He’d developed a nose for their lies, but had never caught a whiff of deceit when he’d asked about the Mandarin. Even when he’d played rough with a character or two, they didn’t know who he was, where he was, or what he looked like.
It had taken Hank a while to reach the astonishing conclusion that they didn’t want to know. And that had taken him aback. Chinks were gossip-mongers—yak-yak-yak in their singsong voices, trading rumors and tidbits like a bunch of old biddies. For them to avoid talking about someone meant they were afraid.
Even the little people were afraid. That said something for the Mandarin’s reach.
Hank had to admit he was impressed, but hardly afraid. He wasn’t a chink.
Jiang had arrived exactly at ten, kowtowing before seating himself.
“Even if I knew of such a one,” the Chinaman said, “I am sure he not meet with you. He send emissary, just as my master send me.”
Hank smiled. These chinks . . .
“Okay, if that’s the way we’re going to play it, you tell your master that I want a piece of his pie.”
Jiang frowned. “Pie?”
“His cream. His skim. His payoff from all the opium and dolla-dolla girls and gambling down here.”
“Ah so.” Jiang nodded. “My master realize that such arrangement is part of everyday business, but one such as he not sully hands with such. He suggest you contact various sources of activities that interest you and make own arrangements with those establishments.”
Hank leaned forward and put on his best snarl.
“Listen, you yellow-faced lug. I don’t have time to go around bracing every penny-ante operation down here. I know your boss gets a cut from all of them, so I want a cut from him! Clear?”
“I afraid that quite impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible!” He leaned back. “But I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want it all. I don’t even want half of it all. I’ll settle for an even split of just his gambling take.”
Jiang smiled. “This a jest, yes?”
“I’m serious. Dead serious. He can keep everything from the dope and the heifer dens. I want half of the Mandarin’s gambling take.”
Hank knew that was where the money was in Chinatown. Opium was big down here, but gambling . . . these coolies gambled on anything and everything. They had their games, sure—parlors for fan-tan, mah-jongg, pai gow, sic bo, pak kop piu, and others—but they didn’t stop there. Numbers had a huge take. He’d seen slips collected day and night on street corners all over the quarter. Write down three numbers, hand them in with your money, and pray the last three Dow Jones digits matched yours at the end of trading.
They’d bet on just about any damn thing, even the weather.
They didn’t bother to hide their games either. They’d post the hours of operation on their doors, and some even had touts standing out front urging people inside. Gambling was in their blood, and gambling was where the money was, so gambling was where Hank wanted to be.
No, make that would be.
Jiang shook his head and began to rise. “So sorry, Detective Sorenson, but—”
Hank sprang from his chair and grabbed the front of Jiang’s black top.
“Listen, chink-boy! This is not negotiable! One way or another I’m going to be part of the game down here. Get that? A big part. Or else there’ll be no game. I’ll bring in squad after squad and we’ll collar every numbers coolie and shut down every lousy parlor in the quarter—mah-jongg, sic bo, you name it, it’s history. And then what will your boss’s take be? What’s a hundred percent of nothing, huh?”
He jerked Jiang closer and backhanded him across the face, then shoved him against the wall.
“Tell him he either gets smart or he gets nothing!”
Hank might have said more, but the look of murderous rage in Jiang’s eyes stalled the words in his throat.
“Dog!” the chink whispered through clenched teeth. “You have made this one lose face before these people!”
Hank looked around the suddenly silent restaurant. Diners and waiters alike stood frozen, gawking at him. But Hank Sorenson wasn’t about to be cowed by a bunch of coolies.
He jabbed a finger at Jiang. “Who do you think you are, calling me a—?”
Jiang made a slashing motion with his hand. “I am servant of one who would not wipe his slippers on your back. You make this one lose face, and that mean you make him lose face. Woe to you, Detective Sorenson.”
Without warning he let out a yelp and slammed the knife-edge of his hand onto the table, then turned and walked away.
He was halfway to the door when the table fell apart.
Hank stood in shock, staring down at the pile of splintered wood. What the—?
Never mind that now. He gathered his wits and looked around. He wanted out of here, but didn’t want to walk past all those staring eyes. They might see how he was shaking inside.
That table . . . if Jiang could do that to wood, what could he do to a neck?
Fending off that unsettling thought, he left by the back door. He took a deep breath of putrid, back-alley air as he stepped outside. The late morning sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to break up the shadows here.
Well, he’d delivered his message. And the fact that Jiang had struck the table instead of him only reinforced what he already knew: no worry about bull busting down here. No chink would dare lay a hand on a buzzer-carrying member of the SFPD. They knew what would happen in their neighborhoods if anyone ever did something like that.
He sighed as he walked toward the street. At least during his time in the restaurant he’d been thinking of something other than Tempest. But now she came back to him. Her face, her form, her voice . . . oh, that voice.
Tempest, Tempest, Tempest . . .
“I should have killed the dog for his insult to you, Venerable,” Jiang said as he knelt before the Mandarin and pressed his forehead against the stone floor.
Instead of his usual Cantonese, Jiang spoke in Mandarin—fittingly, the language the Mandarin preferred.
“No,” the master said in his soft, sibilant voice. “You did well not to harm him. We must find a more indirect path to deal with such a one. Sit, Jiang.”
“Thank you, Illustrious.”
Jiang raised his head from the floor but remained kneeling, daring only a furtive peek at his master. Many times he had seen the one known throughout Chinatown as the Mandarin—not even Jiang knew his true name—but that did not lessen the wonder of his appearance.
A high-shouldered man standing tall and straight with his hands folded inside the sleeves of his embroidered emerald robe; a black skullcap covered the thin hair that fringed his high, domed forehead. Jiang marveled as ever at his light green eyes that almost seemed to glow.
He did not know if his master was a true mandarin—he had heard someone address him once as “Doctor”—or merely called such because of the dialect he preferred. He did know the master spoke many languages. He’d heard him speak English, French, German, and even a low form of Hindi to the dacoits in his employ.
For all the wealth flowing through his coffers, the master lived frugally. The money went back to the homeland for to serve a purpose higher than mere creature comfort.
“So this miserable offspring of a maggot demands half the gambling tribute. Wishes to be—how did he put it?—‘part of the game’?”
“Yes, Magnificent.”
The master closed his eyes. “Part of the game . . . part of the game . . . by all means we must grant his wish.”
Jiang spent the ensuing moments of silence in a whirl pool of confusion. The master . . . giving in to the cockroach’s demands? Unthinkable! And yet he’d said—
An upward glance showed the master’s eyes open again and a hint of a smile curving his thin lips.
“Yes, that is it. We shall make him part of the game.”
Jiang had seen that smile before. He knew what usually followed. It made him three times glad that he was not Detective
Sorenson.
Hank held up his double-breasted tuxedo and inspected it, paying special attention to the wide satin lapels. No spots. Good. He could get a few more wears before sending it for cleaning.
As always, he was struck by the incongruity of a tux in his shabby two-room apartment. Well, it should look out of place. It had cost him a month’s rent.
All for Tempest.
That babe was costing him a fortune. Trouble was, he didn’t have a fortune. But the Chinatown games would fix that.
He shook his head. That kind of scheme would have been unthinkable back in the days when he was a fresh bull. And if not for Tempest it would still be.
But a woman can change everything. A woman can turn you inside out and upside down.
Tempest was one of those women.
He remembered the first time he’d seen her at the Serendipity Club. Like getting gut-punched. She wasn’t just a choice piece of calico; she had the kind of looks that could put your conscience on hold. Then she’d stepped up to the mike and . . . a voice like an angel. When Hank heard her sing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” that was it. He was gone. He’d heard the song a hundred times on the radio, but Tempest . . . Tempest made him feel like she was singing to him.
Hank had stayed on through the last show. When she finished he followed her—a flash of his buzzer got him past the geezer guarding the backstage door—and asked her out. A cop wasn’t the usual stage-door Johnny and so she’d said okay.
Hank had gone all out to impress her, and they’d been on the town half a dozen times so far. She’d tapped him out without letting him get to first base. He knew he wasn’t the only guy she dated—he’d spied her out with a couple rich cake eaters—but Hank wasn’t the sharing kind. Trouble was, to get an exclusive on her was going to take moolah. Lots of it.
And he was going to get lots of it. A steady stream . . .
He yawned. What with playing the bon vivant by night and the soft heel by day, he wasn’t getting much sleep.
He dropped onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes. Tempest didn’t go on for another couple of hours, so a catnap would be just the ticket. He was slipping into that mellow, drowsy state just before dropping off to sleep when he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder, like he’d been stabbed with an ice pick.
As he bolted out of bed Hank felt something wriggling against his under-shirt. He reached back and felt little legs—lots of little legs. Fighting a sick revulsion he grabbed it and pulled. It writhed and twisted in his hand but held fast to his skin. Hank clenched his teeth and yanked.
As the thing came free, pain like he’d never known or imagined exploded in his shoulder, driving him to his knees. He dropped the wriggling creature and slapped a hand over the live coal embedded in his shoulder. Through tear-blurred vision he saw a scarlet millipede at least eight inches long scurrying away across the floor.
“What the—?”
He reached for something, anything to use against it. He grabbed a shoe and smashed it down on the thing. The heel caught the back half of its body and Hank felt it squish with a crunch. The front half spasmed, reared up, then tore free and darted under the door and out into the hallway before he could get a second shot.
Hell with it! His shoulder was killing him.
He brought his hand away and found blood on his palm. Not much but enough to shake him. He struggled to his feet and stepped into his tiny bathroom. The bright bulb over the speckled mirror picked up the beads of sweat on his brow.
He was shaking. What was that thing? He’d never seen anything like it. And how had it got in his room, in his bed, for Christ sake?
He half turned and angled his shoulder toward the mirror. The size of the bite surprised him—only a couple of punctures within a small smear of blood. From the ferocity of the pain he’d expected something like a .38 entry wound.
The burning started to subside. Thank God. He balled up some toilet tissue and dabbed at the wound. Looky there. Stopped bleeding already.
He went back to the front room and looked at the squashed remains of the thing. Damn. It looked like something you’d find in a jungle. Like the Amazon.
How’d it wind up in San Francisco?
Probably crawled off a boat.
Hank shuddered as he noticed a couple of the rearmost legs still twitching.
He kicked it into a corner.
“The usual table, Detective?” Maurice said with a practiced smile.
Hank nodded and followed the Serendipity’s maître d’ to a second-level table for two just off the dance floor.
“Thank you, Maurice.”
He passed him a fin he could barely afford as they shook hands. He ordered a scotch and water and started a tab. This was the last night he’d be able to do this until the Mandarin came across with some lucre.
He shook his head. All it takes is money. You don’t have to be smart or even good-looking, all you need is lots of do-re-mi and everybody wants to know you. Suddenly you’re Mr. Popularity.
As Hank sipped his drink and waited for Tempest to take the stage, he felt his shoulder start to burn. Damn. Not again. The pain had lasted only half an hour after the bite and then felt as good as new. But now it was back and growing stronger.
Heat spread from the bite, flowing through him, burning his skin, breaking him out in a sweat. Suddenly he had no strength. His hands, his arms, his legs . . . all rubbery. The glass slipped from his fingers, spilling scotch down the pleated front of his shirt.
The room rocked and swayed as he tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He felt himself falling, saw the curlicue pattern of the rug rushing at him.
Then nothing.
Hank opened his eyes and found himself looking up at a woman in white. She looked about fifty. He looked down. More white. Sheets. He was in a bed.
“Where—?”
She flashed a reassuring smile. “You’re in St. Luke’s and you’re going to be just fine. I’ll let your doctor know you’re awake.”
Hank watched her bustle out the door. He felt dazed. The last thing he remembered—
That bite from the millipede—poison. Had to be.
The pain had tapered to a dull ache, but he still felt weak as a kitty.
A balding man with a gray mustache strode through the door and stepped up to the bed. He wore a white coat with a pair of pens in the breast pocket and carried a clipboard under his arm.
“Detective Sorenson,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Doctor Cranston, and you’ve got quite a boil on your back.”
“Boil?”
“Yes. A pocket of infection in your skin. You shouldn’t let those things go. The infection can seep into your system and make you very ill. How long have you had it?”
Hank pulled the hospital gown off his shoulder and gaped at the golf ball–size red swelling.
“That wasn’t there when I put on my shirt tonight.”
Dr. Cranston harrumphed. “Of course it was. These things don’t reach that size in a matter of hours.”
A flash of anger cut through Hank’s fuzzy brain. “This one did. I was bitten there by a giant bug around seven o’clock.”
Cranston smoothed his mustache. “Really? What kind of bug?”
“Don’t know. Never seen anything like it.”
“Well, be that as it may, we’ll open it up, clean out the infection, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”
Hank hoped so.
Bared to the waist, Hank lay on his belly while the nurse swabbed his shoulder with some sort of antiseptic.
“You may feel a brief sting as I break the skin, but once we relieve the pressure from all that pus inside, it’ll be like money from home.”
Hank looked up and saw the scalpel in Cranston’s hand. He turned away.
“Do it.”
Cranston was half right: Hank felt the sting, but no relief.
He heard Cranston mutter, “Well, this is one for Ripley’s.”
Hank didn??
?t like the sound of that.
“What’s wrong?”
“Most odd. There’s no pus in this, only serous fluid.”
“What’s serous fluid?”
“A clear amber fluid—just like you’d see seeping from a burn blister. Most odd, most odd.” Cranston cleared his throat. “I believe we’ll keep you overnight.”
“But I can’t—”
“You must. You’re too weak to be sent home. And I want to look into this insect. What did it look like?”
“Send someone to my place and you’ll find its back half.”
“I believe I’ll do just that.”
Two days cooped up in a hospital room hadn’t made Hank any better. He had to get out to seal the deal with the Mandarin. But how? He was able to stand and walk—shuffle was more like it—but he still felt so weak. And the pounds were dropping off him like leaves from a tree.
The boil or whatever it was had gone from a lump to a big open sore that wept fluid all day.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out at the fogged-in city when Cranston trundled in.
“Well, we’ve identified that millipede.”
Here was the first good news since he’d been bitten.
“What is it?”
“The entomologists over at Berkeley gave it a name as long as your arm. Other than that they weren’t much help. Said it was very, very rare, and that only a few have ever been seen. Couldn’t imagine how it managed to travel from the rain forests of Borneo to your bed.”
“Borneo,” Hank said. Everybody had heard of the Wild Man from Borneo but . . . “Just where the hell is Borneo?”
“It’s an island in the South China Sea.”
“Did you say South China Sea?”
Cranston nodded. “Yes. Why? Is that important?”
Hank didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It was all clear now.
Good Christ . . . China . . .