“I give up.”
I still had the item I took from the Smilin’ Lila, when I saved Eddie Quartermaine’s bacon: a flare gun.
I closed the door behind me and took it out of my jacket. One flare in the chamber and three taped to the side of the gun. I fired straight ahead. The first flare hit the wall of the tunnel about eighty feet away and lit her up like a Christmas tree. I figured I had about two minutes until the flame went out, so I sprinted the first few yards . . . and good thing I did. Three yards in and I heard a crumblin’ sound behind me. The floor was fallin’ away as soon as my feet hit it. Obviously, there was a button or lever I had missed on my way in, but no time to think about it now. I ran like the devil himself was chasing me. I ran past the flare and was headin’ deeper in darkness when the sound stopped. I slowed down and looked behind me. The floor was solid right up until the flare. I tiptoed back, like a friggin’ ballerina, and pried the flare outta the wall. I was gonna milk the light as long as I could.
I carried the flare deeper into the tunnel. The flame was goin’ longer than I expected, but eventually it started to sputter. I held it out in front of me as long as my arm would go . . . and then, suddenly, somethin’ cut out the light.
I froze like a twelve-pack of veal chops in my grandma’s cold chest. Then I took one step forward and felt something whiz by my forehead. I didn’t wanna use up another flare right away, so I pulled out my silver lighter . . . the one inscribed “We’ll always have Pearis. Love, Maxie.”
“You’re joking,” I said.
“My non-bride is indeed beautiful, sexy, and smart,” Spinelli replied. “Spelling is not her forte. Fortunately, there is spell check for most things.”
“Uh-huh.”
The tiny flame gave me damn near bupkis by way of light, maybe a foot in any direction. But I could see holes on either side of me and as I moved forward, I saw an arrow shoot across my face and bounce off the opposite wall. I hit the floor and whaddya know . . . there were no holes close to the ground. I crawled on my belly . . . the way I had when the Gerrys had us pinned down in the Argonne woods . . .
“Oh, please.”
But that’s another story.
There were no more arrows because there was nothing to trigger them, except once when my ass got a little too high and an arrow gave my dungarees some unwanted air-conditioning. That’s also how I got a little ass shrapnel in the Argonne woods . . .
“Stop it!”
But that’s another story.
I got past the arrows, and the rat pit, and the bags of scorpions, and the lye waterfall, and the chopping blades, and the crushin’ walls. I used all the flares, and the butane in my lighter was almost gone when I heard muffled voices just ahead. I thought I might have been hallucinatin’ . . . or it was another trap: the room of a thousand waggin’ tongues. Then I heard . . .
“You’ll never get away from me, you blackhearted dog! I have you and I’m going to keep you.”
“You can’t hold me here forever, Spanky.”
“Oh no? Just watch me! I hope you like pork chow mein, scoundrel, because that’s all you’ll be getting from now on!”
“Can I at least have a little toot from one of those pipes?”
“Oh, Luke,” Tracy’s voice dropped to a disgusted whisper. I could barely make it out. “There hasn’t been any opium here for years. That’s why no one comes here anymore . . .”
I reached out in front of me and felt a door. I took a chance and pushed. It swung easily on its hinges, and I stopped it at about four inches—just enough to let me take a gander into the room.
“. . . That’s why I drugged you and brought you here.”
“I had a Pop-Tart for dinner. How did you drug a Pop-Tart?!” Luke said.
“I have my ways!”
Tracy was standin’ in the middle of a bad Chinese dream. Maybe it had been a hot spot once, and nothing actually looked out of place, but now the rugs were faded and the wooden chairs had damn near been eaten where they stood, their red lacquer flaking into a fine dust on the floor. Long metal/wood opium pipes were rusting beside low sofas, opium residue thick around the bowls. The paper lanterns were covered in cobwebs and the cushions had all seen better days. It was like time had stopped marching and, one day, everybody had just walked away. Luke Spencer was lying on a long couch . . . probably the most comfortable in the room . . . with his hands tied to a metal ring in the wall behind him. On either side, at a distance, a beautiful girl fanned him with woven bamboo. Tracy began to pace the floor in front of Luke.
“And don’t think of bribing either Mei Lee or Trixie,” Tracy said, looking at the two gorgeous fortune cookies. “I’ve paid them too much money; Mei Lee is sick of practicing law and Trixie says being a venture capitalist was turning her prematurely gray. I’ve warned them both of your tricks.”
Then she sat down on the couch next to Luke.
“I can send them away with a flick of my wrist,” she purred . . . like a lion before it eats a wildebeest. “And you and I can have this love nest all to ourselves. No more wondering where you are. What country you’re in. And with whom. When you’re coming home. If you’re coming home. What rashes, insects, and parasites you’ll bring with you. You are now and completely mine! And you know what the really beautiful part is?”
“Enlighten me, wife,” Luke said, grinning.
“I’m still free as a bird!” she yelled, startling Trixie, who had fallen asleep. “I can see anyone, do anyone . . . thing . . . anything. I can go on trips to Rome or Milan, and you’ll still be here when I come back. Now you’ll know what I’ve been suffering all of these years! The waiting . . . the wondering. The booze-filled minutes of torture until you came home again!”
“You said you never minded, Spanks.”
“Well, I lied!”
“Tell you what,” Luke said, looking up at her. “You untie these ropes and we’ll take off . . . just you and me . . . on a pleasure cruise around the world. And we’ll make it last as long as you want. We’ll rent a yacht, just say the word . . . or we can buy an island. Or a mountain. Whatever your tiny black stone of a heart desires. And it will be just the two of us. Italy, France, Spain . . .”
“On MY money, you freeloader!”
“You can’t take it with you, Tracy,” Luke said. I couldn’t be sure from where I was, but I think I actually saw the man bat his eyelids. “And we’d have one helluva time!”
“Until you ditch me for some scoop of gelato outside the Uffizi? No thank you. I’ll keep you here . . . in my own private Peking. You know, egg rolls aren’t just for breakfast anymore.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Hell if I know. And now, I must be going. I have a date.”
“You do?” Luke asked.
“No. But you were scared there for a moment.”
“Oh, wife,” he said, lowerin’ his eyes. “You know me too well.”
The boy could play coy, I’d give him that.
“Damn straight!” Tracy spat out the words like they were weak gin. “Oh, and even if you could get past Trixie and Mei Lee, you would never get past Mr. Fists-of-Iron at the door. He has orders to snap your neck like a pea pod. Fair warning.”
“Thanks.”
Tracy sauntered back through the abandoned rooms like she was on her way to a Southern ladies’ social.
“Hey, Spanky?” Luke called.
“Yes, Bluebeard?”
“I like your style.”
“Flattery will get you a bowl of lychee nuts . . . and that’s about all.”
She started up a flight of stairs. I heard a door open and slam shut somewhere overhead. Then silence.
I swung the tunnel door outward and walked into the room. I would free Luke and the two of us could probably handle Mr. Fists-of-Iron . . . or, if Spencer was too weak from his stay in Tracy’s pleasure palace, I was certain my hapkido black belt would be just the ticket. And Trixie and Mei Lee weren’t gonna get wise and give me any trouble.
>
How wrong I was.
I didn’t even see Mei Lee drop her fan, but one moment I’m walkin’ toward Luke Spencer, his eyes buggin’ out at the sight of me, and the next I’m on my keister, Trixie has me folded like a wonton, and Mei Lee’s doin’ a little chop-sockey number on my thinkin’ parts.
These girls were trained, but good. Fortunately, my kung fu was just a little sharper . . .
“A minute ago you said hapkido,” I mused. “Now it’s kung fu. Which is it?”
“The Jackal is proficient, nay, expert in several of the most dangerous martial arts. So much so that I have blended them into a single subtle form and coined my own name for the skill. Jukidokafu.”
“Gesundheit.”
I got out of Trixie’s knot and folded back up on her like a Venus flytrap. Two taps, right between her shoulder and the base of her neck, and she was out like a Cubs batter in any game . . . pretty much ever. Mei Lee took a little more effort. She’d worked out her own little Asian smorgasbord of death kicks, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of flyin’ feet and hands that packed a wallop. I couldn’t go twelve rounds with this broad on my best day. I saw one opening, kicked her feet out, and sent her flyin’. She landed right between Luke’s calves and, being a quick thinker, he clamped down hard, holdin’ her. I knew I only had a second before she broke free . . . and probably broke his legs. I towered over her as she went to make her move. I moved first.
One touch . . . right at her throat.
Her eyes got all glassy and her arms went limp. She struggled in Luke’s grasp, then she stopped long enough to gimme a look that said she knew what was comin’.
“Sorry, ginger-root. It was you or me. Just doin’ my job.”
Mei Lee nodded, gasping for air. She held her hand out . . . all she really needed was somebody to hold onto.
“I’m scared,” she wheezed.
“Don’t be,” I said. “I’ll bet you got folks waiting for you and a big golden pagoda to live in on the other side.”
“But I was a venture capitalist . . .” she said, her eyes growing dim.
“Oh . . . well, in that case, karma’s gonna be a bitch,” I said. “Sorry.”
Luke and I watched the lights go out, then we rolled her off to the side.
“You killed her?” Luke asked.
“Not a chance,” I said. “That was the Touch-of-Revelation. She’ll be out for a couple of hours. Learned it when I was at the Tashi Lhunpo Monastery in Tibet. You go so far under, you actually get to see what’s waitin’ for you when you go for good. Kinda helpful. She may wake up and turn her life around. Or not. Now, let’s get you outta here before Mr. Fists-of-Iron comes down for a walkthrough,” I said, reaching up to untie the monkey knots holdin’ Luke to the wall. Then I stopped short.
“Actually, before I untie you . . . let’s talk about the five hundred pieces-of-eight you took off of me the other night at the Haunted Star.”
“It’s called gambling, my friend,” Luke said, reclining against the wall, acting nothin’ like a man who was trussed up like a roasting chicken.
“You practically pointed to the number I shoulda played. It’s like you wanted me to set my chips right on top of red-22.”
“And you bought my line. That’s why the house usually wins.”
“Well then,” I said casually. “Maybe I’ll just walk outta here and tell Lulu I couldn’t find you.”
“Go ahead,” Luke said, a slug of a smile inchin’ across his face. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Then he slipped his ropes and wiggled his fingers like a crazy elf.
“You’ve been free?!” I practically yelled, then I remembered we still weren’t alone. I dropped it some. “You’ve been able to scramola? For how long?”
“Pretty much since she tied me up. Only, of course, because Tracy insisted on doing it herself. Said she wanted the ropes to be on the other hand for once.”
I just learned a little somethin’ about Luke Spencer.
“You called my bluff you son-of-a-horse-trader,” I said. I had to give the man credit.
“Hey,” he said. “You took a big fat chance coming down here . . . How did you get in, by the way?”
“Old tunnel; leads from the courthouse.”
“Fantastic,” Luke said. “At any rate, you risked a lot for me . . . so come by the Star next week and you’ll get your money back. Unless you want to try and double it on red-22?”
“No thanks,” I said. “But why next week?”
“I’m gonna stay here a few more days.”
“No foolin’?”
“I owe it to the wife,” he said, and by God if he didn’t get a little misty. “She puts up with a lot from me. This is making her happier than I’ve seen her in years. I can play along for a while.”
“How you gonna eat?” I asked.
“Mr. Fists-of-Iron and I worked out a deal. He gets me pizza, ribs, tacos . . . anything but Chinese, and next week I’m gonna get him some ‘paperwork’ so he can see his family in Hong Kong on the government’s nickel. In fact, I’m gonna go with him.”
“So, you’re gonna leave again?” I asked. I already knew the answer. Yeah, there’s such a thing as a stupid question.
“Hey, man . . . a rolling stone, y’know?”
“I know.”
I turned to leave. I was gonna head up the stairway and cab it back to the courthouse; didn’t want to face that tunnel again.
“Don’t worry about Mr. FOI,” Luke said. He must have seen that little falter in my step. “We talk about Tracy. He’s got his own lady-troubles back home . . . but we love our wives. He’s very understanding. He’s cool.”
I looked at Luke Spencer . . . wild man, rebel . . . legend . . . roped to a wall in a passé opium den, eatin’ juke-joint ribs and greasy slices of ’za just to keep his wife from losin’ what was left of her mind.
“So are you, my friend,” I said.
“The same at’cha.”
“See you next week for the five hundred.”
“If I’m not there, Ethan will get it for you,” he said, closin’ his eyes. “Don’t worry; I’ll let Lulu know I’m fine . . . and I’ll send you a postcard from Hong Kong.”
I walked up the stairs and exchanged a nod with Mr. Fists-of-Iron.
“Hey Fists!” Luke called from below. “Tonight, let’s eat Greek.”
Chapter 5
Damian Spinelli
and the Case of the Jumping Jax
The Port Charles oil refinery is small; that’s because the Empire State has no oil. The crude boom of the 1920s and ’30s was high-cotton for Texas and Cali-Flake-ia, but the upper East Coast started feeling left out. No big hats and Cadillacs with steer horns for Philly and Buffalo. A few states decided to put in an oil refinery anyway, because they knew it was only a matter of time until God pointed the way to a deep well. After all, God had pretty much blessed this part of the country with everything else, He certainly wouldn’t leave the upper states out of the party for long. Port Charlie was the lucky draw. Small harbor meant small refinery: God would show the way all right, but don’t block anybody’s view.
Needless to say, the two big, round tanks have sat empty since they were built; a couple of years back, the refinery was turned into artist’s lofts for the fancy-nancy set. Somebody put a chowder joint on the dock and used the crane as an elevator to the second floor. Cute gimmick. Sonny Corinthos moved in to the neighborhood, decided he didn’t like chowder, and the place went under . . . no questions asked.
But the local punks still used to take their girls and climb all over the tanks . . . and each other. Regular jungle-gym, those tanks. Then, story goes, in the late ’50s, during one spring break, somebody decided the game was gonna be “how many kids can you cram onto the little platform on the top?”
Turns out it was twelve.
Unlucky thirteen took a header and there was a fence around the works the next morning. Didn’t really stop the juveniles, but the flatfeet had to
patrol a little more often. Then, spooning on the tanks became old-fashioned . . . like root-beer floats and the electric chair. Kids found dance clubs . . . discos and the like . . . other ways to occupy their time and their hands. Nobody cruised the tanks.
So it was a little surprising when I got a call from Mac Scorpio tellin’ me to meet him at the refinery, pronto.
Sun was settin’ early that time of year, so Mac-the-Knife had the place lit up like a church at Christmas. And I hate Christmas. With all that wattage, a nice crowd had gathered to rubberneck at the shenanigans.
“What’s up, Mac?” I asked, flashing my PI badge to a nosy beat cop. I don’t like pulling rank, but I will when I have to. This palooka didn’t know me; now he does.
“We’ve got a potential bird,” Mac said, never taking his eyes off the tiny platform at the top.
“Come again?”
“A bird, a swan, an Acapulco diver.”
“Stop talking like a Reuben and cut the ham!” I said. “Give it to me plain, Mac.”
“We’ve got a jumper.”
“That’s better,” I said. “What do we know?”
“Only a little. Several of the guys have tried talking him down,” Mac said, motioning to a bullhorn lying in the dirt. “Nothing. Not a peep. I thought about trying it myself . . . but . . . ever since . . .”
He stopped short.
“Don’t go over it again, Mac.”
I knew why Scorpio didn’t want to try his hand at talking the guy off the tank. It was common knowledge, but we’d all just put it deep in the backyard, so to speak. I hadn’t heard anybody bring it up for years.
Years ago, Mac had built himself quite a reputation as a slick negotiator with a 100 percent success rate. Robbers out of banks, hostages freed at filling station holdups, jumpers off ledges . . . he even talked an old man into giving himself up during a standoff at the old Aces-High Casino and Lounge when the joint had taken the last cent of the man’s pension check. Mac told him the casino would give him a refund and the health insurance company would reinstate his wife’s policy so she could continue her chemo. And damn if Mac didn’t make it stick.
Then, one night . . . his luck ran out.
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 5
