pointed at the little scowling Chinaman’s besandaled feet. Around it were several small, brass bowls filled with “joss sticks”—just like the ones on the altar in Chan’s bedroom.

  “Yeah, alright. I see what you’re gettin’ at,” I said. “So now I guess we’ve learned two things: ‘Hok Gup’ is a Chinese floozy, and Doc Chan and Madam Fong have the same taste in home decoratin’.”

  Gustav went into such a smolder it’s a wonder he didn’t set those incense sticks to smoking.

  “Feh,” he spat. “You can lead a horse’s ass to water, but you can’t make him think.”

  I sat up straight and gave him a round of applause. “Bra-vo, Brother. Nicely turned. Almost witty, even. Keep practicin’, and one of these days maybe you’ll actually be funny.”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to be funny.”

  “That works out well for you, then.”

  “Feh,” Old Red said again, and he turned away and sank to his hands and knees.

  He spent the next few minutes crawling around taking in a dog’s-eye-view of the room while I watched (and carped) from the comfort of my settee. We’d found a new trail to follow, my brother tried to assure me, but I wasn’t so sure it was headed toward Chan’s killer. It seemed more likely to lead to our own.

  Which brings us back to where you stepped in, dear reader—and where a gaggle of hatchet men stepped in, too.

  The first two came in via the door Madam Fong had gone gliding out through. They were black clad, broad shouldered, and cold eyed, but I wasn’t ready to assume the worst just yet. When the worst finally comes—and it frequently does for me and my brother—there’s no need for assumptions. It makes itself damned plain.

  “Well, hello there,” I said to the highbinders.

  “,” they replied. Which is to say, they said nothing. They just closed the door and took up positions before it, blocking the exit off with such definitive finality it may as well have not been there at all.

  One of the tong men was taller than the other—was, in fact, taller than any Chinaman I’d ever laid eyes on. He was older than the other, too, with the dark fe
atures and deeply lined face of an Indian chief. Though the highbinders didn’t say a word, it was somehow obvious that, of the two, the big man was the boss.

  “Don’t mind my brother there,” I said to him, jerking a thumb down at Gustav. “He’s just lookin’ for loose change.”

  “,” the Chief said.

  “,” his friend added.

  “Hok Gup on her way, then?”

  “.”

  “.”

  “Or are one of you the Black Dove?”

  “.”

  “.”

  “No offense, but if that’s the case, we’re gonna have to pass on our freebie—neither one of us rides sidesaddle, if you catch my meanin’.”

  “.”

  “.”

  “That was a joke.”

  “.”

  “.”

  “.”

  “.”

  “Alright, look. If y’all are tryin’ to put the fear on us . . . well, it’s workin’. Why don’t you say something? Introduce yourselves. I’m Paddy. This here’s Seamus.”

  Shit . . . I’m Seamus, I remembered a second too late. Not that it made any difference.

  “,” the highbinders said.

  “Brother,” Old Red growled.

  I nodded. “I do believe you’re right.”

  Gustav’s tone had said it all: Time to go.

  I got up off the couch.

  “You know, if this is that new trail you promised, I don’t think I care to follow it.”

  “Me, neither,” Gustav said.

  He was on his feet now, too, though he remained bent over in a crouch, scuttling sidewrays like an arthritic crab.

  We were both headed for the other door.

  The hatchet men headed for us.

  Now I was ready to assume the worst. And just in time, too: The door we were dashing toward opened before we could reach it, and our two pals from the front stoop stepped into the room.

  Old Red and I started backing the other way, but there wasn’t much of anywhere to back to. We ended up behind a loveseat and the liquor cart—and up against a wall.

  “Four on two, huh?” I said. “Alright. That makes one for my brother and three for me. Hell, that’s almost fair.”

  The Chief reached behind his back, and at his signal his compadres did likewise. Somehow, I had the feeling they were not about to present their calling cards . . . though, in a way, I suppose that’s exactly what they did.

  One of the highbinders from out front drew a knife. The other produced a slung shot—a metal ball hung from a two-foot-long whip. And the Chief and his chum both came up with short-handled hatchets, which they proceeded to raise up like tomahawks as they drew within a few feet of us.

  “Well,” I whispered hoarsely, “that tilts things a tad, don’t it?”

  “Toes,” Gustav said, and he snatched one of the decanters off the liquor cart and hurled it baseball-style at the Chief.

  The big Chinaman ducked.

  The others charged.

  The one with the knife reached me first, jumping around the loveseat with his blade back, ready to stab. I caught him off guard by hopping up close instead of flinching back or freezing, and before he could make a jab at me, I took my brother’s advice—by stomping my heel down on the highbinder’s foot as hard as I could.

  Like his pals, he was wearing slipper-shoes that looked as soft-topped as moccasins, and my heavy, hard-soled brogans came down atop his toes with a satisfying crunch. The man dropped his knife and raised up a howl I ended quick with a roundhouse punch to the nose.

  Would-be assassin number one slumped to the floor.

  I turned to take on two through four.

  Of course, the rest of the gang hadn’t just been lounging around waiting their turn. There was a crackling sound, and a dark shape whipped past just inches from my face. White shards rained down from atop my head.

  It took me a couple startled seconds to realize it wasn’t my skull that had just been splintered—it was my lid. The fellow with the slung shot had made a fling at me over the loveseat, but instead of smashing my head down into my boots, he’d merely snapped off the brim of my boater.

  What does the good Lord have against my hats?

  The highbinder’s swipe had left him off balance, the heavy black ball at the end of his melon-cracker hanging down behind the back of the seat. Before he could straighten up, I grabbed the leather strap of his slung shot with my left hand and jerked it—and him—forward. As he lurched toward me, I grabbed the back of his head with my right hand and shoved it downward while my left knee came swinging up.

  Kneecap met face. Teeth left mouth. Would-be assassin number two sank out of sight.

  It was time to deal with three and four—the hatchet men.

  The only reason they hadn’t already split my head like a rail was Old Red. He might not have had himself a gun, yet he’d found plenty of useable ammunition nevertheless, whipping gewgaws and baubles wildly across the room like a cyclone ripping through a pawn shop. Glasses, plates, lamps, vases, spittoons, doodads, thingamajigs, and whatchamacallits—all went flying at the highbinders. The Chief and the other hatchet man were doing a decent job bobbing and weaving, but whenever either of them actually took a step toward us, Gustav drove the man back with a hailstorm of knickknacks.

  I joined in, sending a cast-iron match holder shaped like a priest diddling a nun arcing through the air at the Chief. It moved slow, though, and he dodged aside easily. I looked around for something lighter to pitch at him, but my brother had already snatched up everything within easy reach.

  And then I remembered it: the perfect projectile.

  I spun around and reached up toward the little altar Old Red had been so interested in a few minutes before. Its statue centerpiece—the fierce, bearded man—was porcelain. Light but solid.

  The china Chinaman glowered at me hatefully as I snatched him down. He seemed to be a warrior of some kind—he was wearing armor, and his hands were gripping what looked like a sword tied to the end of a fishing pole—so I hoped he’d understand. All’s fair in love, war, and brawls in brothels.

  I turned and chucked that statue at the Chief as hard as I could.

  It was a good throw: The figurine caught the highbinder square in the back just as he pirouetted out of the path of a cigar box thrown by my brother.

  The Chief oofed and crumpled.

  The statue hit the floor beside him and shattered in a spray of white shards.

  “See there!” Gustav said.

  “See where?”

  “There!”

  My brother pointed at the jagged pieces of porcelain scattered across the carpet.

  “Yeah? What am I supposed to—?” I shook my head like a man trying to buck off a bad dream he can’t quite wake from. “Look, shouldn’t we be runnin away or something?”

  “Runnin’ where?”

  The knife man had crawled off to the door Madam Fong and her gals had left through. He sat slumped against it, face in his hands, blood pouring through his fingers. The slung-shot man stood beside him, panting heavily through split lips. He glared at me murderously, obviously anxious for another round of David and Goliath.

  As for the Chief, he was soon back on his feet, and with a grunt and a wave of his big, pawlike hand he sent his fellow hatchet man to block off the other exit. Then he shook a pointed finger at me and snarled out something I can only assume meant, “The big handsome one’s mine.”

  He raised his axe again and stepped toward me, moving slow.

  “Yak yak yak fan kwei yak yak,” the Chief said. And he smiled.

  Before, he just wanted to kill us. Now it looked like he meant to enjoy it.

  My brother and I snatched up the only “weapons” left in grabbing range: a fistful of obscene stereopticon slides for Old Red, an embroidered pillow for me.

  As the Chief moved in on us, his friends stayed back, spectators now—and, to judge by the eager grins on their faces, ones who were expecting
a mighty good show. Even the man whose mouth I’d mangled was wearing a smile. I swear, if the Chief had given those fellows time to run out for popcorn, they would’ve.

  “You got any last words, Brother?” I said. “Cuz I reckon you got about five seconds to say ’em.”

  “Hush.”

  I shook my head. “Typical. Well, I ain’t afraid to speak from the heart. Gustav, I want you to know that—”

  “Shut up.”

  The Chief was less than ten feet away—and to my surprise, he stayed there, freezing midstep, his eyes darting this way and that.

  Then I finally heard it, too. Music, growing louder—impossibly loud. And with it, the sound of . . . marching?

  The door to the outer hallway flew open, and a man playing a tuba came stomping in. On his heels were half a dozen more musicians, all of them blasting “Bringing in the Sheaves” loud enough to topple the walls of Jericho.

  Some folks in need of rescuing get the cavalry. We got the Salvation Army.

  The band’s new conductor was the last one to squeeze into the room. “Gentlemen!” she shouted at us over the deafening din. “Have you seen Jesus?”

  “Close enough, Miss Corvus!” I hollered back. “Close enough!”

  17

  AH GUM

  Or, A Fallen Woman Gets a Rise Out of Old Red

  The concert didn’t last long.

  The wrecked, debris-strewn parlor; the cowboy holding up a fistful of stereopticon slides like a shield; the tall, relieved-looking fellow wearing a boater with no brim; the bruised, bloodied, and extremely confused Chinamen standing around holding hatchets—even over the top of a trombone, such sights are hard to miss.

  Within seconds, “Bringing in the Sheaves” gave way to “Dropping of the Jaws” and, after that, an impromptu rendition of “Running for Your Life.” My brother and I mixed in with the herd and bolted for the door.

  “I don’t think I’ve . . . ever been so happy to . . . hear a hymn,” I panted once we were safely outside. The musicians kept up their stampede right on out of Chinatown, but Diana, Gustav, and I stopped to catch our breath across the street from Madam Pong’s.