Jack hagee, p.19
Jack Hagee, page 19
Fortune-tellers could be found at every turn—card readers, palm readers, tea leaves readers. Some claimed to be able to just look into your face, others wanted to feel the bumps on your head. Some specialized in the next day’s race winners. Others could be rented to pray for you— supplicants for hire. I thought about hiring one of those, myself. I wasn’t sure what exactly I’d have them pray for, but it was certainly beginning to seem as if! should have some kind of prayers in the air trying to do something for me.
As I threaded along through the crowds, hoping Peter could keep me in sight, I tried to put everything together in my head with which we had to work. Nothing added up, and I didn’t know where to turn for any answers. The police are waiting for Peter and me when we land and dog us everywhere we go, giving us the hairy eye as if we were the bad guys. My old playmate Sing tracks me down and instead of having me killed takes me to lunch and makes nice. Hu goes over the “evidence” that both Smiler and Rice had given me and drops the answers in my lap . . . they were both absolutely right. Yes—Kon Li Lu spent the money on whores and cars and general all-around high living, and yes again—Kon Li Lu was a saint who never touched a dime of what he collected. Put on top of that that someone had felt worried enough about me to blow a hole in my apartment and kill two of my friends and nothing math sense at all.
Why try to kill me? What did I matter? What did anyone think I could do that the rest of the hired guns in town couldn’t? It didn’t make sense. Was Lu a thief or wasn’t he? Why did the police have their eye on us, and who told them we were coming in the first place? And then there was Sing and whatever he was up to. Which was...what? That thought entered my head just as I focused on the crowd ahead.
A large knot of people had gathered around an area in front of us. I asked Jimmy what was going on.
“Kids. For kids. Puppet show. Shadow puppets. Big favorite for kids.” Not having much luck tracking down Sing, I said, “What the hell. Let’s look at the puppets.”
The stage arrangement turned out to be a lot like the old Punch-and-Judy setups—a big box with a cutout stage at the top. Unlike the hand puppets westerners would expect however, the entertainment here came from delicately cutout pieces of paper attached to sticks which the puppeteers manipulated from below. Light was shown through the paper from behind, casting shadows on the curtain at the front of the box. A little man sitting to the right side of the box played on a stringed instrument something like a zither. He never seemed to look up at the stage, but somehow his music always matched the action on stage. As I watched the show I could see that Jimmy was getting bored so I gave him an American ten-spot and told him to get us a couple of bowls of noodles and to keep the change. It was a hell of a tip, but what the hell, I thought. The show was free—I felt like I should be paying for something.
As the show unfolded, the laughter from the audience just got louder and louder, including my own, as well. Even with my substandard Chinese I found myself getting two out of every three jokes. A lot of them weren’t half bad, either. True, a lot of it was Three Stooges level humor, but then, I never claimed to be on a much higher level than the Howard brothers and their partner, Mr. Fine.
As I continued to listen and laugh, my eye started to wander through the crowd, over their heads, up and down the booths, hoping for a glimpse of Sing. Hell, I thought, Sing? I couldn’t even spot Peter or Jimmy. Then, however, suddenly I saw a flash in between two of the people next to me too familiar not to rivet my attention. Someone with a gun in hand was moving through the crowd. I wondered if I could have possibly seen right. A gun? In public? In Hong Kong? This was not a New York City street with a gunman or three on every corner—this was one of the most heavily controlled areas in the world as far as such things went, with penalties higher than any other free country.
My radar went out, searching for the handful of metal. Hell, for all I knew, it was someone scouting the crowd for me. Why not—the back of my mind reminded me edgily—it hadn’t been so long since someone had fired a rocket into my living room. A simple thing like a handgun would be a relaxing change of pace.
People next to me began to notice my sudden lack of enthusiasm for the puppets. As the long seconds ticked by, several of those standing next to me began to back off—some just giving me more room, others leaving the area entirely. I had started generating a field they could sense, filling the air around me with concern, apprehension, anxiety. Where was the gun? Where was its owner? All I’d seen through the crowd had been a hand holding a gun—no, I thought, I’d seen an arm, too. What had I seen—anything?
Trying to remember, I kept scanning the crowd physically while trying to dig through my memory. What had been happening on stage? I asked myself. What had the puppets been doing? Faces and heads passed before my eyes—hundreds of them, some the same, unmoving, watching the show, others pushing by us in both directions, simply trying to move through the fair. At the same time, the back of my mind focused on the recent past. I saw the stage in my head, heard the laughs, watched the puppet dancing as it had been a moment earlier when I’d seen the gun...yes...the puppets had been doing their dance.
One memory brings back the other; I forgot the puppets, concentrating on holding the image of the gun, the hand holding it, the arm attached—hairless—the rolled-up sleeve, dark red shirt...yes, again...I thought. Dark red shirt. Now I know what to look for.
Scanning the crowd, I stopped wasting time looking for the gun—looking for what was being hidden—and concentrated on finding that same shirt again. I turned in a circle, studying those around me, searching for a dark red, rolled-up sleeve. Seconds later I spotted it—a man, ten bodies forward and to the left, moving away from me. I studied his movements while I tried to worm my way toward him. He stopped—I kept moving. And then, his hand began to come up, slowly, carefully. Looking at what he was doing, I was stunned. He was lining up the puppet theater. Without thinking, without knowing why I was doing what I was doing, I surged forward, pushing people to both sides, heading straight for the dark red shoulders.
People started screaming—some injured, some just mad. I couldn’t afford to worry about them. I had to cover distance, close with the target before he knew I was coming. No chance. With still two people between us I could see he had heard the commotion, knew that it somehow had something to do with him, was already turning toward me. Slamming my arm in between the last two bodies separating us, I wedged the man and woman in my way to the left and the right, my fingers closing on the arm of my target. The arm without the gun.
Jerking him off balance, I pulled him forward as best I could. His gun hand was already up. The only problem he had was getting n clear shot at me. As I shoved the man and woman aside he got his chance. He tried to aim as I dragged him toward me. The gun came close to my neck. My other hand connected with his face, an open-palmed punch that closed over his eye. The impact shook him, throwing off his aim. The chamber cleared, powder burning my cheek. The bullet missed me by inches, streaking above the stunned crowd and off into the night.
I hit him again and again—once with each hand, both body blows. The gun hit the pavement. All around us the crowd pushed away, trampling each other in their haste to clear the area. Women covered their children’s bodies, grown sons shielded their mothers and fathers. I put my foot on top of the gun to keep it from disappearing and then grabbed the shooter again. He was too dazed to defend himself, but I didn’t care. He had been ready to gun down a puppeteer. I saw every thug with a gun that had robbed a grandmother or shot a child, and I drove my fist into his already bruised face.
The blood poured as his nose broke. The little voice inside reminded me that the worse he looked the worse I’d look when the cops arrived. I punched him again, not caring—rage driving me. I was hoping for damage expecting it. Peter finally managed to clear the crowd and reach my side just as I hit him again.
“What’s going on?” he asked, just as the shooter cried out, “Stop, please! Leave me alone. Lemme go. I’ve got rights. Stop it. Stop it.”
Peter and I looked at each other. The thought in both our heads was clear on our faces. English. The Chinese man decked out in typical HK Chinese street wear was begging us in his voice of first instinct—English. I was just about to comment on that when suddenly the puppeteer came out from behind his theater, his dog bouncing about at his heels, looking for whatever it, was that had caused so much excitement around her master.
“Burger,” he cried, somewhat surprised.
“Sing?” I answered, extremely confused. I wondered if everything that had just happened had been another of the drug lord’s elaborate setups for a moment, but the look on his face convinced me it wasn’t. I wanted to ask his opinion of the situation, but before anyone could do anything, we were suddenly surrounded by five Hong Kong foot patrolmen, and casual conversation with anyone but them became a thing of the past.
25
NOW LET ME see if I have this in proper flow….”
The speaker was Captain Lin. Back at the people’s fair the cops had been on us like shrink-wrap plastic. I got a kick out of the radios built into the shoulders of their uniform jackets. Like something out of a science fiction movie, they pulled the mites out on a retractable cord and got the lowdown on us all from their central command in minutes. After that, it only took a few more minutes before ambulances and patrol cars showed up to take everyone away. And I do mean everyone.
The shooter had disappeared into an ambulance. The word was they had to take him to the hospital before they could get anything out of him. I wasn’t very upset at that particular piece of news. Sing and Peter and I got taken downtown, of course, along with about fifteen members of the surrounding crowd who had all been tapped to be witnesses. Gigi had remained behind with Sing’s people—to me a remarkable act of faith on behalf of both the dog and the master.
We all told our stories to Lin and his people—several times—after which they pulled all our tales together. Since none of the three of us had anything to hide, everything seemed to match up. After repeating everything we had told him and his people back to us, Lin asked, “Would you care to agree that that is pretty much what happened?”
“Yes,” I told him, tired and bored of the whole thing. “Yes, yes. Absolutely. Now, can we call it a night and go get some dinner, or is it time for breakfast already?”
“Find it within your heart to indulge a poor, hardworking man of the law.” Indicating Sing with a wave of his hand, the captain continued, saying:
“Be like your wise friend here. Here is the head of the Tiger’s Breath Triad, straight from an evening of working hard at both being a puppeteer and an almost murder victim. You don’t see him straining at the gate, do you?”
“He’s got more to worry about.”
“Like what?”
“He’s the one people are shooting at—not me.”
“You interfered. Which means you could be next. So,” said Lin, small upturns forming in the corners of his mouth, telling me just how much he was enjoying the situation, “please go ahead and, as they might say on American TV, ‘get attached to you chair.’ For the moment you and your partner are not going anywhere.”
“No chance, huh?”
“Sadly,” answered the captain, his eyes giving away the smile he was trying to hide, “I must insist.”
“What about me?” asked Sing. “Am I prisoner here, as well?”
“No, not at all. Mr. Hagee is not a prisoner, Mr. Wei is not a prisoner. You are not a prisoner. I would merely like to look into who is trying to murder you and whether or not they will now try to murder Mr. Hagee and even possibly Mr. Wei, as well. Now, understand. I do not care if any of the three of you are murdered.
He repeated the sentiment in a lower voice just to make sure we got it.
“Not any of you. But, I do have the peace to maintain. People firing off illegal handguns—very nasty business— very hard on the peace. So, if we could begin with a few questions...Mr. Sing?”
“Yes?” answered the drug lord wearily, bored with the game already, his tone indicating that he had more faith in his own resources than in the police.
“Can you tell me what such a famous citizen is doing at the people’s fair working a shadow puppet box?”
“Yes. I can. I do it because I like to do it. Did you know I was most popular entertainer as boy? Do you know the reason? Do not guess—I will tell you. Because I cared about my audience’s enjoyment. I wanted them to be happy. Not just for coins they would throw, but because I wanted to give back equal to what I was getting. I still do. I like for people to be happy, Captain Lin, unlike you of the police force.” I caught a flashing in Lin’s eyes at Sing’s crack—caught one in Sing’s as well. Neither man forced the issue as the drug lord continued.
“I still do...want people be happy, that is—especially children. So, as many nights as I can—at least once a week—I go out and perform—all the great stories, all the tales they need to hear to have some idea of how they should order their lives. Tales of moral strength and individual courage. The kinds of words they need in our repressive, modern world.”
“You think Hong Kong is a repressive society, Sing?” asked Lin with a mocking tone.
“Ask me again in ’97,” answered the drug lord, his tone grim as stone.
“I’ll try to remember to do that. Meanwhile, can you provide us with a list of people who knew about your benevolent activities?”
“Not one that would include who send man you have locked up somewhere. You do remember him, don’t you? Man with gun? Man who shot at me? Man who would have most likely killed me if not for the kind intervention of Mr. Hagee here.”
“And,” piped in Peter suddenly, “what makes you think this guy gives a rat’s ass about that?” As all attention shifted to my partner, he continued, saying, “Captain Lin here is part of the ‘Intelligence’ division. In case everyone forgot, he isn’t interested in maintaining the peace. That’s not his job.”
I had to give Peter a mental slap on the back for that one. Even I’d forgotten that fact for the moment. Lin, not happy to have his game plan upset, directed himself at Peter, asking,
“And what do you think my job is, then?”
“So far you’ve shown that you don’t care that Sing almost got murdered, or that Jack prevented it. You’re treating my partner and me as if we were as big a threat to Hong Kong as Sing. Since I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and not just assume that you’re just another dumb cop, then I have to figure that your job is humping the leg of everybody involved with Kon Li Lu. That’s all you give a damn about,” answered Peter, pushing himself back into his chair. Crossing his legs, folding his arms across his chest, he closed himself off from Lin as best he could and then fired off his last comment, telling the captain:
“Either because that’s all you’ve been assigned to do these days…or because you’re looking to put the nab on the money yourself.”
I almost hesitated before looking into Lin’s eyes. I did, though, not liking what I found. The cold anger that I’d been seeing there ever since our first meeting heated up dramatically. I saw his shoulders shaking, his hands make fists he couldn’t unclench. Peter had hit more than a nerve—he had tapped into something that struck the captain like a pot of water flung in his face—water so hot that he could barely stand it—water so hot that just another degree and he would have had no choice other than to scream aloud. Getting control of himself, however, Lin choked his anger down without letting any steam, escape, then answered.
“Out of the choices offered...because it is my job. Just as it is your job to crawl through the filth of other people’s lives, breathing their facts and drinking whatever swill they call water. Your job,” continued the captain, the edge in his voice getting red and mean, “thug for hire, garbage man, peeper, nuisance, shit raker, thief.”
“Captain,” I blurted, not needing to see how far he could go, knowing he didn’t need to see either. “Maybe we could get back to the point?”
“The point?” he asked, absently and yet filled with rage at the same time. “The point? And what would that be? You tell me what the point is here, Mr. Hagee. You come into my country filled with arrogance, strutting across the land on your mission of vengeance. You do not impress me—not you nor your money-hungry lackey nor your old friend the puppet-loving gangster. None of you know what is going on here and none of you care past your own miserable self-importance.”
“And,” asked Sing quietly, “you do?”
“Do?” asked the captain, coming up out of his seat. He whipped his head around so fast to stare at the drug lord that the sweat in his hair flew toward Sing in a speeding arc. As half the droplets splashed against the drug lord’s suit, Lin demanded:
“Do what? Do I know what is going on here?”
“Do you care?” asked Sing.
The detective captain stopped in his tracks then, frozen by his inability to answer the drug lord’s question. Sitting back down, he used his feet to push his wheeled chair back toward his desk. He stopped when it bumped against his open drawer, lifting his head to look at each of us. Finally, after reviewing each of our faces for his own private reasons, he answered Sing’s question.
“Yes. I care. Possibly not about the same things you do, but I still care.”
“We all do, Lin,” I told him. “So, what do you say we pool our information and start working together? Let’s all be up-front and tell each other what we’re looking for and see if we can’t get some of this solved.”
It was a dangerous proposition. I had no guarantees that any of us wanted anything similar from what was going on. I had no idea of what Sing was after, nor even Lin for that matter. After my own recent experience, I couldn’t say that cops and gangsters can’t ever work together—on either side of the tracks—but that was New York, and a couple of different sets of gangsters and cops.
