Blaze! Hatchet Men Page 8

  "You would be correct," Bocheng agreed.

  J.D. prepared to summarize. "So, you've been partnered with him, but tonight you've had a change of heart, thinking he's setting up both tongs to take a fall. Is that about the size of it?"

  "Not only tongs, but every son of China living in the city, and perhaps across your land. My people, as you know, are drawn to seek the promise of America, though we have reason to despise the West, as well. The plague of opium your Native Sons decry—even as Kevin Gillan profits from it handsomely—was forced upon us first, by England, starting thirty years ago. When they insisted that we legalize and purchase opium from them, the Daoguang Emperor refused. Two wars resulted, during both of which we were defeated. France intervened during the second war, to steal their share of China. The result: our treasury was looted and our army devastated, royal palaces destroyed, with millions slain. And millions more are now enslaved by sap collected from a common poppy."

  "That's all new to me," Kate said.

  "It does not feature greatly in the books your schools describe as 'history'."

  "Well," J.D. said, "if you and Chen both make it through the night, send him a message for us, will you?"

  "Gladly."

  "Tell him that we'll pass on tracking Soong Mai-ling and stay the hell away from Chinatown."

  "All for the best, I think," Bocheng replied.

  "Now, if you don't mind..."

  "Certainly. My men will see you safely out of Chinatown. From there, your fate, like every man's and woman's, rests in your own hands."

  * * *

  It seemed that things were calming down in Chinatown, as Bocheng's soldiers led J.D. and Kate by winding paths and left them on the outskirts of the district. J.D. got his bearings back toward Market Street, and they were underway as members of their Chee Kong escort faded into night and fog.

  "Sounds like the battle's over," Kate observed. "Who do you think came out on top?"

  "Well, most of Chinatown's still standing," J.D. noted. "So, I'd guess the Native Sons are disappointed."

  "Meaning Kevin Gillan."

  "And whoever is behind him, pulling strings."

  She nodded. "Yeah, you're right. There's too much going on for one saloonkeeper to run it on his own. He'd need political connections."

  "And police."

  "Our buddy Brogan."

  "He'd be my first candidate," J.D. agreed.

  "Just when I was warming up to him."

  "I hadn't noticed that."

  "It's a late-blooming kind of thing," she said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "So, Gillan, Brogan, and at least one man in city government with pull enough to grease the wheels and cover for them while they're doing dirty work."

  "At least one, right."

  "Maybe one big, fat fish," Kate said.

  "Who we have no means of identifying."

  "Maybe not. Or..."

  "What," he prodded her, walking along through fog, his right hand on the cross-draw Colt.

  "They'd have to meet, right? And particularly after something like tonight's shindig in Chinatown."

  "Which has you thinking..."

  "That we ought to follow Gillan, if we can."

  "Too late," J.D. suggested. "Gillan didn't join the mob, you notice. They were likely sitting down together while we got an earful from Bocheng."

  "I doubt it," Kate replied. "Whoever Gillan's working with, or for, will want a full report. That tells me Mr. White Suit needs to wait and tabulate the final butcher's bill, maybe congratulate his goons, console their widows, and what-have-you. My guess is, they'll get together over breakfast and decide what happens next."

  "So, we trail Gillan?"

  "Bright and early, heading out from Beauregard's Emporium to plead his case and try to make tonight's fiasco sound like victory."

  "I wonder if they'll keep the name?"

  "What name?" Kate asked.

  "For the Emporium."

  "Who gives a rip?"

  "Just ruminating," J.D. said.

  "Well, ruminate on this: I want the men who set us up for killing. That includes the men behind those men."

  "Then, what? We call out Gillan? Captain Brogan? Somebody the voters chose to do their thinking for them?"

  "Or we put a case together for the prosecutor's office."

  "That's assuming they're not in on it."

  "Maybe the newspapers. I've seen the Chronicle and the Examiner so far. There may be others, too."

  "And tell them what?"

  "Give them whatever information we've collected, names and all, and let them run with it from there. When that's done, I believe I'd like a change of scene."

  "Tired of the honeymoon already." J.D. pulled a sad face, wasn't sure if Kate could see it in the foggy night.

  "Be honest now," she said. "It's not what you were hoping for, either."

  "It's had its moments."

  "And I loved 'em," she assured him, "when we weren't too busy dodging lead."

  "Next time, you plan the trip," he said.

  "I just might do that, Babe."

  "But no place with a Chinatown or lynch mobs."

  "That's a deal."

  They walked along in silence for a few blocks. The odd carriage rattled past them, but aside from that, they met no traffic on the streets. It was as if the violence in Chinatown had sent grim ripples through the city, damping San Francisco's spirit and aborting any celebrations planned for that accursed evening.

  J.D. wondered if it was quiet on the Coast, or if the Native Sons had limped home for a round of drinks and lies, already turning their foray against the tongs into a victory for justice and the honor of America.

  Such men, he'd noted in the past, had a facility for self-deception. Kevin Gillan might be different, but if he thought the world was turning his way, he had better think again.

  His time was running short.

  He simply didn't know it yet.

  Chapter 12

  J.D. and Kate skipped breakfast in the morning. He could hear his stomach growling as they loitered in an alleyway near Beauregard's Emporium, waiting for Kevin Gillan to emerge, and wished they'd grabbed some toast, at least, before they left the Grand Hotel.

  "There any way that you can stop that?" Kate inquired.

  "Only by feeding it."

  "I'll buy you breakfast after," she assured him.

  "Could be lunch by then," he groused.

  "Poor baby."

  "That's what I was think—"

  "It's him!"

  And so it was. Their subject stepped onto the sidewalk, decked out in the same white suit he'd worn last night—or maybe one of several he kept on hand—and paused to light a thin cigar while his eyes roamed up and down the Barbary Coast. He missed them, in their hideaway, and they were watching as he struck off toward downtown, alone.

  "Give him a couple blocks," Kate said. "Can't lose him in that getup."

  J.D. had worried that their man might take along some bodyguards, after the day and night of violence just finished, but it seemed that Gillan valued privacy over security this morning. When he had a decent lead, they trailed him toward the heart of San Francisco, covered by more traffic as they cleared the Coast and neared downtown.

  They had discussed this moment overnight, agreeing that if they could put a face on Gillan's contact in the local power structure, they would quietly investigate. No confrontation at the morning sit-down, nothing to draw more attention to themselves. Besides a face—or faces, as the case might be—they'd need a name or names, to build their case.

  Our case, J.D. thought, still more than a little skeptical. Kate seemed intent on whipping up some kind of scandal for the man who'd tried to have them killed, embarrassing his wealthy friends, but thinking through the night only increased J.D.'s conviction that her plan was dangerous.

  They obviously couldn't trust the cops, and that raised major doubts about the prosecutor's office. Kate seemed to believe that going to the newspap
ers was an alternative, but J.D. had perused the tabloids on his own, as well, and noted both of them apparently committed to the "Yellow Peril" theme. For all he knew, they might be owned and operated by a bunch of Native Sons.

  "I'm still not clear on how you plan to pull this off," he said, as they were drawing close to Market Street.

  Kate seemed exasperated as she said, "I told you—Wait! Look there. He's going in."

  "There" was a restaurant, Delmonico's, that opened early for the breakfast trade. It had a stylish, moneyed look about it that suggested six-guns wouldn't meet the dress code. Gillan disappeared inside, and J.D. had begun to wonder if they'd lost him, when Kate asked, "Is that a menu posted out in front?"

  Squinting, he said, "Looks like it, but I wouldn't count on getting seated."

  "We aren't going in," she said. "We're just two tourists, wandering around downtown, seeing the sights."

  "You may have noticed that the menu's hanging on a window," J.D. said. "While we're play-acting, looking in, Gillan and whoever he's meeting could be looking out."

  "So what?" she asked. "We've never met him, never even been in the same room with him. As for whoever's meeting him in there, I'd say the odds of anybody recognizing us are nil."

  "This isn't just another poker hand, where all you stand to lose is money."

  "Babe, we're being careful. Trust me, will you?"

  He had no retort for that, and followed her the last block to Delmonico's. The breakfast menu posted on the widow wasn't long—a dozen entrees, more or less—but J.D. noted that their prices topped what he'd been paying at the Grand Hotel.

  "Must be a rich man's spot to wine and dine," he said.

  "And I see two of them, right now," Kate answered, peering through the restaurant's front window from beneath the flat brim of her hat.

  * * *

  Gavin Farrell was having steak and eggs. Six eggs, that was, laid out around a twenty-four-ounce T-bone, with a side plate bearing fried potatoes, mushrooms, and a heap of grilled tomatoes. Kevin Gillan, working on an oyster omelet, had seen the fat man eat before and had no doubt he'd polish off the lot, while summoning the waiter for an extra pile of toast.

  It was like dining with a hog, but this hog had resources Gillan needed, if his dreams were going to be realized. When he had reached his goal ... well, even old stud boars were sent to slaughter, when they had outlived their usefulness.

  Farrell was talking with his mouth full, seemingly oblivious to manners. "That was some hoedown you staged last night," he said, tone disapproving. "More dead Sons than Chinamen, from what I hear, and missed the top tong bosses, too."

  "I couldn't very well go in and lead the mob, could I?" Gillan replied.

  Farrell ignored the question, moving on. "Your problem now," he said, "is that you've made the Native Sons seem weak, disorganized. You'll lose some members who don't have the stomach for it."

  "And gain more, I'm betting, who've had friends wounded or killed by the celestials."

  "You'd better hope that bet pays off," Farrell replied. "Our plan depends on a mass movement that can sweep the next city election. White men vote, the Chinese can't. But don't think voters will support you just because you're white and shout at them about the Yellow Peril. Unless you're down in Dixie, peddling hate can only carry you so far."

  "You know I have big plans for San Francisco," Gillan answered.

  "We have plans," Farrell corrected him. "So far, I've covered damn near all the bills, and if I don't see a return on my investment pretty soon, I'll take my chips and find another game."

  "Your cut's been coming out of the Emporium."

  "The same as every other dive along the Coast," Farrell replied. "Call that the price of doing business in my city. If we're empire building, that's another story altogether. I need proof, and soon, that you're the man to pull it off."

  "I'll get the Sons in line. The membership will grow," Gillan assured him, thinking even as he spoke how much he'd love to plant a Chinese cleaver in the fat man's skull. In fact, that might advance their cause, though Farrell wouldn't be around to see it.

  As for how he'd get ahold of Farrell's money, if the worst should happen to his bloated benefactor, Gillan hadn't worked out all the details yet.

  "Good omelet?" Farrell asked him.

  "Best in town," Gillan replied, although in truth he'd barely tasted it, and it was sitting in his stomach like a pound of fishing sinkers now.

  "I have a quarter-interest in this place, you know," Farrell confided. "Eat for free."

  That cuts into the profit margin, Gillan thought, and nearly laughed aloud.

  "What's funny?" Farrell challenged.

  Jesus, had he laughed?

  "Not funny," Gillan said. "I just admire the way you work things out."

  "I've got a knack for it," said Farrell. "Born with it, I guess. You need to cultivate it, Kevin. When we've cleared the road, think more about the business side and less about celestials."

  "When I get done with them, celestials won't be a problem. Keep the laundries for convenience, workers enough to clean up on the Coast. The rest can either find another place to live or give it up entirely."

  "Steer them more into the mining, railroads, maybe factories," said Farrell. "If they don't like working on the cheap, ships sail for China every week."

  "And they can sink along the way, for all I care," said Gillan.

  "That's the kind of narrow thinking that concerns me," Farrell said. "You need to work on it."

  "I will," Gillan assured him. To himself: I'm thinking bigger all the time, Fat Man.

  * * *

  Kot Bocheng took six soldiers with him to meet his leading rival, Chen Jinguang. The lucky number seven—pinyin, in Cantonese—was a homophone for other terms meaning "life essence" and "arise," also, coincidentally, viewed as good luck by round-eyes in America.

  More to the point, it was the maximum number of men permitted at the meeting.

  He had been surprised by Jinguang's invitation, and suspicious. It might still turn out to be a trap, but after last night's mayhem, Bocheng thought Jinguang might be sincere. If not, well, it would be a battle to remember, with the winner—if there was one—claiming most of Chinatown.

  But what was that worth, with the round-eyes on the march against his people?

  They had held their own against the lynch mob overnight, turned silent faces to the white police who followed after, asking questions, seeming to believe "celestials" had somehow called the bloodshed down upon themselves. Their captain had shown more concern for dead white men than slain Chinese, but that was the way of the world. Bocheng accepted it as natural and logged the captain's name—Brogan—for visitation sometime in the future.

  If there was a future.

  Chen Jinguang greeted the Chee Kong party personally at his headquarters, while his six soldiers fussed around an ornate tea service, before retreating with Bocheng's men, leaving the two dragon heads alone.

  "Thank you for coming," said his host.

  "My pleasure," Bocheng answered. "Though the timing, I admit, has made me curious."

  "When better," Chen replied, "than when our families are both under attack by common enemies?"

  "The round-eyes."

  Chen nodded agreement.

  "How would you respond to their attacks?" Bocheng inquired.

  "They have a proverb in America: the best defense is a good offense. We saw this in their war among themselves, defending Washington from the Confederates next-door."

  "Are we at war?"

  "Did you not see the evidence last night, and yet again this morning?"

  "I saw injuries that we have suffered in the past without retaliating on a major scale."

  "Are you content to let the same thing happen, time and time again?"

  "To challenge them means troops, a massacre, as if we were red men."

  "Since round-eyes see us all the same, it may be worth the risk," Chen said. "Especially if we focus on a selecte
d target."

  "Which would be...?"

  "The Native Sons plot day and night against our people," Chen replied. "Their orders come from the Barbary Coast, a district already despised by many whites in San Francisco."

  "You propose to rid them of it, as a favor? Chen, do you imagine they will thank you?"

  "I imagine the police will do as they are told, by someone in authority who can appreciate a partnership with Chinatown."

  "Does such a man exist, in fact?"

  "He does, if we can meet his price."

  "So, a collaboration is required?"

  "He needs assurances of order and decorum, payments made on time by all concerned. I cannot promise that which I do not control."

  "And so, this meeting."

  "To discuss the benefits for both our families," Chen said. "Compliance means cessation of police harassment and cooperation from authorities on imports from our homeland."

  "Meaning opium?"

  "Among other commodities. Women, labor, the staples of our lives."

  "What value do you place upon a white man's promise?"

  "None," Chen said. "I trust his greed. If all else fails, I trust his fear."

  "Of death?"

  "A last resort, but possible. Also, a fear of scandal and disgrace, losing his fortune and the life he cherishes above all else."

  "You will forgive me if I need more details on this man of mystery."

  "His name," Chen said, "is Gavin Farrell."

  Chapter 13

  "Gavin Farrell," Kate said, when she came out of Delmonico's.

  "You got that from the maitre d'?"

  "The name, together with some extras."

  "How much did it cost us?" J.D. asked her, as they wandered back toward Beauregard's Emporium.

  "Only a smile, some charm," she said. Then, seeing J.D.'s skeptical expression, added, "And ten dollars."

  "Ten!"

  "Worth every penny," Kate assured him. "First, I asked, all girly like, if Fat Boy was the mayor. The maitre d' says no, but he's hand-picked a few mayors in his time."

  "A boss."

  "You've got it. And a banker, not to mention big in shipping, with some stakes in mining claims. But politics is where he really shines. Some of the locals call him 'King Farrell'."