Blaze! Hatchet Men Page 9

  "Illegal," J.D. said.

  "What is?"

  "Royal titles in America, under the Constitution."

  "It's a nickname. Let it go."

  "All right," he said. "So what's the plan for bringing down a king?"

  "Same plan. Bigger they are, harder they fall."

  "There's two ways to interpret that."

  "Enlighten me."

  "The way you mean it, they fall hard. Another way to look at it, it's hard as hell to knock them over."

  "Everybody has a weakness, J.D."

  "Granted. But the rich ones cover theirs with influential friends, political connections, on down to the street level, with cops and thugs."

  "We'll think of something, Babe."

  "Before he steps on us like ants?"

  "I promise."

  "Kate, this is a whole new game. And we don't even have the ante price."

  "We may have something better."

  "Oh? And what would that be?"

  "Kevin Gillan."

  "And since when is he on our side?"

  "Isn't yet. But we have something on him now."

  "That he eats breakfast with the richest man in town? He likely knows that, since they were together at the table."

  "Don't be cranky, Lover. Gillan's plan—and Farrell's—rests on getting rid of the Chinese. With me so far?"

  "I'm keeping up."

  "But if the tongs get wind of what Gillan and Farrell have in mind..."

  "That's where it all breaks down, for me," J.D. told Kate. "The tongs are strong in Chinatown, but they swing zero weight in San Francisco, where the real power's concerned."

  "Don't be so sure."

  "What's going on inside that pretty head of yours?"

  "Gillan and Farrell aren't the only ones with brains enough to hatch a scheme."

  "Still waiting for the details."

  "I'm just working on the broad strokes. Trust me, will you?"

  "Always have and always will," he answered honestly.

  Thinking, I hope it doesn't get us killed.

  * * *

  "Farrell's on board, for now," said Gillan.

  "I'm not sure I like the sound o' that." The captain's ruddy face looked skeptical, at best.

  "I have him where I want him, Brogan."

  "Other men have thought the same. You'll find some of 'em in the poorhouse. Others, sharks have ate and shat 'em out in Frisco Bay."

  "You're scared of Farrell, now?"

  "Same as I ever was," said Brogan. "Man that big can crush me rollin' over in his sleep."

  "Not if he's dead."

  "But he was breathin' just now, when you come from sittin' down with 'im."

  "You know the plan. It's all in place. Same deal that got me past Emile."

  Brogan was nodding. "Blame celestials for killin' 'im, then use the Sons to mop 'em up and claim your just desserts from all of Farrell's grateful friends. The king is dead, long live the king."

  "And once I've got the crown, the mayor will name a new chief of police."

  "Yours truly," Brogan said.

  "Provided that you stick with me and hang the right celestials for killing Farrell."

  "Shouldn't be a problem," Brogan said.

  A shadow fell across their table, in the southwest corner of the barroom. Two shadows, in fact. Gillan looked up to see a man and woman standing there, both dressed as if for horseback riding, each wearing a holstered pistol.

  "Can I help you?" he inquired.

  The woman said, "I'm thinking it's the other way around." And then, "Good morning, Captain."

  Gillan blinked at Brogan. Sounding flustered, Brogan told him, "These is them."

  "What?"

  "J.D. Blaze," the standing man announced. "And Kate."

  A sudden churning in his gut made Gillan worry that his omelet might come back to haunt him. "Sorry, I don't recognize the names," he covered, clumsily.

  "You sure about that?" asked the woman. "Captain Brogan knows us pretty well."

  Rather than follow up on that, Gillan told both of them, "If you don't mind, this is a private conversation."

  "Don't mind us," the woman said. "We only need a minute of your time."

  "For what?"

  "To tell you that we know."

  "Know what?"

  "Your plan with Gavin Farrell," she replied.

  Gillan felt color rising in his cheeks but couldn't help it. Instead of snapping at the bait, he said, "Well, now you've told me, though I have no earthly notion what you're rambling on about. If you'll excuse us, now—"

  "The tongs aren't happy with you, Mr. Gillan," said the man who'd introduced himself as J.D. Blaze.

  "What makes the tongs happy is none of my concern," he sneered.

  "Should be," the woman said, "after what happened to your mentor."

  "If that was the tongs," her husband added.

  Gillan turned away before he blurted out something incriminating. Asked Brogan, "Captain, will you remove these pests? Cite them for trespassing, perhaps?"

  "Trespassing in a public barroom," said the woman, mocking him. "That ought to get a laugh in court."

  "We'll just go have a drink," J.D. offered, "and let you-all get on with scheming. Best of luck to both of you."

  When they were gone, Gillan told Brogan, "In my office. Now!"

  "We shoulda started out there," Brogan answered, as they headed toward the stairs.

  "And if you'd taken care of those two at the start—"

  Brogan stopped him short, saying, "I didn't hire your Chinee shooters for you, Mr. G."

  The captain had him there. Now, in addition to his other problems, Gillan had to think about the married gunslingers and what they had in mind to throw his plans off-track.

  If only they would have a fatal accident...

  * * *

  For the first time in the history of either tong, Kwong Duck and Chee Kong soldiers stood together, armed for war and looking forward to repaying countless insults heaped upon themselves, their families and friends, by white men since they first set foot in San Francisco. Everywhere, across the country, things were more or less the same. Today, in an unprecedented show of unity, the tongs were fighting back.

  "My brothers," Chen Jinguang reminded them, "this morning, Kot Bocheng and I have laid aside our quarrels of the past. We face a common danger from outside, greater than any rivalry between our families. If our community is crushed, wiped off the map, there are no families in San Francisco. It is time to settle scores and teach the round-eyes that they may not persecute us with impunity."

  Bocheng picked up from there, saying, "I bless the merger of our forces and admonish every Kwong Duck warrior to observe the truce. Our enemies today are white. When they have learned to fear us as they should, there may be peace and new prosperity for all in Chinatown."

  Chen caught the "may" and let it pass. He could not fault Bocheng for being skeptical about a long-term union of the tongs. That move demanded sanctions from their masters, back at home. Today, right now, a state of dire emergency forbade them both from standing idly by while messengers sailed off to China, then returned with word from their respective masters.

  A standing rule of life, when dealing with superior authority: it was much easier to get forgiveness than permission.

  "When you strike today," he told the troops, "your main target is Beauregard's Emporium. Within it or nearby, you should find a man dressed in white, pretending to be one of their plantation owners from before the last great round-eye war. The man who kills him, and can prove it, shall receive promotion to the rank of red pole and one hundred taels of gold."

  That caused a stirring in the ranks, though none broke discipline by speaking. Chen Jinguang was satisfied with the result, agreed to in advance by Kot Bocheng. He pictured Kevin Gillan's head, delivered to him in a sack, and almost smiled.

  Bocheng now filled the silence with his voice, exhorting the assembled troops, "Go forth, now. Do your duty to your famili
es and fallen brothers, to the wives, sisters and daughters soiled by white barbarians. Remember who you are and what you fight for on this day of days."

  At last, the soldiers brandished weapons overhead and cried, as with a single voice, "Shènglì!"

  To victory!

  And with that shout still ringing in their ears, the ranks dressed all in black and navy blue turned from their masters, slippers hissing on the pavement as they marched to war on the Barbary Coast.

  * * *

  "This whisky's rotgut," Kate declared.

  "Beer's watered, too, not like the other night. Seems like their standards bit the dust along with Beauregard."

  Gillan and Brogan had already left the barroom in a huff. Now, Kate suggested, "How about some breakfast?"

  "Thought you'd never ask. But someplace else, okay?"

  "Damn right."

  As they were turning from the bar, a man pushed through the bat-wing doors and shouted to the room at large, "Celestials are comin' up the street from Chinatown!"

  "How many?" asked the barkeep.

  "Hell if I know. Dozens, maybe hunnerds. Ever one of 'em I seen has got a weapon."

  While the barkeep reached down for a hidden gun, Kate faced J.D. and asked him, "What the hell?"

  "Looks like the party's starting early," he replied. "I'd just as soon not stick around for it, if they've come hunting whites."

  "They won't be hunting us," she said.

  "Why not? You figure Kot or Chen gave us some special dispensation? Could they even tell their soldiers how to recognize us in a crowd?"

  "Damn it!"

  "Exactly. How about that breakfast somewhere nice and safe, like Market Street?"

  "You talked me into it."

  The man who'd sounded the alarm was gone, the bat-wings flapping in his wake. As Kate and J.D. reached the doorway, gunfire popped and crackled from the southern end of the Barbary Coast. They heard white voices raised in anger and in panic, others answering in Cantonese, what sounded like a war chant.

  They edged onto the sidewalk, other customers soon joining them from the Emporium. Down range, battle was joined, small figures running, ducking, shooting, grappling in the street. J.D. saw one man fall, and then another. Upstairs windows opened, spitting gunfire toward the ranks of uniformed intruders.

  "There's still time to run for it," he cautioned Kate.

  "It isn't very ladylike," she said.

  "Neither is getting killed outside of a saloon."

  "You've got a point."

  Turning their backs on the advancing enemy, they started walking north. "Delmonico's?" J.D. suggested. "You've already got a friend there."

  "I was thinking more of our hotel," she answered.

  "Better yet," he said. "Room service. We can eat in bed."

  A moment later, two blocks north, more Chinamen in black and navy blue spilled from a side street, forming hasty ranks and jogging south to meet their northbound comrades in a pincers move.

  "Well, shit!" said J.D., as he pulled his cross-draw Colt.

  "I'll see that 'shit' and raise you a 'damn it'," Kate replied, drawing her own pistol.

  "I guess we'll have to do without that breakfast, after all."

  "Some planner I am."

  "Well..."

  "Don't sugar-coat it, J.D. This is all my fault."

  "Worry about that after," he suggested. "If we're still alive."

  Chapter 14

  "I'm getting sick and tired of this place," Kate announced, as they returned to Beauregard's Emporium.

  "You and me both," J.D. agreed, "but it's the nearest cover."

  "Maybe not the best, since both tongs have it in for Kevin Gillan."

  "Right," he said. "So, what? Backdoor and out?"

  "I'm thinking maybe we should go upstairs," Kate said.

  "I'd normally be all for that," J.D. replied, "but at the moment—"

  "Keep it in your pants, Lover. I want another minute with the man in charge."

  "You figure it's the best time for a get-together?"

  "Hon, there might not be another time."

  "But since we cautioned him about the tongs—what was it? five, ten minutes back?—he might be thinking we're behind all this."

  "It's possible," Kate granted.

  "So it's possible he just might want to blow our heads off."

  "We can handle Gillan."

  "And the captain of police he took upstairs with him?"

  "A dirty copper if I ever saw one."

  "Granted," J.D. said. "But what's our rule about the law?"

  "I only want to talk, J.D."

  "But—"

  Gunfire sounded closer, maybe half a block from Beauregard's Emporium. Kate rounded on him, said, "It's too damn late to run. You want to try our luck upstairs, or make a stand right here."

  The barroom offered little in the way of cover, as J.D. had learned two nights ago. If they were on the second floor, at least they'd have a chance to hold the staircase, drawing down on anyone who tried to make the climb, exposed to their defensive fire.

  "Upstairs," he said, at last. "But I don't like it."

  "It's a chance," Kate said. "Worse comes to worst, jump out a window like Huo What's-his-name the other night."

  "The way my luck's running today," J.D. replied, "I'd likely break both legs."

  "You'd better not," Kate cautioned. "I might have to shoot you."

  "Better than a hatchet job."

  She stood on tiptoe, kissed him quickly on the lips, then turned away, saying, "Come on! Upstairs!"

  * * *

  Huo Xiang had never counted on a second visit to the round-eye dive called Beauregard's Emporium, much less that he'd be leading troops from both his own tong and the Chee Kong clan to kill the man who ran the place. It was an honor, if he managed to succeed. If not, Huo trusted he would see his ancestors again before the day was out. Beyond that, it was possible he might be reincarnated—or, if his luck held out, he might achieve the sweet oblivion known in Cantonese as Niè, or Nirvana.

  The one thing he would absolutely not do was surrender to his enemies and face the ordeal of their courts, prisons, slow strangulation on the white man's gallows.

  No.

  The battle had been brisk so far, with dead on either side, but they had caught the round-eyes by surprise, particularly when Huo's party circled around the Barbary Coast to attack from the north. His squad had killed three white men on the run, and now they were within a few yards of their target, where the Native Sons rallied before their raids on Chinatown and afterward returned to celebrate their pillaging.

  Huo Xiang knew that the man responsible for much of that, old Emile Beauregard, was dead, allegedly the victim of a tong assassin. He could not speak for the Chee Kong, but felt confident that no one from his own tong was responsible for killing Beauregard. As for who did the deed, in fact, he neither knew nor cared.

  His task was to eliminate the man who had succeeded Beauregard. If he was successful, it meant wealth and a promotion. If he failed, Huo Xiang did not expect to face his master with the disappointing news.

  When they had nearly reached the entryway to Beauregard's Emporium, a white man in an apron, wearing sleeve garters, emerged and raised a lever-action rifle to his shoulder. Huo Xiang shouted, "Shāle tā!"—Kill him!—and someone fired a blunderbuss loaded with broken links of chain, the storm of metal lifting their opponent, shredding him, hurling him backward through the swinging doors.

  Huo Xiang was first to follow him inside, a combat leader's duty, clutching a revolver in his fist. Along the bar, four white men managed to look startled, even though they must have heard the battle drawing closer to them by the moment. Three of them were fumbling for holstered weapons when Huo's firing squad unleashed a deadly fusillade and plastered them against the bar. Stray bullets shattered bottles shelved behind the crumpling human targets, and a tang of alcohol mixed with the heady scent of gunsmoke.

  No sign of a man dressed in a white suit
, yet.

  "Lóu shàng!" he cried. "Upstairs!"

  * * *

  "A feckin' mess were stuck in now," said Brogan, pacing like a hungry cougar in a cage.

  "Your men—" Gillan began.

  "Don't know a goddamn thing about it," Brogan interrupted him. "I can't exac'ly send a telegram to call 'em over, can I?"

  Gillan tried another tack. Said, "This should bring the Sons."

  "They're scattered all over the city, most of 'em at jobs right now. They won't know what we're up against until the newsboys tell 'em, shoutin' on the street."

  And he was right. That knowledge twisted Gillan's gut into a cold and painful knot. The thought of dying here, with Brogan as his sole companion, sickened him. If he only knew some way to—

  Wait!

  Celestials were coming for him, and he still had one card left to play.

  "Stay here," he said. "I'll be right back."

  "Where'n hell are you off to?" Brogan demanded, stepping toward him.

  "Just next-door," Gillan replied. And then again, his sternest tone: "Stay here!"

  "You've got two minutes," Brogan growled, "and then I'm comin' after ya."

  Gillan removed a key from his vest pocket, crossed the office to what any casual observer would suppose to be a closet door. He opened it, entered a six-foot passageway, and faced another door. That one was padlocked on the outside, silently obstructing Gillan's progress.

  He unlocked it, pocketed the key once more, and stepped into a smallish room—a cell, in fact—with padded, soundproof walls. A Chinese woman huddled in the farthest corner from the door, blinking against the light that spilled past Gillan, causing her to grimace.

  "Come with me," he said. "It's time for you to go."

  She rose and tottered for a moment, hesitating until Gillan crossed the room and grabbed her right arm, dragging her behind him through the narrow passage, back into his office. Captain Brogan gaped at them, face frozen into the expression of a quizzical chimpanzee.

  "What in holy smokin' hell—?"

  "Captain, meet Soong Mai-ling."