The Killing Look Page 7

  “He seemed to impede a couple of your boys pretty well.”

  “I have taken his measure. He will not stop us.”

  McMurphy wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing more he could do. “What’s your next move?”

  “You’ll be informed.”

  McMurphy felt his anger rising again despite the fear. “So, I’m to just sit on my hands until I hear from you?”

  “It will not be long. I promise.” The man behind the curtain stood, his shadow growing larger on the curtain. The audience was over. McMurphy left, fuming to himself.

  ***

  “He will cause trouble,” Mei said as she took the gold coins from the man’s hand.

  He looked down at her, a frown creasing his brow. “You were eavesdropping.”

  She shrugged, looking at him defiantly. “This is a small shop. And he was angry. Angry voices carry.”

  “I don’t need to tell you the consequences of telling what you see here. For you, and for your family.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t tell.”

  “Good. Now go.” She left without looking back. His frown deepened as she left. He knew there was nothing McMurphy could attempt that wouldn’t actually benefit his real plan. But the girl…she could cause real trouble. He decided she was becoming more of a risk than he felt comfortable with. He reached into his belt and drew out his knife. Walking as silently as he could muster, he followed the girl through the door and into the front of the shop.

  She wasn’t there. The front of the fish shop was locked, a sign hung on the door. There was no sign of the grandparents, either. “Clever girl,” he whispered. “Too clever by half.” His misgivings deepened as he re-sheathed the knife and let himself out the back door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mei hurried through the streets of Chinatown, the gold coins stashed safely in a leather pouch which she’d then pinned to the inside of her skirt at the waistband. From time to time she stole a glance behind her to see if she was being followed. She’d felt the mysterious white devil’s growing mistrust of her and knew their business arrangement was at an end. Her usefulness to him had ended as well.

  It had seemed such a simple thing at first: he’d told her he needed a quiet and secluded place, away from prying eyes, to conduct what he called “business meetings.” The secrecy was needed, he’d explained, because of the delicacy of the negotiations he was undertaking to merge two great business concerns. If the word got out, then it would affect the white devils’ stock market in ways he didn’t want. She cursed herself under her breath for her simple-mindedness, as if she was a country bumpkin straight off the ship from China. She’d known from the first meeting, where he’d hidden himself behind the curtain and pretended to be the head of the Green Dragon Tong, that she’d been fooled. But the man’s threats, some veiled, some more direct, toward her and her grandparents had bullied her into submission. Now there was talk of women and children being kidnapped and held for ransom, something for which she knew the Chinese would be blamed. She knew then that she’d heard too much. Some knowledge was not safe to have. If she could cut it out of her head to keep herself and her family safe, she would. Failing that, there was only one thing to do. It made her heart clench in her chest to think of it, but there was no other way. She might be punished, even killed, for her part in the charade, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d bundled her querulous, baffled grandparents off to stay with an aunt, closed the shop, and set off to find a place she knew only by whispers and a man so terrifying that even the whispers were silenced.

  She began to notice that she wasn’t the only one nervous. Other denizens of Chinatown were walking quickly, looking around, some hunched over as if waiting for a rainstorm or an earthquake. Here and there small groups were gathered, talking in low, worried whispers. Something bad was about to happen, and she had the sick feeling that it had something to do with what she’d overheard. From down the street she heard shouting, then high-pitched cries of fear. Heads turned as people came into view, running down the street in her direction. People hurried into shops, the doors quickly closed and locked, shades pulled down. In moments, the street was nearly deserted. She turned around and found the nearest shop, a dry goods dealer named Mr. Ji who she knew slightly. As she headed for the door, it slammed shut. She ran to the door and knocked frantically. “Mr. Ji,” she called out. “It’s Mei. Let me in. Please.” There was no answer. Behind her, she heard the shouting grow nearer, to the point where she could make out the words, shouted in slurred English. “Look out for the hoodlums! The hoodlums are coming!” Looking around in a panic, Mei located a narrow alley between two buildings and ducked into it. She crouched behind a rainwater barrel, pressing her back against it, not daring to look around and bring attention to herself. More shouts filled the street, along with drunken laughter. She heard the sound of glass breaking. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, chiding herself inwardly for acting like a child who thought she couldn’t be seen if she couldn’t see. She stole a glance around the side of the barrel.

  There were about twenty gwai loh in the group, dressed in embroidered vests, tight trousers, and ruffled shirts with black string ties. Most had whiskey bottles in one hand, with a variety of clubs, boards, and brickbats in the other. None of them looked more than twenty years old, and every one of them was staggering drunk. As she looked, a beefy redhead wound up and threw the brick he was carrying through a shop window. The crash and tinkling of falling glass sent the group into gales of laughter. “Come on out, ya yellow bastards!” a skinny gwai loh called out in a high voice. “Come out here and learn not to molest the white women of San Fran-goddamn-…” The diatribe trailed off into a fit of drunken giggles, and Mei realized with a shock that the person shouting was a young woman, her black hair cut short. A couple of men appeared, dragging someone between them. Mei bit back a sob of fear as she saw that it was old Mr. Lee, who owned the laundry in this block. He was babbling in fear, pleading in Chinese, but the unfamiliar words seemed only to anger the hoodlums. The short-haired girl produced a long-bladed knife and brandished it aloft, to the ragged cheers of the rest of the group. Mei stuck the back of her hand into her mouth to keep from crying out as the blade descended. She heard Mr. Lee’s shriek of fear. But when the girl raised her hands again, all she was holding in her off hand was Mr. Lee’s long black pigtail. She breathed a sigh of relief, but it was premature. One of the men stepped up to where Mr. Lee knelt in the dirt, sobbing with the humiliation of having his traditional queue severed. The man was carrying a long plank in both hands. As he drew it back, Mei ducked back behind the barrel so she wouldn’t have to see any more. She heard the flat thwack as the board connected. Mr. Lee howled in agony, and the crowd bayed back mockingly. She heard more blows land, more screams. The screams soon stopped, but the blows didn’t. I hate them, she thought. I hate them all. I want them dead. All white devils.

  Eventually, it seemed, the gang tired of its sport and she heard them moving off. She looked into the street. Mr. Lee’s body lay still in the center of the roadway, unmoving. People were beginning to peer around the edges of doors and beneath shaded windows. She heard a scream of anguish and saw an older man rush from a building across the street. He fell to his knees beside Mr. Lee’s body and wailed in unbridled anguish, his face turned upward to the blank sky. “My brother,” he screamed. “My brother! Why? Why?” Others ran out to join him, all the while looking around in fear of the hoodlums’ return. Mei left the alley and moved along, the old man’s cries ringing in her ears. She was more determined on her errand now than ever. She knew what she had to do, as much as it frightened her.

  The only way to stop the false dragon was to awaken the real one.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A few blocks later, Mei ducked down a side street, coming to a stop before a short flight of steps that led to a heavy wooden door. There were no signs or advertisements on that door, but everyone in Chinatown knew the busi
ness that went on behind it. Outside, seated on a barrel, sat a hugely fat man, his massive arms crossed on his chest. He looked down at Mei from his perch, his eyes surveying her impassively. Then his broad face broke into the type of grin no young girl could feel safe beholding. “Good morning, girl,” he said in Cantonese. “Have you come to apply for a job?” He licked his lips. “How about I try you out first?”

  She straightened up and looked him in the eye, hoping her long skirt kept him from seeing how her knees were trembling. “I need to speak with Mr. Kwan.”

  He laughed out loud at that. “Oh, do you? And what business does some street girl have with Mr. Kwan? “

  “That is for me to tell him. And he won’t be happy if he finds out some stupid ox of a guard kept him from hearing the news I bring him.”

  The guard’s face clouded with anger. “Puk gai,” he snarled, and slid off the barrel to advance on her. Standing, he looked as big as the building behind him. He balled his fist as if to strike her. At that moment, the door opened, and a middle-aged man stumbled out into the street, blinking in confusion at the bright sunlight. The reek of alcohol coming off his skin nearly made her retch. He almost stumbled into the guard, but pulled himself back at the last moment, goggling at him as if at some apparition. Then his face broke out in a drunken smile. “There you are!” he mumbled, and opened his arms as if to embrace the startled guard. “My good friend!”

  The guard shoved him away in disgust. “Piss off, you old…”

  Mei took advantage of the momentary distraction to push her way past the drunk, nudging him in the direction of the guard, before bounding up the short flight of steps and slipping through the slowly closing door.

  “HEY!” the guard bellowed. Mei could hear the drunk babbling something about needing “just a few coins to get back in the game” before the door swung shut behind her. She turned and surveyed the room.

  It was long and narrow, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. On either side of a long aisle down the center, men sat at low square tables, their attention fixed on the bowls and beads of fan-tan, the tiles of mah-jongg, or the cards of the more westernized forms of gambling Mr. Kwan had introduced as another method of separating the Chinese laborer from his scant pay. A few looked up at the intrusion, but quickly returned their gaze to the table. No gambler trusted another, or the house for that matter, not to cheat a distracted man. The hubbub of voices that had ceased briefly as she came in resumed.

  Mei made her way quickly down the aisle, to the bar at the end of the room where an older man in a traditional quilted jacket and round hat stood wiping down the bar. He inclined his head curiously at her as she ran up to him.

  “You seem a bit young for a whiskey, young lady,” he said in a mild tone.

  “Please,” she said in a low, urgent voice. “I need to see Mr. Kwan. It’s important.”

  She heard the front door yanked open, and the outside guard’s outraged shout. She turned to see him advancing on her like an enraged bull, holding a short wooden club in his hand. She turned back to the bar. “Please,” she begged. Then she screamed in pain as the guard grabbed her by the hair and pulled her off her feet. She fell to the ground at the feet of the guard, who struck down at her with the club. She managed to turn and take the blow on her hip, the pain making her cry out. She began to sob, as much in frustration as in pain. The guard raised the club again, the snarl on his face making him even uglier.

  “Stop,” the bartender said. His voice was quiet, but it halted the guard in mid swing.

  He looked at the bartender, confused. “She came in without…she pushed past…”

  “That is your failure,” the bartender said. “She won’t be the one punished for it.”

  The guard straightened up, his face contorted with anger. “Someday,” he said through clenched teeth, “you’re going to go too far.”

  The bartender smiled. “I am sure. But not today. Go back to your post, and try not to be fooled by little girls next time.”

  Mei thought the guard might actually go after the bartender, who was still smiling. But he only growled something under his breath, turned, and marched back down the once-again-silent aisle. The men watched him warily until the door closed, then the whole place seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. The bartender shook his head, then smiled and extended a hand to help Mei up.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice still shaking.

  “Are you badly hurt?” the bartender asked.

  She shook her head. “A bruise is all. I think. It will get better.”

  He nodded. He seemed to approve of that. “So. You wish to speak with Mr. Kwan.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s about something…I mean…it’s just important.” A thought came to her. “Are you Mr. Kwan?”

  He smiled. “I am. But not, I expect, the one to whom you wish to speak. Perhaps you should tell me what it is you wish to speak to my brother about.”

  His brother. Mei considered. She’d made up her mind to speak only with the head of the Green Dragon Tong. But there was something about this man that she wanted to trust. She leaned over the bar and whispered. “Someone, a white devil, is doing terrible things. And trying to make sure the Chinese are blamed.”

  He shrugged and went back to wiping the bar. “This is not new.”

  “But this time is different. People have been hurt. I saw a group beat poor Mr. Lee. They…they may have killed him.” At that her carefully maintained composure broke. She crossed her arms on the bar, put her head down, and wept. She was dimly aware that the hubbub of the gambling house had stopped. They’re all staring, she thought, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was so afraid, and so very, very tired of being afraid. After a moment, she felt a gentle but insistent tapping on the top of her head. When she held up, Kwan was holding out a rag to her. “Here,” he said. “Wipe your face. And blow your nose. You’re upsetting the customers.”

  Mei took the rag, glanced at it to make sure it was a clean, fresh one, then wiped her eyes. Kwan looked at her gravely, and there was something in his calmness that steadied her. “Thank you, Uncle,” she murmured.

  He nodded, pleased at the expression of respect, and placed a glass in front of her before pulling a pitcher from beneath the bar and pouring out a measure of clear liquid. “Water,” he assured her, and Mei drank it gratefully.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  Kwan nodded. “Wait here.” He disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the bar. She heard a shouted order, and in a moment, a large young man came through the curtain, looking unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. He blinked at Mei in confusion. An older man came up to the bar, grinning. “Hey, Donkey,” he said. “How about a free drink?”

  The young man shook his head. “I’m just supposed to watch the bar while Mr. Kwan is gone for a minute.”

  “Come on, dummy,” the man said, reaching across the bar toward a bottle perched there. “Just one. Kwan said it’s okay.”

  The young man’s broad shoulders slumped. He looked sick and confused. Mei realized he was simple-minded. The grinning man made as if to come around the bar and seize the whiskey bottle.

  “Stop,” Mei said.

  The man turned to her. “What business is it of yours, little bitch?”

  She gave him his scowl right back. “My business is with Mr. Kwan. The older brother. And what do you think he will do to a man who steals from him?”

  That stopped him. With a snarl, he turned his back and slunk back to his table.

  She looked at the young man. “You are called Donkey?”

  He nodded, looking miserable. “I clean up. I’m not supposed to be at the bar.”

  “But here you are. And you shouldn’t let these fools take advantage of you. You’re bigger than them.” She looked back at the man from the bar and snorted in contempt. “You could break that old man in half if he gave you trouble.”

  “I know,” Donkey said in a small v
oice. “But I don’t like to hurt people. It makes me feel bad.”

  She nodded. “That makes you a good man.”

  At that, he smiled. It was a beautiful smile, a child’s smile, without guile or artifice. But it faded as quickly as it had appeared and Donkey bowed his head as Mr. Kwan reentered through the curtain.

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked from Donkey to Mei. “What’s going on? Was there trouble?”

  Mei looked back at the old man, who was staring angrily at her from behind his gaming table. She returned her gaze to Mr. Kwan and smiled. “No. Nothing that my new friend Donkey here couldn’t handle.”

  Kwan looked at Donkey skeptically. “Is this true?”

  “Yes,” Donkey muttered. “No trouble.”

  He still looked dubious, but finally turned back to Mei. “Up the stairs. Be quick. My brother is a busy man.”

  “Thank you.” Mei sidled past the two men and through the curtain. The stairs were in front of her, with another curtained-off room to her right. She mounted the steps slowly, her knees beginning to tremble again as she remembered who she was about to confront. At the top of the stairs, she paused, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  “Come,” a voice said. She turned the knob and entered.

  The room was small and cramped, dominated by a large, ornately carved desk. The desktop was bare except for a pair of candles, one at either side. A man sat behind the desk in a large upholstered chair. She couldn’t tell how tall he was, but he was slender, with a long face and sunken cheeks. His hands were graceful and long-fingered, resting comfortably on the arms of the chair. He was dressed in a traditional fashion, with an embroidered silk jacket tied up the front despite the heat in the room, but she was surprised to see that his grey-streaked black hair was cut short and parted on one side in the western style. He had no queue. He regarded her with unblinking eyes that reminded her of a hunting hawk’s.