S Hockensmith - H03 - The Black Dove

by Steve Hockensmith

  Charlie didn’t even get through the asking. The look of shock on Hok Gup’s face, the way she sobbed so hard it nearly bent her over double, that gave us our answer. If we needed any further proof, Fat Choy jumped in with panicky blabbing and finger pointing that needed no translation.

  He didn’t know. Hok Gup said Gee Woo Chan was dead. It was all her fault.

  Mahoney whistled. “A leper and a murderer . . . two for the price of one . . . .”

  There was a gleam in his eye, a hunger, almost as if he was a customer ogling the girl back at Madam Fong’s. But it wasn’t what he could do to her he was thinking of. It was what he could do with her. She was a bludgeon he still longed to have in his own hand.

  “She ain’t no murderer and she ain’t your damn toy, neither,” Gustav growled at him. “Charlie . . . tell her we’ll help her. Tell her we’ll . . . we’ll . . . do something.”

  Charlie opened his mouth to speak.

  “Charlie,” Scientific snapped, and what followed we couldn’t understand, though the gist was easy enough to guess. Charlie nodded, eyes down, shame-faced.

  He’d been told it was time to shut up.

  “You ‘help’ no one,” Scientific said to us, and he gave Mahoney’s Colt a little “Remember this?” waggle. “This is not tot fan kwei to decide.”

  Who would decide, apparently, were the tongs: Scientific turned to Madam Fong, and the two of them got back to the angry wrangling they’d left off a few minutes before. The jury had been reduced to two, and we were all on trial this time—most likely for our lives.

  “Listen,” Mahoney hissed at us, turning his back to Charlie. “I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. But we’re all in a jam now, and we need to work together.”

  He slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, and I could picture the fingers coiling around brass stained with an old man’s blood.

  “Tiny,” he whispered to me, “you take Little Pete’s man. Your brother and I can rush the big one and the bitch. You . . . .” His eyes flicked over to Diana. “We need a distraction. Faint or go hysterical or something.”

  “Just so I understand,” Diana replied, voice low and even and anything but hysterical, “you’ll take reinforcements to go after the clumsy oaf with the derringer, while Otto—by himself—takes on the expert fighter holding your revolver?”

  Mahoney leaned in closer, looming over the lady. “We don’t have time to argue about this.”

  “Sure we do. We got the rest of our lives.” I turned to Gustav. “What do you say?”

  But he said not a word. Not then. He didn’t even look at me. He was staring at Hok Gup.

  She was utterly alone. No one beside her, only the black bay behind her. We couldn’t understand the debate raging over our fates, but she surely could—and she didn’t like what she heard. Her wracking sobs had quieted, but the tears kept coming. She watched first Madam Fong, then Scientific, and from the way she shook her head and widened her eyes, it was clear neither one was suggesting she be packed off to a cushy sanitarium to be looked after by the best and brightest. The worst and darkest . . . that’s what awaited her.

  Eventually, she couldn’t take any more. She turned her back to the rest of us, facing the bay.

  “Snap out of it, would you?” Mahoney murmured at my brother. “We’ve got to do something. Now. It’s our last—”

  “No!” Old Red cried out.

  He rushed for the girl. She was walking away from us, back straight, steps quick and steady.

  The only problem was she had nowhere to walk to except the end of the pier. And that’s where she went . . . and beyond.

  She dropped out of sight so fast it was as if God Himself reached down and plucked her right out of existence between eye blinks. We heard the splash, but by the time we reached the edge of the dock, the only sign of her in the water below was a little cloud of churned-up foam. And then even that was gone, washed under the pier by the ceaseless pushing of the tide.

  My brother started to shrug off his jacket, but I grabbed him by the shirt-front with both hands.

  “No. The current’s too strong, the water’s too cold. You’d drown for sure.”

  “You couldn’t reach her anyway, Gustav,” Diana said. “Dr. Chan’s chain mail—it pulled her straight down. She’s already on the bottom by now.”

  “But she’s still alive down there!” Old Red wailed, trying to worm his way out of my grip. “She’s still alive!”

  “Not for long,” Diana said softly. “Then she’s free.”

  Gustav stopped his squirming, yet I didn’t let him go. We were right on the edge, where one step—one second’s desperation and despair—meant death.

  There was a thud somewhere behind us, then another splash. When we whirled around toward the sound, we found Scientific leaning out over the water about twenty-five feet back.

  “Very brave. Very foolish,” he said gravely. “Sgt. Mahoney . . . he jump in to save girl. Long way down.” The hatchet man shook his head and shrugged. “I think he land on his head.”

  By the time we’d scrambled over to where Scientific was standing, there was no sign of the Coolietown Crusader in the roiling waters below. We didn’t hear anyone thrashing around in the water or crying out for help, either—nor did we expect to.

  Needless to say, I didn’t have to worry about Old Red attempting a rescue this time. Mahoney was beyond our saving even if we’d wanted to save him.

  Dark as it was out there, the body’d have to stay right where it’d landed for us to have the slightest chance of spotting it, and that wasn’t likely with the bay’s unpredictable currents. The waves had probably already pushed it underneath the pier, and from there the S.S. Mahoney could sail just about anywhere. Come morning, it might be spotted bobbing off the Union Street Wharf . . . or it might be halfway to Monterey. There was no way to say.

  As we stood there peering over the side of the dock, Scientific, Charlie, Madam Fong, and Big Queue formed a sort of ring around us. Fat Choy lingered behind them, either too rattled or too opium-addled to slip away when he had the chance.

  “So,” Scientific said, “what to do?”

  I looked at Old Red.

  Diana looked at Old Red.

  Old Red looked at nothing. He just kept staring down into the darkness, lost in thought. And I mean truly lost—like he didn’t know where he was or how he’d got there.

  I put a firm hand on his shoulder. Not so much to anchor him to the dock. More to anchor him to me.

  “There’s nothing to do,” Diana said to Scientific. “Hok Gup is dead, and Sgt. Mahoney is . . . lost. That’s the end of it.”

  “You don’t go to police?” Scientific asked, looking skeptical.

  Diana shook her head. “The sergeant was no friend of ours, as I’m sure you saw. And even if we did go to the police, they wouldn’t thank us for it. Zealots aren’t good for business. The S.F.P.D. won’t be sad to see Mahoney gone. And as for what happens amongst the Chinese . . . well, you know as well as I do, the police don’t want to be bothered with that. And it’s certainly no concern of our employers.”

  The hatchet man nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Southern Pacific?”

  “That’s right,” I said, praying Scientific hadn’t made the same telephone call as Chun Ti Chu.

  If it wasn’t just me and Gustav and Diana out there by our lonesome—if there was some big unseen we backing us—the three of us might just have a chance. Mahoney wouldn’t be missed, but Scientific would have to figure we might be.

  “All done, then?” he said. “On honor?”

  Diana nodded. “On our honor.”

  She turned to me.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “On every shred I got.”

  We both looked at Old Red, dreading what he might say.

  Which turned out to be nothing. He simply nodded glumly, mute.

  Scientific spoke to Charlie in Chinese, and our former guide replied with a nod of his own.

  “Just so you
know, I’m vouching for you,” Charlie told us. “You may be fan kwei, but . . . I’d trust you.”

  Madam Fong shook a finger at us and piped up with what sounded like an objection. I’m guessing fan kwei were fan kwei in her book, and we weren’t to be trusted no matter who vouched for us.

  Scientific sighed, stepped toward her talking softly—then lightning-quick whipped to the side, stripped the derringer from Big Queue’s hand and sent a foot up into the highbinder’s broad face, all in one smooth motion. The burly boo how doy slowly toppled backwards like a felled tree while Madam Fong shrieked with rage.

  “You much lucky my boss like you,” Scientific chided us lightly, not winded in the slightest. He paused just long enough to throw both the derringer and Mahoney’s Colt into the bay. “Now go . . . and never come back to Chinatown. I told don’t kill you unless have to.” He shrugged. “Next time, maybe have to.”

  “If he doesn’t do it, we will!” Madam Fong screeched as Diana and I dragged Gustav away. “Set foot in Chinatown and we’ll hack it off! Kwong Ducks never forget!”

  “I thought that was elephants,” I muttered under my breath.

  As we drew closer to the Ferry House, Old Red found his footing and shrugged free of us.

  “We can grab us a hack out on East Street or Market,” he said, his voice gaining strength with each word. “Don’t know how we’ll pay for it, but we ain’t got no choice if we’re gonna beat the rest of ’em back.”

  “Beat the rest of ’em back where, exactly?”

  “To Chinatown, of course. We got one last thing to take care of there.”

  “What about your word of honor?” Diana asked.

  “A nod ain’t a word,” Gustav said. “Anyway, what good’s a feller’s honor if it gets folks killed?”

  He glanced back at the end of the pier. All we could see there now were dim shapes shifting in the red-tinged lantern light.

  “What good’s the truth if it’s just gonna lead to that?”

  39

  A WEE SPOT OF UNTIDINESS

  Or, Loose Ends Are Tied Up Even as Old Red Comes Unraveled

  Our last errand in Chinatown was a return trip to Yee Lock’s pharmacy. Wong Woon was mightily surprised to see us—and downright stupefied when we cut him loose.

  “The girl’s gone for good, that’s all you need to know,” Old Red said as the portly detective sat up and rubbed his wrists. “Yee Lock’s killer, too. That part of things is done.”

  “And . . . the rest?” Woon asked warily.

  “Chun Ti Chu will hear from us about that tomorrow,” Diana said, just as we’d agreed during the hansom-ride over. “I suggest you help him accept our perspective on the matter.”

  “We could’ve just left you here hog-tied next to him.” I jerked my head at Yee Lock’s bloodied body without looking at it. I’d had enough of that kind of thing for one day. “So we’re savin’ you big mien tzu lettin’ you go like this. Don’t you forget it.”

  Woon ruminated a moment, eyeing us each in turn, then gave a jowl-shaking nod.

  “Alrighty, then,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Our hack was waiting around the corner, and Old Red, Diana, and I hurried out to it, climbed inside, and made our way to our last stop of the night: Diana’s hotel, the Occidental on Montgomery Street. It’s not the fanciest digs in Frisco, but it’s close, and I expected a doorman to hustle me and my brother out the service entrance any minute. Diana seemed to feel right at home, though, and as long as we stuck close to her we were spared the bum’s rush.

  After a brief chat with the wax mustache who ran the place, Diana collected enough cash from the hotel safe to pay off our cab and secure a room for me and Gustav. My brother didn’t cotton much to bunking on Diana’s bill—or borrowing money for tickets to Oakland, as we also did—but we had no choice, broke as we were. Talk about a loss of mien tzu.

  We said our good nights in the lobby, agreeing to meet there again the next morning to wrap everything up. We’d done some planning since leaving the pier, but what had actually happened out there we’d avoided like the . . . well, like something one avoids. Diana came closest to speaking of it as we parted for the night.

  “Please . . . sleep well,” she said to Old Red, and she reached out, took his hands in hers, and gave them a squeeze.

  Gustav pretended he didn’t know what she meant, grunting out a “You, too” as he pulled back and headed for the stairs.

  “Pleasant dreams,” I said to the lady before hurrying after him.

  She just smiled grimly, looking like she was thinking, “Not likely.”

  She stayed behind as Old Red and I trudged upstairs—she had an ur-gent call to make on the manager’s private telephone.

  Although we’d asked for the smallest, cheapest accommodations the hotel had available, Gustav and I soon found ourselves in a room with almost as much floor space as the farmhouse in which we’d both been born. The bed alone seemed as big as our entire kitchen growing up, and it was so cushy-soft it could’ve been stuffed with cotton candy.

  After undressing and turning down the gas-lit wall lamps, I stretched out on one side of the bed, my brother on the other.

  “Just so you know . . . I don’t wanna talk about it,” Old Red said. He was flat on his back, face pointed upward, and I imagined him there searching the blackness above us for answers that weren’t there.

  “I understand.”

  I let a moment slide by in silence.

  “Of course, if you change your mind, you can always—”

  “I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Sure. Fine. We’ll just let it lie, then.”

  “Good.”

  “But, you know,” I added a minute later, “it can really help a man unburden himself if he’s willing to—”

  The bed creaked, linens rustled, and I felt something spongy and thick thump across my face.

  “Alright, I’ll shut up,” I said, voice muffled by linen and feathers. “But just for that, you ain’t gettin’ your pillow back.”

  And he didn’t. When I awoke the next morning, Gustav was still lying there on his back staring straight up at the ceiling.

  “Sweet Jesus, Brother,” I said through a yawn. “Did you catch yourself a single wink?”

  Old Red rolled out of bed and got to dressing himself. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He couldn’t avoid talking forever, though. At the appointed hour, we found Diana awaiting us, and it was decided we should hash out the final particulars in the Occidental’s dining room.

  Having not eaten since noonish of the day before, when I’d snagged myself a handful of pork buns while on the run down Dupont, I was hungry enough to eat not only a horse but its saddle, bridle, and probably rider, too. Sadly, the hotel offered only a “continental breakfast,” which (to my considerable disappointment) translates as “no taters, no grits, no eggs, no meat.” Still, I managed to fill my plate, and as Diana gave us her report, I had to peer at her around a pile of pastries that reached nearly to the ceiling.

  “I was able to reach Col. Crowe’s friend Dr. Battles last night. He didn’t know much about leprosy himself, but he consulted with a colleague and called me back early this morning. I was told the disease is communicable, but it’s not highly contagious. You may have heard of Father Damien? The famous leper priest of Molokai?”

  I nodded.

  Old Red just stared. He had no heap of sweets before him to peek around, just a cup of coffee and an unbuttered—and untasted—slice of bread.

  “Well . . . he was on the island for years working with lepers every day before he finally contracted the disease. You almost have to try to catch it.”

  “So Hok Gup didn’t pose no real threat to nobody?” I asked.

  “Probably not, if you’re just talking about the leprosy. But the stigma attached to it, the uses it could be put to—”

  “We talked all that through last night,” Gustav cut in irritably.
“If the gal wasn’t infectin’ folks, we’d keep our mouths shut. That’s what Doc Chan died for—so this wouldn’t get out to foamy-mouthed SOBs like Mahoney. The thing to do now is telly-phone Chun Ti Chu and—”

  It was Diana’s turn to interrupt now, and it looked like she enjoyed taking it.

  “Already done. I spoke to Chun Ti Chu this morning and offered the terms for our silence. He said he needed some time to think on it . . . then rang back two minutes later and accepted.”

  “My, oh my,” I marveled through a mouthful of Danish. “You are persuasive, ain’t you?”

  “When and where?” was all Old Red said.

  “Portsmouth Square. Ten o’clock.”

  Gustav snatched his hat off the seat next to him and hopped to his feet.

  “Well, what are we sittin’ around here for?”

  “Cuz I’m starvin’ and we don’t need to leave for another half hour?” I suggested.

  “I ain’t gonna chance this just so’s you can pack yourself fulla strudel,” Old Red snapped, and he whipped around and stalked off.

  “Sorry, Otto,” Diana said as she got up to follow him out.

  A moment later, I was on the fly behind her—with an entire cruller in my mouth and pockets abulge with cinnamon buns.

  I finished my breakfast on a bench in the Plaza. Diana sat beside me.

  Gustav paced.

  And then there they were at the southwest corner of the square, one big and round, the other small and scraggy as a stick. They lingered there a moment, coming no closer. That was the deal. We just wanted to see them together: Wong Woon and Hok Gup’s brave little friend from Madam Fong’s. Ah Gum.

  But then the girl spotted us, and the deal didn’t matter. She bolted toward us.

  “I really don’t wanna have this conversation,” my brother muttered.

  “I don’t think you got much choice.”

  Ah Gum was making a beeline straight for him.