This story is based on the 'Gunsmith Cats' manga by Kenichi Sonoda, with a few elements from the 'Riding Bean' OAV (1989). It is set after the last published manga in English as of March 2005.
Tell me what you thought of it, no matter what you have to say. I'm a big girl. :) I always welcome reader reactions, especially ones that go into detail. Please email me at MmeManga "at" aol dot com (address spelled out because this site strips all email addys and URLS) or leave your comments here.
NOTE: The complete version of this story is housed at my Livejournal, which is linked on my main page on this site. I have removed large sections of chapters Two, Eight and Thirty from the postings here because of the current site rules, although this story existed on the site long before those rules went into effect. I am sorry for any inconvenience to readers; this factor is unfortunately not under my control. The complete version will also be posted at Mediaminer. My former dedicated Gunsmith Cats site no longer exists.
DISCLAIMER: Characters of RALLY VINCENT, BEAN BANDIT, MAY HOPKINS, ROY COLEMAN, KEN TAKI copyright Kenichi Sonoda. All other characters, and story, copyright 2000--2005 by Madame Manga. Contact by email at MmeManga Do not sell or print for sale without the express written permission of the author. Do not archive. Permission is granted to circulate this text in electronic form, free of charge and with this disclaimer and the author's name attached. Do not plagiarize, alter, or appropriate this text in any way. This story is intended for personal entertainment purposes only. No infringement of any copyrights or other rights is intended.
ADULT CONTENT WARNING IN BOLD CAPS!
This story is not for kids or the easily offended. It contains explicit violence and extreme profanity. If you object to reading such things, do not read this story.
Chasing the Dragon
by Madame Manga
Chapter Fifteen
"What's your pleasure?" said the bartender in a friendly tone.
"Damned if I know," muttered his new customer, swinging one long leg over a barstool. "Beer."
The bartender slid a full bowl of peanuts into his reach and took down a glass. "I got Henry Weinhardt's, Red Hook, and Budweiser on tap."
"Pitcher," said Bean, scrunching up a large handful of peanuts. "Bud."
"You got it," said the bartender, fetching a pitcher. For a moment, the only sound was the beer running from the tap and the peanuts crunching. The other patrons stared at the new arrival, but the bartender was unruffled. He let the head subside and topped the pitcher off, then set it in front of his customer.
Bean pushed a fifty at him. "Keep 'em coming." He picked up the pitcher and drank straight from it, finishing it in two long gulps, then took another handful of peanuts, emptying the bowl. The bartender watched with interest, as did the handful of lunchtime customers, mostly middle-aged black men like himself. The pitcher refilled, Bean drained it just as fast as the first one and let out a sigh.
"You got a thirst today," remarked the bartender, wiping the bar and replenishing the peanuts. He refilled the pitcher again.
"Guess so." Bean nursed the third pitcher. A middle-aged woman, her hair long and lank and greying, her clothes too tight on a misshapen body, limped into the bar and sat near him.
"Hi, Marian," said the bartender, smiling with a flash of white teeth and turning on his blender. "Disability check in?"
"All one hundred and thirty bucks of it, baby. I'm fucking rich," she replied as he set a daiquiri in front of her. Bean took a pack of Marlboros from his jacket, then seemed to recall something, shrugged in mild annoyance, and began to put them away.
"Is it a smoking lunch hour?" said the bartender to the room. "Show of hands." Of six customers, five hands went up. Only the new customer looked around with an air of slight confusion.
"In this joint, it's majority rules," said the bartender. "This is what you call direct democracy, and democracy is what makes this country great. All origins, creeds, and colors live together in at least theoretical equality. We do our best." He nodded at the pack still in Bean's hand and laid ashtrays on the bar. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em." A few men lit up.
Bean smiled for the first time since he had walked in. "Suits me." He tapped one out of the pack and felt for a lighter in his jacket.
"Offer a lady a smoke?" said Marian, finishing her daquiri.
Bean held out his pack and she took one. He lit it for her, then his own, and took a deep drag. Looking into the mirror behind the bar, he examined his face for a while through the shifting cloud of smoke: hard-edged features, long jaw, untidy shock of black hair, the prominent criss-cross scar over his nose. Eventually he heaved another sigh, a long one tinged with regret, even melancholy.
"Hey, big guy," said Marian. "It can't be that bad."
Bean glanced at her and said nothing. The bartender turned on the television and changed the channel to a soap opera. Marian ordered another daiquiri and watched the soap for a few minutes, blowing expert smoke rings. A pair of lovers argued on the screen and ended up in bed, kissing.
Bean rolled his eyes and finished his third pitcher. "Hey, barkeep," he said to the bartender. "Know any quiet places to flop? Everywhere I try is full up for the goddamn weekend. Don't have to be cheap."
The bartender considered for a moment. "You are not a local, I would venture to remark."
"Nope."
"Chicago, right?"
Bean raised a brow. "Good ear."
"I cultivate a good ear, since I believe that regional accents are one of the essential variations that keep this country vital. Besides, I have a couple old Chicago blues brothas playing here weekends." He smiled again with the flash of teeth. "Bass and guitar, and the guitar man sings like John Lee Hooker. Come on in tonight; they start at eight."
"I'm gettin' frickin' homesick," mumbled Bean.
"But you have to stay in the fair city of San Francisco a few days longer?"
"'Fraid so. I got obligations."
"Try the Yerba Buena Motor Inn, two blocks west. They generally keep a few rooms back, even on Saturdays. Tell 'em Louis at the Blues Room says hi."
"OK; thanks." Bean knocked ashes off the end of his cigarette.
"I got love problems," announced Marian to no one in particular. "Nobody fucking loves me."
"I am sorry to hear that," Louis replied.
"This guy is not so bad looking, you know." She looked at Bean, who ignored her. "I like the hair. I like the shoulders, too, though he does look like a tough sonofabitch. My last husband was a tough sonofabitch, a little like this guy. Not so good looking, though."
"I understand," said Louis.
"He looks like he hasn't grown into his hands and feet yet, though. When the hands and feet are as big as that, it's because they grow first and the rest of the person catches up." Marian shifted on the bar stool, her lumpy body moving slowly and painfully. "He must not have grown up all the way yet, which means he may end up something more than he is now. Something bigger."
"Now that's an interesting thought," said Louis.
"He must have got that scar in a fight, huh? Because he looks like he gets in fights a lot. Like my last husband. If Bert hadn't died in the crash, he'd have got killed in a fight, I feel sure. He had some scars like that 'cause he didn't tend to win those fights. It's too bad this guy got that scar, you know. He'd be awfully cute if he didn't have that scar."
"Don't go making too many personal comments, Marian. You know you don't like it if people make personal comments about you, honey. Remember?"
"Yeah, I guess." Marian nudged Bean's elbow. "Sorry, huh? No offense?"
"No offense," he replied with the ghost of a laugh. "That ain't the kind of thing I generally go fightin' about."
"That is a good philosophy," said the bartender. "I don't like fights in bars, on any subject. We can have our differences and not fight about them."
"Can I have another smoke, big guy?" said Marian. Bean took one cigarette out and handed her the pack. "Oh, thank you, sweetie. You are a gentleman. I haven't spoken to many gentlemen since that crash. You see, that's why I have a little trouble remembering not to say some things. Bert had a Camaro and he drove kind of fast. What's your name, sweetie? I like you. You look like you have enough money to drink every week."
Bean looked at her sideways.
"She doesn't mean anything by it, dude," said Louis. "You seem like a nice guy." He raised his brows at Bean. "An understanding guy."
"I go by Bean," said Bean after a moment.
"I like your name, sweetie," said Marian. "Do you have love problems, Bean?"
"Naw," said Bean, his expression going blank and heavy, and tapped his empty pitcher. "Not me." Louis filled a fresh one and took away the empty.
"You must get the girls," said Marian. "You are cute."
"Yeah, I get the girls." Bean drank deep, his voice beginning to slur. "Got me one now, matter of fact."
"Oh, now is that a fact? It's nice to have someone to love." Marian glanced at the soap opera, where business associates were hatching a plot. "Do you love her a lot, Bean? Does she love you?"
"I got to take a leak." Bean slid off the barstool and picked up the restroom key. In a minute he returned, put the key on the bar and lit his last cigarette. Another customer came in and ordered. The soap opera lovers kissed again, making vows.
"Tell me about your girl, Bean," said Marian, watching the television and smoking Bean's Marlboros. "I want to hear about her. How you got somebody to love."
Bean took a long, long drink and emptied his fourth pitcher. He put it down and wiped his mouth, staring ruminatively at the bar mirror. "I don't know how the hell I got to have her. That ain't a question I got the answer to."
"Does anyone?" said Louis, making an old-fashioned.
"But you got her anyway," said Marian dreamily.
"Oh, I got me that girl real good." Bean tapped his chest with his knuckles. "Never going to lose that lady, not if I wanted to, not my whole life long. Don't know how she did it, but she's done it good. She's stayin' with me, no matter what the hell I think I can do about it."
"Must be a nice lady," said Louis. "Since you are such a nice guy." He garnished the old-fashioned with a maraschino cherry and put it on the bar for the customer.
"I ain't as nice as I look on the outside." Bean slightly lifted his upper lip in a half-smile. The bartender blinked. "But she ain't either, so no matter."
"I used to be pretty," said Marian. "I was a cute girl when I was younger. Before the crash and all. I had a good figure. Is your girl cute?"
"Uh-huh." Bean stared at the bottom of his pitcher. "Real pretty."
"She look like you, Bean? What are you, anyway?"
"Not like me. More…brown. Dark."
"A woman of color, then?" said Louis. "This is a man of impeccable taste, and here he is sitting in my bar, all the way out from Chicago."
"I don't know exactly. She's got color. But she's got blue eyes. Don't know how those got together." Bean put a hand over his face and rubbed his lips. "I look at her and I don't care how. Just real pretty."
"I had a white grandpa myself," said Louis. "I have cousins with blue eyes, so that's not unheard of. Vive la difference."
"I ain't never seen a woman like her anywhere else. Prettiest thing I ever saw. Smart lady—got an education somewhere, and knows the streets. The best at what she does, too. Heckuva combination."
"Sounds like she's a tough girl, Bean," Marion said. "I could have used a little more tough, myself."
"Damn tough when it counts. Maybe kinda tender otherwise." Bean closed his eyes. "Real sweet lady..."
"This is a great country," said Louis. "All races, all colors, all combinations thereof. It all adds up to homo sapiens sapiens, and variety is the spice of life. You look like you are a combination yourself. No offense."
"No offense."
"That's nice, she's good at what she does," said Marian. "Is she good to you, Bean?"
He dropped his head and rubbed a hand over his mouth again. "Better than she oughta be. Better'n I deserve."
"There's no man really deserves what a good woman does for him," observed the bartender. "There's no perfect man in this world, and still the women love us, with all our faults intact. It's the gift of God; his infinite wisdom in our iniquity."
"Somethin' like that," said Bean, smiling faintly. Another customer came in, looking behind him as he shut the door.
"That is one bitchin' mid-year parked out there," he said as he came up to the bar. "Hey, Louis. Hey, Marian. Hey, stranger. That your 'Vette?"
"Yep."
"Man, that is one fine car. You got admirers starting to gather, though I warn ya they're thinking about ripping it off." Bean grunted, but didn't reply. "A fine car. Gimme a Henry's, Louis." Louis drew him a glass. "Damn, I wish I had a car like that. You must be a chick magnet with that car, man." Bean got up and stubbed out his cigarette, then put another fifty on the bar.
"You got change coming already, dude," said Louis.
"Cover the lady's tab." Bean pointed with his chin.
"You take care, now, Bean," said Louis, picking up the fifty.
"You want to take me home?" said Marian. "I know you don't, but I'm just checking."
"I got that lady waitin' for me," said Bean, quirking his mouth off center. He turned to the door just as four men opened it: two Vietnamese, one Chinese and one Malay. The Chinese man sported a large shiner on his left eye and the Malay had a taped-up broken nose.
They stared at Bean, who stared back. "You fellas lookin' for me? Whether you are or not, you just found me, dragon-shit." He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders inside his jacket.
"Oh, fuck," the Malay whispered. "That cah belong to Roadbusta!"
"Take your differences outside," said Louis, wiping the bar.
"No problem," said Bean, and headed for the door.
"You look a lot better, Larry." Rally took his hand, smiling. "Just as cute as ever." He did look better; still pale and frail, but he was sitting upright in bed and the bruises and blotches had faded somewhat. Half concealed in flower arrangements, his family sat and stood and strolled around with take-out food.
"You know exactly what to say to me, Rally," Larry replied, grinning back. "Just the sight of you would bring a dying man back from the brink." He looked her up and down. "Nice outfit."
"Glad you like it." She had taken May to the malls again and picked out a hospital-visiting ensemble; a Chinese-lacquer-red skirt and matching fitted fingertip-length coat, with a white soft-collared shirt. "We wanted to cheer you up, and we thought you had enough flowers and stuff already!"
"That's for sure!" piped up May, picking her way across the floor between towering potted orchids. "You must have a lot of friends in this town!"
"I'm going to take most of this to the food bank, Larry," remarked Vanessa, gathering up fruit baskets. "The bomb squad opened everything before they let it in here, so it's going to go bad unless somebody eats it soon. You want to keep the pears, or the oranges?"
"Pears," said Larry, waving his free hand. "Go ahead. Take anything you think they can use—Mama has all the cards. Everything you can haul, or I'm going to open up a gift shop with all this stock!" His parents smiled and nodded at Rally and May, putting their heads together and talking in Cantonese. "OK, you know Vanessa, and you met my parents, and this is Emerald, and over there are Cassandra and Jade —they're fifteen and like it to be known that they are not identical twins."
"Hi, Emerald," said Rally, shaking hands with the sister next to her, who looked about nineteen and wore her hair long, straight, and bleached to a reddish color. "I hear you're at Berkeley too."
"Uh-huh, nice to meet you, I've got a study section in about half an hour, bye, Larry," replied Emerald, and left. The younger sisters giggled, bobbed their heads in greeting and returned to working their way through a large gift box of chocolates. Both of the teenagers were slim and pretty, their shiny black hair worn in ponytails, and seemed very shy. May went over to them and began to chatter, and they offered her some candy. Rally returned to Larry.
"So you've been talking to Pete Smith. How's it going?"
"Not bad. We did the male bonding thing using the theme of gunshot wounds—he tells me he fought in Vietnam, as I'm sure you've heard—and we're getting along fine. He compliments you, you know. Said he and his partner were very impressed with your abilities."
"Gosh." Rally didn't know quite what to say to that. "Well, he knows you're a friend of mine and wants to get on your good side! I think he's coming right after lunch, by the way. It may be Saturday, but investigations don't wait for weekends. I'll try not to wear you out before he gets here."
"No fear of that. Just seeing you puts a charge into me. You're looking good. Something in your face… Things must be going better for you." Rally smiled, knowing what he meant. Her interview with Bean that morning had left something warm glowing within her, a light without any other source. Larry hitched himself up. "Say, I asked about Bean and what he was doing, and Smith looked kind of funny and got off the subject. Is that something I can talk to you about?"
"Bean? Why?"
"Is there something wrong between you? I got the impression that…threats had been made." Larry looked concerned. "I thought he was very partial to you, but I suppose he might be the kind to conceive a grudge. I know your operation didn't go well, and Smith said more people died than Huang. Don't tell me you're in danger from Bean now, on top of it all?"
"Um…there was something wrong between us. As for danger, I know it's not over where 426 is concerned, but…I saw Bean this morning, before I came here." Rally looked down, squeezing Larry's hand. "Don't worry about it. He made me a promise, and I'm not in danger from him…maybe from myself, but that's not actually his fault. Now that I think about it, the danger from my own end comes in a couple of varieties, but it all adds up to the same thing...and it all leads to him. In a sense."
Larry waited a moment, apparently waiting for her to say more, but Rally was silent. "OK, that was so cryptic, I will have to assume this is forbidden territory. I won't inquire further for now. My parents want to say something to you, anyway."
Rally looked up at the elder Sams, who both rose and bowed to her, to her discomfiture. She stood up. "Miss Rally Vincent," said Mr. Sam with careful pronounciation, "my wife and I thank you from the bottom of our heart. You save our son's life, and your partna Miss May Hopkins too. We are in your infinite debt and you eat free in any restaurant we run for rest of your life. We like to hold for you a big banquet at restaurant our friend own. You are guests of honor, all our family and friend come. It is nothing compared to our son. We ask you to accept, please."
"A banquet in our honor? Oh…wow. Um, thank you, Mr. Sam, Mrs. Sam. It was my pleasure. May's too." Surprised and deeply touched, Rally felt her cheeks glow. May came over and both of them bowed to the Sams, who bowed back. "I don't know when we can accept your invitation. We're tied up with the investigation, but when that's over…"
"I'll explain to them," said Larry, and fired off a rapid burst of Cantonese. May added a comment, and the Sams laughed.
"I undastand," said Mr. Sam. "You are hard working ladies. We make plans."
"I'll look forward to it," said Rally, keeping another thought unspoken—if we live through this, that is. Which was by no means certain… Someone knocked on the door, and Mrs. Sam let in a woman dressed in a brocade cheongsam and carrying a large Walgreens tote bag. The half-dozen FBI agents outside checked the room briefly and closed the door again.
"Traditional healer," said Larry, pointing his chin at the woman with the tote bag. "I get herbs and acupuncture every day. Helps with the pain, but I think I'm going to give most of the credit to the guy who plugged the leaks." His mother and the healer went into an animated discussion, and the healer brought out an incense burner and a picture of a Chinese deity. They set up a small altar on the bedside table and stacked oranges in a pyramid in front of the picture.
"By the way," said Rally, "do you know Chinese characters?"
"Some," said Larry. "A couple of thousand. Enough to read the newspapers. Emerald's probably the most literate of the family. Why?"
"Do you know this one?" Rally looked in her purse and produced the sketch she had made of the burn on O'Toole's chest. "I know I have this wrong. A Chinese-speaking FBI agent couldn't make it out. But does it look like anything?"
Larry studied it for a few moments and shrugged. "Not to me."
"Let me see." Vanessa took the paper. "I know the radical…but the rest looks strange. You've got the strokes out of order."
"If you say so! I have no idea how that goes."
"If I kind of extrapolate…" Vanessa took a pencil and drew a similar character next to the one Rally had drawn, with some extra lines. "Like that?"
"Yes, that looks better. What does it mean?"
"'Retribution'." Vanessa raised her brows. "Where did you see it?"
"On a person."
"On a person?" said Larry.
"Yes…a burn, like a blowtorch flame would have made."
"Someone 426 killed, then," said Larry. "Oh, my God. Who was it?"
"A man named O'Toole, and it did occur to me that only 426 would have done something like that to him. But he wasn't dead at the time. He was attacking me."
Larry and Vanessa looked at each other. "That's weird," said Vanessa. "If 426 went that far, you'd think he would finish the job."
"I thought so too."
"Larry, have you…um, told her about 426?"
"Yes, I have," said Larry, glancing at his parents. "And I told Smith, who didn't blink an eye." He looked at his sister. "I guess you were right, because it feels better. I hadn't realized until now that I was still carrying it like a load." The healer came over and started to unbutton Larry's pajama top.
"OK, good. You know I said that talking about it might help." Vanessa squeezed her brother's hand.
"Help?" said Rally, glancing from sister to brother. "Oh…"
"Do you know he came to me crying?" said Vanessa in a low voice, drawing Rally away from the bed and the elder Sams. "He said he'd slept with a man and he hated himself for doing it. At first I thought it was because of self-disgust from encountering his own bisexuality, even though he is not a creep and has a gay family member—" she pointed to herself —"and I started lecturing him about destructive internalization of traditional prejudices, like an idiot. Then he told me who it was and why he'd done it." She closed her eyes briefly.
"I was eighteen, he was twenty. That was the first I'd heard about the Eight Dragon Triad, and I was fucking horrified. Now I know nearly as much as Larry does about 426 and I still don't know how he could bear to keep the friendship going until this week. That man may not have raped him, but it comes mighty close on an emotional basis, OK? Larry had no idea what he was in for, and then he stuck with his purpose anyway."
"I wouldn't have been that brave, Vanessa," said Rally. "He might not have been real forthcoming to me at first, but there was no reason he should be—we only met five days ago. Why did he start this crusade so young? Why didn't he talk to the cops? Why did he think he had to do it alone?"
"Not totally alone. I made the mics, and Dad let him do what he wanted—of course, my parents have no idea how far he's gone, so I'd appreciate…"
"I got the picture." Rally nodded reassuringly.
"But yeah, he's the eldest, and the only son, and I think he thought it was his responsibility. You know…" Vanessa looked over at her father, who sat alone as his wife handed disposable acupuncture needles to the healer and fussed over her son. "I'm going to ask Dad to explain. He's the one to tell it, though his English isn't fluent. I think the point will get across in any case."
She put a hand on Rally's arm and walked over to her father. Mr. Sam listened and nodded, then rose and approached Rally.
"I take you away from Larry now," said Mr. Sam. "My daughter say I need talk to you a little, OK?"
"Sure thing. Um…May, could you help us out?"
"Your partna speak good Chinese," said Mr. Sam. "I talk in Chinese, then, and she tell you what I say, OK?"
"I'll do the best I can," said May. "Larry's a lot more bilingual than I am, and Mr. Sam's not from the same part of China as the person I learned most of my Cantonese from."
"I'll give you a hand if you need it," said Vanessa, cramming fruit into a grocery bag. "I know Dad's Guangzhou dialect, of course, though calling it a dialect rather than an independent language deemphasizes the vast differences existing between the traditional Chinese culture areas and gives too much credence both to colonialist ideas and the Communist repression of ethnic and ideological variations within their area of influence." Rally and May looked at her. "Don't worry; I'll let Dad get a word in edgewise."
"OK; thanks."
"I tell you story," said Mr. Sam, beckoning Rally to the table and sitting down. "About Triad. Not Eight Dragons. Another Triad. Pearl Tigers, from Guangzhou."
Rally began to understand what this was about. "All right." She sat down as well.
Mr. Sam began to speak in Cantonese, and May began to translate with an occasional aside from Vanessa.
"I was born in a village in the countryside right outside Guangzhou," said May. "In the year of the Communist takeover, in 1949. My parents were farmers. They raised pigs. They never had a lot of money, and the Red Army soldiers and the—" May looked at Vanessa.
"Local Party officials. The political cadres in the villages."
"OK, the local Party officials took most of what they had. We could not even eat our own pork because we had to sell all the pigs to the farm cooperative, and they did not pay much. All the meat we got to eat was the scraps from the restaurant my mother's cousin ran in Guangzhou. I worked in the restaurant and I worked on the farm. I was not a good son or a good nephew. I didn't want to work hard, and the pigs smelled very bad, so I was lazy every chance I got. I wanted to have new clothes, and I wanted to have enough to eat.
"When I was sixteen, in 1965, I went to work for a man who was the richest man around. He owned the whorehouse and he owned the gambling house. He had a red stone house and he had a motorbike, and he had gasoline for the motorbike. I wanted to be that rich some day. Even the Party did not touch his money. I knew he was Triad, but I didn't care. I wanted to be Triad if that would mean I was rich. I thought, I will make a lot of money and then I will show it to my parents, and they will be sorry they are only pig farmers instead of smart like me."
"We hear this story in its entirety about three times a year," said Vanessa when Mr. Sam paused and took a drink of water. "You might call this the defining family tale. Every one of us could recite it to you from memory, but I'm glad you can hear it firsthand—he's putting in a lot of detail this time." Mr. Sam went on, May talking over him.
"The rich Triad man made me work hard. I had to run errands and take messages. I would take letters and packages to people and sometimes I even was allowed to ride the motorbike. I went all the way to the city sometimes and I would pretend the motorbike was mine. I didn't mind working hard if someday I would be rich and have my own motorbike."
"Dad does not have a driver's license, by the way," Vanessa put in. "He drives like a drunk chicken being plucked alive, so Mama does all the shopping."
"Most of the time I went on foot, though," May continued. "I walked many li—long distances. I had to clean my boss's house and take the shit out of his pit toilet. Nobody had flush toilets around there, even the rich Triad man. We used shit for fertilizer on the vegetable fields, so everyone sold it to the farmers. It smelled even worse than the pigs when I had to carry the buckets of shit down to the village on a—" May paused. "What's that word?"
"Mei-shang-si," said Vanessa. "It's a pair of baskets hanging on a pole—you know, that villagers carry loads with. I might also mention that the use of, um, night soil is the reason most Chinese don't eat raw vegetables or salads."
"OK. The rich man had two wives, and he used the girls in the whorehouse he owned. He had lots of clothes, and he was fat from all the meat he ate. I cooked for him, because I was a good cook from working in the restaurant, and I watched him eat and I washed all the dishes after I ate what was left, which was never more than a couple of bites. I wanted so much to be like him some day. I didn't think when I was sixteen that he was greedy and a fat pig. I just thought, he has what everyone wants to have, so he must be happy.
"Other Pearl Tiger men came over to his house and drank a lot of wine and had fun with the girls. The local Party officials came too, and then I knew why the Party didn't do anything about my boss's money. I didn't get to drink with the men or have fun with the girls. I had to bring more bottles of wine and just watch. I didn't want to be just a house servant. I wanted to do something important for the Pearl Tigers so they would let me eat meat and drink wine with them."
The Chinese healer had removed the covers from the bed and twirled fine needles into a number of spots on Larry's chest and forehead and arms. The smell of sandalwood incense filled the room, wafting from several thin sticks that smouldered in the burner in front of the little altar and the Chinese deity. The women's voices made a background hum, and the girls with the chocolate also conversed in Cantonese.
If Rally closed her eyes, she could imagine she was in another country; a huge, crowded, desperately poor country, steeped in ancient tradition and age-old corrupt practice, a place where a poor farm boy might well believe that a criminal life was the only way out of squalor and hunger. For some reason, she thought of Bean.
"One day my boss called me into his sitting room. I wasn't allowed in there unless I was sweeping, so I didn't know what he wanted. There was another Triad visiting. He smiled at me. My boss and the visitor said they had a new job for me. I had been working there six months, and I didn't steal and I was good at doing what I was told. So now they would let me do something for the Pearl Tigers. I was so excited. I thought that I would be rich soon."
Mr. Sam stopped and took another drink of water, and May looked at Rally. "He's using a lot of 'earth language', which means farmer's dialect. Luckily Granny Hao was a farmer's daughter!"
"You learned your Chinese from Granny Hao?" Rally remembered the wizened old woman who ran a Chinese pharmacy in Chicago's Chinatown.
"Yep. She'd talk Cantonese all morning while things were quiet and slap my butt when I pronounced things wrong! She wanted me to speak it to the Chinese customers, and at least half of the customers were Chinese, so she made me work hard!" May smiled ruefully. "You know, I just thought about it now—I, um,'waited on' a hell of a lot of Triads when I worked there. I wonder if I met any members of the Eight Dragons at the time."
"Geez. I should show you Larry's file box and see if you recognize anyone. Though I'm not sure if that would help with the investigation or not."
"What kind of business did you work in?" asked Vanessa with some surprise. "The only way someone like you would meet Triads is—" She stopped short. "Oh. OK, you might not want to mention that to my mother."
"Yes, I kind of figured that!" giggled May.
"I will keep on telling story," said Mr. Sam.
"OK, I'm ready," said May. "Gosh, I'm getting so much practice—it's all coming back!"
Mr. Sam began to speak again. "I thought I was going to be rich soon. I went to the city with the Tiger who had come to my boss's house. He gave me a bed in a room with six other young men who were doing jobs for the Triad. We all worked hard, but it was the same thing for me as it had been in the village. I had to cook since I was the best cook, and I had to wash the dishes and sweep. But in the city there were sanitary workers to shovel out the pit toilets, so I didn't have to do that any more. I thought things were getting a little better.
"One night my new boss came to the room where I was sleeping and told me to get my clothes on. I got up and I went with him. We went down the streets and into a house. I heard someone…someone screaming. I was frightened. We went right into the room. The Tigers had a man in there, and they were beating and kicking him. He was yelling, have mercy, have mercy. They told him he owed them money and that if he didn't pay it he was going to be killed. He kept screaming and told them he had no money left. They beat him and kicked him until he was dead."
Rally felt her lips begin to tremble and clamped them together with a sharp inhalation. Larry looked up. "Oh, God," he said from his bed, face bristling with acupuncture needles. "Not the Pearl Tigers. Dad, please don't inflict—"
"'Fraid so, bro," said Vanessa. "Remember, these gals are at least as tough as we Sams are."
"You are going to earn every toast of that banquet…" sighed Larry.
"I want to know this," said Rally. "Go on, Mr. Sam. Are you OK, May?"
"Believe me, I know about Triads. This doesn't surprise me." May took a deep breath and slipped back into the storytelling rhythm once more, her light soprano underscored with Mr. Sam's deeper, slightly harsh singsong Cantonese. "There was blood everywhere in the room. It was all over the floor and the walls. He had pissed his pants and when he was dead, he let go his bowels and there was shit everywhere. I had to clean up the room. When I was finished cleaning, I threw up my stomach all over and had to clean that up too. I felt very sick. I didn't want the Tigers to know that, so I didn't tell them how sick I felt. Then they told me I had to get rid of the dead man."
Rally took a horrified glance at Vanessa. "Yes, he tells it over the dinner table," said Vanessa, smiling slightly. "Preferably when we're having hungshao ro or something else red and meaty. I haven't liked hungshao ro since I was six years old."
May looked a little green, but continued translating. "They told me to put the man in the river, so I did that. I took him in a wheelbarrow and covered him up with sacks, and dumped him in the river. Every once in a while after that, my boss would wake me up in the night and I would have to get rid of a dead person and clean up a room.
"They paid me more now. I had extra money and food and I didn't have to sweep the house where I lived. I had new clothes because every time I did this job, I had to get rid of my clothes. I started drinking whatever I could find to get drunk on. I started buying wine and drinking it so I would not have to think about cleaning up the dead people. I would dream about them even when I was drunk.
"It was not always men. Sometimes it would be a woman who owed gambling debts, or a girl who tried to run away from a whorehouse, and twice it was young boys. I saw their faces and I saw their eyes looking at me at night when I was trying to sleep. After the first girl, I started smoking opium. I was seventeen now."
Rally tried to keep her face composed. No wonder this man's son hated the Triads. No wonder he had done everything he could to fight them…
"I chased the dragon and it made me feel a little better. I spent all my money on opium. I chased the dragon every day and soon I didn't care about anything but chasing the dragon. All I wanted was the opium pipe, and not to feel bad about the dead people. I didn't know what to do. I thought I should go back to my parents and feed the pigs instead of doing this job. I knew I couldn't leave now because I knew about all these killings. The Pearl Tigers would kill me."
"'Chasing the dragon'," said Vanessa, "is now usually used to describe heroin smoking, but opium smoking is the original meaning."
"One night, I had a man in a wheelbarrow, taking him to the river. I was flying on opium smoke and it seemed like a dream. I thought I was dreaming when I heard him groan. He kept groaning. When I got to the river and I was going to dump him into the water, he moved. I knew he was alive. If I dumped him into the river, the river dragon would take him—he would drown. The only reason I had been able to keep doing what I was doing was because they didn't make me kill any of the people. I only cleaned up.
"But if I did my job now, I would not be only cleaning up. I would be killing someone. I would be a murderer. I was flying on opium smoke, but I knew that I couldn't throw this man in the river. I took the wheelbarrow to a hospital and I left him there. I went home and I didn't tell anyone what I had done.
"In the morning I told my boss I had dropped the wheelbarrow in the river by accident because I had been chasing the dragon. He beat me and told me to buy a new one with my own money. I didn't mind the beating. I took all the money I had and went out of that place. I walked all the way through the city. I walked back to my village. It took all day to get there. I went to my father and kowtowed to him. I asked my father to take me back into his house. I would feed the pigs and take the shit to the farmers. He said he would, and I was so happy. I wanted to be a farmer now.
"I went to my relative's restaurant to ask for my job back. He was angry with me for going to work for the Pearl Tigers for a whole year. He told me I had wasted my time there. I kowtowed and apologized as much as I could and he told me I was a stupid infant. He told me that if I wanted to be a rich man, I would not be able to do it in China unless I did evil things or joined the stinking Party.
"He said, you have to go to the Mountain of Gold, to America. Everyone can get a good job in America, and there is no Communist Party and no Triads. You have to go to the Mountain of Gold, he said. Get out of China like so many Chinese people before you. Go where they live and you can cook my secret dishes for them and you can earn honest money.
"I went home to tell this to my father. I wanted to take him and my mother and my brothers and sisters to the Mountain of Gold where we would all be safe from the Pearl Tigers. While I was walking back home at night, I saw that there was a fire in the village. I thought someone was burning trash outdoors, but the fire was bigger than that. I got closer and I saw that the fire dragon was in my father's house.
"I ran back. I ran so hard I could not breathe. I saw the fire dragon come through the roof and the roof fall into the house. I got to the house and I saw the neighbors standing outside. I didn't see my father or my mother or any of my brothers and sisters. I asked where they were, and the neighbors said they were inside the house. I knew that the fire dragon had already taken them. The house was nothing but fire. I cried so hard I could not stand up."
Rally could not see for tears. Vanessa took her hand and squeezed it. "Chinese tradition says that you should not try to rescue people from a fire or from drowning; if they are in that situation, it's because the fire dragon or the river dragon has chosen them.
"If you save them…the dragon will come after you instead."
"Bring it on." Bean beckoned and strode forward, his face hardening into a fierce smile. The four Dragons backed up, through the door of the Blues Room and out onto the sidewalk. Some of the patrons huddled into the doorway to see. "C'mon. I could use a good tussle, though I dunno if you little shits are up to it!"
One Dragon yelled into a cell phone. Bean reached for it and spoke into the receiver. "Hey there, dragon-shit. Come one, come all!" He dropped the phone and stepped on it with a loud crunch. "Ain't nobody gonna take the first shot? Well, fuck it, then." He unzipped his jacket and grabbed the Chinese Dragon by the shirt front.
BAM! The Malay pulled an automatic and fired, but the bullet whizzed over Bean's head and clipped a lock of hair. WHAM! Bean threw the Chinese into the Malay and both went down. The two Vietnamese still standing assumed martial-arts poses and charged. Bean blocked the first and tripped the second. The tripped man did a shoulder roll and came up on his feet as the Malay and the man Bean had thrown struggled up.
The Malay aimed his automatic again, and Bean grabbed his hand. KRUNCH! Bean bent the wrist backwards and twisted it, audibly cracking the joint, and the pistol fell to the sidewalk beside the crushed cell phone. Bean kicked it into a storm drain and punched the Malay directly on his broken nose.
The Malay screamed and fell flat on his back, and the three other Dragons looked at each other. They kept their distance, holding hands up in defensive-strike mode as Bean moved forward, stepping over the fallen man. One lashed out with a kick aimed square for Bean's stomach, and the other two chopped at his legs and throat.
Bean blocked only the throat shot, but when the other strikes landed he moved a mere pace backwards. WHAM! He swung a roundhouse punch that hit one man on the side of the head and sent him sprawling, the others leaping back to avoid the flying body. BAMBAM! Both of them drew automatics and fired at Bean, missing badly.
"I saw ya holdin' her down, didn't I?" Bean snarled. "Yeah, you had yer hands on her, asswipes! Hope you don't mind me gettin' my hands on YOU!"
Up to this point Bean had moved deliberately and methodically, perhaps assessing the strength and skill of his opponents; now his expression heated and he almost seemed to grow larger, shoulders rising and legs tensing, his bristling hair adding several inches of height to his natural stature. His lips curled back from his teeth as he swung another roundhouse punch, so fast the spectators saw only a blur.
WHAAMM! One of the Vietnamese took the blow on the jaw, and instantly went down as if poleaxed. BAM! The other fired again as the punch landed, and hit the collar of Bean's jacket. On the backswing, he caught Bean's elbow to his throat and fell to his knees. Choking and gasping, he emptied his gun at Bean, who deflected every shot with an upraised arm and aimed a boot at the man's torso.
Three large dark imported luxury sedans rounded the corner just as the boot hit bone. The Dragon sprawled on the sidewalk with a caved-in chest, spitting up blood. The spectators applauded, and the BMWs pulled up. Doors flew open, ejecting a dozen armed Dragons into the road.
In the lead was a tall, burly Chinese man: 189. He shouted orders and waved the Dragons into two lines flanking him. The spectators scurried inside the bar and slammed the door, but faces instantly appeared at the windows. Bets changed hands as Louis made impromptu book.
Bean shook himself like a dog emerging from water and sent slugs scattering on the pavement. A quick move, hand to the waistband of his jacket, and before the Dragons were deployed, Bean flung his right hand around in an arc. Three throwing spikes sliced the air and hit their marks; three Dragons stumbled and grabbed at wounds to their legs, their Uzis clattering on the pavement.
The rest all aimed at Bean, who dodged behind a parked Buick Regal and drew a bowie knife. BRAAAP! BRAAAAP! The Buick's windows exploded, its tires sank, its doors sprang holes until they looked like cheese graters. BRAAAAAP! The firing died away as the clips emptied.
"Aw!" one of the customers complained in the bar. "They trashin' my car, man!"
"Check it," said 189 after a moment's silence. "Careful!" Four Dragons approached the Buick with drawn automatics and a wary manner. When they were still eight or ten feet away, trying to peer over the hood, something moved.
A hand grabbed the frame of the the blasted-out windshield and Bean vaulted over the car in one surge, knife in teeth and boots foremost. Two Dragons went down, kicked in the faces with Bean's full weight and momentum, and spit blood and teeth on the sidewalk.
The rest of the men began to respond, but compared to their opponent they seemed to react in slow motion. Bean landed in a crouch, grinning around the knife in his mouth, and slammed his palms to the sidewalk. Using his hands as a pivot, he lashed his body out in a swift spin, making an arcing sweep and knocking two more men's legs out from under them.
Dragons ran and aimed, but Bean kept low and tackled another man, who struck his head on the concrete. Disengaging himself with a boot in the man's face, he yanked the knife out of his teeth and sprang at 189, whose Uzi barked wildly, hitting sidewalk, cars, and the Blues Room's unlit neon sign.
But Bean was already inside 189's guard, hitting him chest to chest and snarl to snarl. At grappling range the gun was useless and the other Dragons were unable to shoot without endangering their leader. Bean's knife flashed in a feint. 189 dodged, letting out a yelp. He dropped the Uzi and wrestled with Bean, grabbing his wrist in both hands and trying to aim the bowie knife's point away from himself.
Sweat began to run down both men's faces. The outcome was inevitable, as 189 could not match Bean's power. Muscles giving way, the Dragon lost leverage with a gasp. Bean rammed the knife downwards through flesh and muscle and yanked it out with an ugly sucking sound.
"AHGGH!" A deep stab bleeding in the side of his chest, 189 yelled and pulled a stiletto. Only three Dragons remained unwounded and mobile; the whole fight had spanned perhaps forty seconds to date. Bean blocked 189's strike with his bloody bowie knife, then tossed it into the air and grabbed it again in his left hand. A lash of the right arm, and he held the switchblade, shooting out the blade. SNIK!
189 backed off a pace, breathing hard and obviously in pain, one hand pressed to his wound. Two fallen men raised themselves up and tried to aim automatics; Bean kicked one out of the gunman's grasp and hacked the other man's wrist almost halfway through with a left-handed chop.
His blood spouting, the unfortunate Dragon howled in agony, clutching his nearly severed hand into his stomach. 189 tried to slash Bean's arm at the same time and scarred his leather jacket to no avail, the chain mail deflecting the edge.
189 yelled in Cantonese. The unhurt men all jumped on Bean at once, forcing him to bend double, and one got a knife out. Bean twisted, his arm whipping backwards, and the man rolled off his back, bubbling through a slashed windpipe. 189 pressed his attack again, aiming for Bean's throat while two Dragons still clung to him, trying to knock him off balance and pull his head back by the hair. The switchblade knocked the stiletto aside and drove between two of 189's ribs. Bean let out an aroused growl and whipped the knife out.
189 screamed and staggered, blood soaking his shirt, and made a desperate gesture to the cars. "Get in! GO!"
Bean ran backwards, rammed his back up against the wall, losing one attacker on the way, and crushed the other man between the wall and his body before he could jump free. The man let go and fell, moaning.
Every Dragon who could move or crawl scrambled to the BMWs, 189 falling into a back seat with aid, and the cars roared away. With one more throwing spike through a passenger window, Bean nailed the last uninjured man in the face and grinned like an animal, sharp white teeth glinting in the sunlight. Eight Dragons out of the sixteen attackers lay writhing or unconscious, blood spreading on the sidewalk between the heaps of bodies.
"All finished? Shee-it." Bean shook his head, looking around inquiringly. "I ain't scarcely breathin' hard yet. Anybody still want to play?"
"Oh…God…" whimpered a Dragon. "Don't…kill…me…"
"Wimp." Bean cleaned his knives on a Dragon's coat and tucked them away in his jacket, then took out his keys and walked a few paces to his midnight-blue 1967 Corvette. A stray bullet had scarred the driver's door. "Aw, man," said Bean in real grief, and unlocked the car, examining the interior. Someone opened the door of the Blues Room and peered out. Several more heads appeared, and the customers gradually filed out, gawking at the scene.
"Look at the state of my sign," said Louis resignedly, picking up a bit of broken neon tube. Bean moved away from his car, rolled a few inert Dragons for their wallets and extracted several wads of bills. He stuffed them all into one wallet and tossed it to Louis, who caught it out of the air.
One man walked gingerly to a pay phone, avoiding the blood and moaning gangsters, and called 911, telling the operator to send several ambulances. "Whole gang bleedin' on the street. Yeah, big rumble. Buncha Chinese hoods versus a couple dozen other guys." He winked at Bean, who grinned and got into his car.
"Y'all come back now, y'hear?" said Louis, passing some money to the Buick's owner, and Bean gave him a thumbs-up before he started the Corvette's engine.
"I thought he looked like a fighter," remarked Marian, lighting one of the Marlboros as Bean peeled out and roared off west. "Though I guess he's a little better at it than my last husband…"
May swallowed hard and went on. "I knew who had set the fire and why they had done it, and I knew it was my fault. I knew the filthy Pearl Tigers had been trying to kill me, may demons shit on them in hell. I went straight to the police station, and I told them who I was and what I had been doing for the Triad. They arrested me.
"I told them all about the murders and the fire that killed my family, and they arrested some of the Pearl Tigers. They let them all go without punishment because they paid squeeze to the police and to the Party. I had no money, so I spent years in jail. The Pearl Tigers tried to have me killed there. They paid the guards to beat me and they paid the prisoners to pick fights with me. I fought back and they didn't kill me.
"Then the Red Guards took many prisoners out of jail during the Cultural Revolution and put us in work camps for reeducation. I worked in the kitchens and cooked for everyone. When I got out of the work camp in 1972, I came to America. I married my wife who came from China at the same time. I worked as a cook and I had a son and daughters.
"I opened my own restaurant. I named it Eight Dragon for good luck and the year of the Dragon. I did not know about the Eight Dragons from Macau. When those stinking sons of diseased whores got to America, they began to bother me because of my restaurant's name and because I was Chinese and making good money, with my son's help."
"And daughters' help," put in Vanessa. "These masculine-centric assumptions…"
"My son is smart. He has a good education. I told him this story many times. He figured out ways to fool the Eight Dragons when he was younger than I was when I went to work for the Pearl Tigers. He asked me to let him do what he wanted about them, and I said all right. They stopped bothering us. I was glad my son was so smart.
"But when he was shot, I thought that the Triads were taking over everything the way they did in China. I didn't care about the restaurant. All I wanted was to keep my family safe. I lost my parents and my brothers and sisters to the Triads. I thought it might happen again, but you prevented this, Rally Vincent. I am grateful to the FBI for fighting the Triads, and I am grateful to you for helping the FBI. I wanted you to know this story so you would know why my son tried so hard to fight the Triads on his own. He is a good son."
"Gosh, Dad," said Larry, flushing. "Not like I've ever had to go through what you did."
"You've gone through plenty, and if your dad says so, it's so. Thank you, Mr. Sam," murmured Rally. Her heart felt full; this day felt like a shining jewel, a keepsake. She had made some good choices after all. Her crusade against the Dragons meant a great deal to this family at least; until now, she'd had no idea how much.
No amount of money would ever equal that knowledge, and combined with the light she still carried within her, the foggy day seemed as bright as any she had ever seen. "You have no idea what this means to me." Rally wiped tears from her eyes. "This is the whole reason I do what I do."
"I'm glad we could give you some validation," said Vanessa, then spoke to her father in Cantonese for a moment. "I'm beginning to realize what a tough job you have. I guess a lot of crap comes your way just because you can handle it."
"Yes, I'd have to say that was true!" What would be the next load of crap with her name on it? Rally tried to tamp down her rising joy; this was not over yet. Brown lurked somewhere in the background, his imagined smile at their confusion haunting her mind.
And although the FBI had descended on the Dragon HQ within thirty minutes after Smith had obtained the search warrant the previous day, nearly everything had already been cleared out when the agents arrived, and every Dragon had fled. 426 and his legions still held a deadly grudge against her and Bean, and now it was impossible to know where they were hiding and from what direction they would strike again.
This felt like the calm blue sky before the worst storm yet, the eye of a typhoon that approached from the east. She needed a break in the case, some kind of lightning flash of insight or new information that would part the cloudy mysteries, reveal the curling, elusive wisp of smoke that was the Dragon she chased. Only then could she truly say she had some chance of seeing another dawn in this quest. "I'm grateful I had the opportunity to help."
"And so are we, Miss Rally," said Smith, behind her. Rally turned with a smile, which lost a few degrees of warmth when Wesson came through the door as well. "I'm here to talk to Larry, naturally. All clear with the stickers?" The healer took the needles out of Larry's skin and discarded them, giving him a cup of brown liquid to drink.
"Bleah," said Larry, taking a drink of water after he had finished the herb tea. "It's got to be good for me, right?" He put on his pajama shirt and sat back. "Please have a seat, Agent Smith. Is this your partner?"
"Bob Wesson, meet Larry Sam." Hands were shaken all round, and Wesson got out a notebook. Smith gestured at Rally. "Bob, has O'Toole turned up in the morgue yet? I am not going to be easy in my mind until I see him on a slab!"
"No," said Wesson. "The cops who were following the chase didn't see him at the accident scene, though they saw the Kawasaki he'd been riding. A real mess, according to the police report." He looked at Rally with a reproving eye. "It seems someone had put a few nine-millimeter slugs into it."
"I told you that!"
"Somehow I don't recall that you admitted to blowing the gas tank. Did you do that on purpose?"
"I might not have emphasized that point, no. I did blow it on purpose, because O'Toole had tried to kill me and my partner earlier that day, and because he came very close to raping me in the garage, and because he was firing an awful lot of .45s at the bike and had just reloaded. I was getting a little tired of him, let's say."
Smith chuckled. "Heat of battle, under pursuit and under fire. Not something I have a big problem with, Miss Rally. Lay off, Bob."
"Thank you, Pete. Oh, yeah, Agent Wesson, speaking of slugs, where is that ballistics report?"
Wesson's eyes narrowed. "Not ready yet."
"They sure are taking their time on that, Bob," sighed Smith. "I thought I told the lab to put it on the front burner."
Rally wondered if she should just come out with it and tell Smith that the report exonerated her, but she could not put May at risk by doing so. Eventually the report would have to come to light—unless both agents were hiding it from her!
The thought gave her pause. Wesson might have convinced Smith to keep it under wraps, or Smith himself might be the mastermind, as he was the senior agent. Somehow, however, she could no longer believe Smith capable of that sort of deceit. He was no actor, in any case. Wesson, on the other hand… Rally nodded to the Sams, who were preparing to leave, and picked up her purse, gesturing to the sacks of fruit. "Would you like me and May to help you carry all that out to your car, Vanessa?"
"Sure—" Vanessa broke off. "What's that!" Someone was shouting; scuffling feet scraped on the floor and a body or two fell against the wall. Rally whipped out her CZ75, aiming at the door in a crouch and bracing on a chair. Smith and Wesson leaped up and drew their ten-millimeters. The Sams screamed and huddled on the floor. "Oh, God! They're after Larry again!"
"May! Get ready—!" warned Rally. May reached for a flash-bang. Wesson backed up against Larry Sam's bed and held his pistol on the door.
"What's going on?" bellowed Smith. "Who's out there?"
For a panicked instant, Rally was positive it was Bean. No—he couldn't be so stupid—there were six FBI agents outside the door and a dozen policemen deployed around the parking lot! He'd be arrested—or shot! Was he here to warn her of something? Voices yelled out in the hallway.
"Agent Smith! It's—"
"I'm surrendering!" someone yelled. "I'm surrendering! Don't shoot!" A heavy Brooklyn nasal, a voice she had heard before.
"What? That sounds like Manichetti!" Rally hissed.
"Huh?" Smith stared at her for a moment, then addressed the agents outside again. "Who is it?"
"We've got him pinned, sir! It's Brown's driver, and he's armed!"
"I got it—" shouted another agent outside. "Check him for a backup gun!"
"I ain't here to fight nobody!" yelled Manichetti in a strangled voice. "I gotta see Agent Smith and Wesson! I…need help! …Please!" Smith yanked the door open and aimed his pistol at someone on the floor.
"What the hell? What's this all about?" Smith yelled. Rally followed him, CZ75 ready. "Get him cuffed, dammit!" Over his shoulder, she could see Manichetti held down by three agents, his face pressed into the floor. She slipped out and checked the hallway and waiting room. Visitors scattered, shrieking, and a nurse scrambled under her desk.
"Watch it!" said Rally. "He could be a decoy! There may be some Dragons about!" Rally scanned around and snapped her pistol from side to side, heart pounding. Nothing. Several agents spread out and ran along the hallways in each direction, and she ducked back into the room.
She and Wesson stood guard over Larry while Vanessa brandished oranges in each hand, apparently ready to do fierce battle with any intruder. Despite the shouting and the feet pounding along the corridor, no threat materialized.
A few minutes later, Smith came in, holstering his pistol. "Crap. Well, they got away, if anyone came with him. Mr. and Mrs. Sam, you better go home with your daughters. Escort's waiting for you." Larry's family left, pale and apprehensive, FBI agents flanking them.
Rally helped Vanessa with the fruit and glanced at Manichetti as she accompanied the Sams to the elevator. The agents had cuffed him and sat him up in a lobby chair, his clothes disarranged and his nose bleeding. When he saw her, he let out a piteous groan, jowls quivering.
"Rally Vincent! You got to make them listen to me! For God's sake—"
"Keep your mouth shut!" snapped Smith.
Rally saw the Sams off and returned to Smith. "What's he doing here?"
"Says he wants our help. The FBI's his last hope or something, and he wanted me and my partner, since we know him." Smith rolled his eyes. "Naturally, his broad butt is now under arrest. I thought you'd like to ask him a few questions before we put him in a cell."
"Yes, I think I would! Like, where's O'Toole? Someone must have picked him up before the cops got there, dead or alive! Did you help him out again, Manichetti?"
"No." He looked just as bad as he had the night at the pier; grey-faced, despairing. "He went back to the Dragons. I ain't seen him since yesterday, one P.M. A little after he tried to whack you and your kid partner. I got a doctor for him and then I threw him outta the house."
"Oh, did you? When you'd just run interference for him in an attempted murder? You're his co-conspirator! I saw you plain as day in that Range Rover, you bastard! Is he still alive? You're hiding him somewhere! Oh, and while I'm on that subject—where the hell is BROWN!"
Manichetti looked startled, his chest heaving with agitated breaths. "He's dead. You know that. Look, you got to listen—"
"The hell I do. He's alive, isn't he! Talk!"
"N-no, he's dead. He burned to death in the—"
"No way." Rally and Smith exchanged a look. "O'Toole blew a hole in the concrete floor as an escape hatch. You got Brown in a boat and sailed off, didn't you?" Manichetti's eyes went wide; she was positive she had hit the truth. "Where did you take him?"
"Uh…" Manichetti looked at the floor.
"I'm sure Sergeant Smith will hammer it out of you eventually!" Rally rubbed her hands. "I'll help!"
One of the agents who had been on guard came over to Smith with a brown paper bag. "Here's what we got off him, sir. .40 caliber Beretta, cigarettes, some hotel receipts in his wallet. And there's a jewelry box."
"Hum," said Smith, looking in the bag.
"Jewelry box?" said Rally. "What kind of jewelry box?"
Smith pulled it out. "Here you go." It was small and square, red satin with gold-stamped Chinese characters, stained and discolored.
"What…the…!" Rally took it and turned it over, opening it to find it empty. "I've seen this box. This had a pair of earrings in it! This is the box for the earrings Brown gave me! I gave them back to him at the pier and he put this in his pants pocket! He was hit in the leg—these are bloodstains!" She snapped the box shut and glared at Manichetti. "This PROVES it! Brown got out! There is NO way you could have this unless he did! SO TALK!"
"I'm gonna tell you everything I know," said Manichetti, voice trembling. "All of it, beginning to end! But not now! It can't wait even one hour! You got to help me first!"
"What could be that important? I think you ought to rake him over the coals, Pete! He helped O'Toole get away after attacking me and May! He doesn't deserve—"
"There's two lives ridin' on it, lady!" Manichetti blurted out. "Mrs. Brown and the girl—a four-year-old kid! PLEASE!" He nearly sobbed the last.
"Brown's family? Where are THEY?"
"426 got 'em," whispered Manichetti. "About an hour ago. I wasn't gone ten minutes—I came back with some take-out for lunch and— You got to help me! God, help me!" He burst into tears.
"Woah. 426?"
"You saw him, right? You know something about him?"
"Yes. Do you mean he's going to kill them? A little girl and her mother? Is he that much of a—" Rally broke off. "Yes, he is. I know it. Oh, man."
"I'd've found the bodies in the room if that was all he had in mind," wept Manichetti, tears and blood dripping from his nose. "I'd be dead too. He took 'em away and he left me alive to tell the tale. That means he's got something else up his sleeve!"
"Like…drawing Brown out of hiding?" Rally snapped her fingers. "426's looking for Brown too! That might be why he let O'Toole join up with the Dragons!"
"Yeah," said Smith. "That would be a good angle. O'Toole can't keep his stupid mouth shut about anything; he must have known the escape plot. He's told 426 all about it. If 426 has the kid, he can really rake Brown over the coals. So to speak. I know he's nuts about his daughter. Passes out pictures of her everywhere."
"Yes, but O'Toole seems to have believed that Brown's dead." Rally looked at Smith. "Would 426 have any proof that he's alive? It may be only a suspicion on his part, unless he has independent confirmation. "
"I guess he's got a suspicion," said Manichetti, looking even greyer. "But he's wrong and so are you guys. Brown's dead. No question of his comin' back. If that's the only way to get 426 to show his hand, the girls are… dead."
He hung his head and cried. "You gotta believe me…I'd do anything for 'em! I'm the one pulled 'em from the house! I'm the one's taken care of 'em since! It wasn't Brown! I never gave a shit about Brown!" He flung his head up, teeth gritted and eyes red. "I hated his guts, see? Don'tcha think I'd tell you if he was alive? I'd hand him over to the Dragons without a THOUGHT!"
"Sheesh," said Smith. "What do you think, Miss Rally?"
"You know what, Pete? Let's take this guy for a ride downtown, hmm? I have the feeling he's telling the truth, about Brown's family at least. I have an idea." Wesson came out of Larry Sam's hospital room, and Rally glanced at him; six-one, trim, brown-haired and light-eyed, with regular features. "Yeah, I think it just might work!"
"Where is he going to keep them? The Dragon HQ is chock full of FBI agents. Not that we got much. They knew they'd been fingered, and the last truck was leaving just as we got all the red tape together and moved in."
"I dunno where," said Manichetti, slumped in a chair in Smith's office. "Tom might've put them on to some of Brown's places…" His brow creased in thought. "I know they got warehouses all around the Bay Area. None of 'em would be a good spot for keeping hostages. Nothing soundproof. But…one of the houses. He had a place on Nob Hill—Brown did—and there was a big basement. Old place, built right after the '06 quake, and built tight. If you had someone in that basement, you could keep 'em quiet." He looked around. "It's a guess."
"Address?" said Smith, picking up a phone.
"Here." Manichetti got up and pointed to a map of the city on the office wall. "Pacific Avenue. Fancy old place, white with all the gingerbread trim. Mrs. Brown liked it, but he told her she had to stay in L.A. No one's there now, unless the Dragons are."
"Undercover agents will check it out first," said Smith. "Pizza delivery to the wrong house, or something like that. They'll find out if there's anyone hiding there. A rescue is going to be dicey if that's where the hostages are. We can't roll a whole battalion in there without attracting attention. A small handpicked group, or nothing."
"That sounds like a hint," said Rally.
"I suppose it is. I'd appreciate it if you'd help us out here, Miss Rally."
"Do I actually have a choice?"
"I guess so," said Smith, rolling his eyes. "I don't want any deadweight on this operation!" He and Wesson got on the phone and began to deliver instructions.
Manichetti turned to Rally, a little diffidently. "I know you got a grudge on me, Miss. I don't blame you none for that. But I got to tell you, I kicked Tom outta the house right after the doc got him fixed up from the jaw. I didn't like him any and he'd said some things that let me know I had to get him out of there where the girls were. He had a real problem with anything female."
"Oh, no shit?"
"I ain't got that problem, Miss." He put up his hands as if to ward off her anger. "Kind of the opposite, if you get my drift. This ain't going to wash comin' from me, but I didn't want him going after you and your friend. I helped him so he'd help me, and it turned out I didn't want his help at any price. I'm real sorry he got on your bad side, and if he's dead, I'll say I ain't going to cry."
"He's the one who put the Dragons on to Sarah and Tiffany Brown," replied Rally, smiling faintly. "Of course you don't like him."
"Yeah, I know. I'd've killed him for that myself if I'd had the chance, and…I ain't a killer. I'm just a driver."
"I think I heard someone else say that," murmured Rally.
"Driver?" barked Smith into his phone. "My elbow's still too damn stiff! No, I don't know who's good enough for—look, since the Dragons don't balk at high-speed pursuits, the getaway is going to be the linchpin of the whole operation! Now you listen to me—"
"Please help me, Miss," said Manichetti. "I know you're good at what you do. I'm grateful the FBI's doing something…" He lowered his voice. "But you don't work in no office building. I reckon you got the right stuff, if Bandit's so keen on you. There ain't nothin' I wouldn't do to make sure the girls come out've this alive and well. I'd surely appreciate it if you'd say you'll help me—"
"I am getting a little tired of everyone announcing how Bean feels about me, too," said Rally.
"Sorry, Miss. But you made up with him or something? I heard about Bandit makin' a mess in Frisco, but I didn't know he'd saved your bacon 'til you said so. It don't surprise me none that Tom was aimin' to do bad stuff to you. I can tell you that he planted that cash in your trunk. He's good with locks. Brown had him do it while you and Bandit were talking with him at the pier. He sent Tom out—"
"What? The money was right there at the pier—oh." Rally smiled in realization. "That's why Bean said 'a whole mil'. The Dragons gave Brown one million dollars in cash to bait the trap with. Half a million in one suitcase and half a million in the other! But I thought the suitcase was the same one!"
"Handle shot off, you mean? No, there were two of those, too. It was all fixed up before you ever got to the pier."
"O'Toole figured he'd shoot it out of someone's hand ahead of time? The arrogant little shit!"
"He was good, Miss. If you killed him, you done good in more ways'n one."
"Thank you." Rally started to feel a sense of smug superiority. Then she remembered how she had performed that particular killing, and looked away. Perhaps it had been legally justifiable. The abject panic on O'Toole's face a moment before the explosion still bothered her. "So what happened to the other half million? The cash I saw at the pier? It wasn't in the office, and O'Toole had Brown on his hands."
"If I tell you that," said Manichetti in a whisper, glancing at the agents and drawing her aside, "will you say you'll help me personal? I know where it is, and if Tom's dead, I'm the only one on this earth who does. No one'd know you got away with—"
"Mr. Manichetti," said Rally crisply, "I would prefer you to tell Agent Smith where it is. Since he asked me to help, I'm helping. I don't do things like that for drug money."
Manichetti raised his brows, eyes widening. "OK. Guess I should've known. A woman that wouldn't fall for Sly Brown on one of his better days wouldn't go for that."
"Don't look so impressed. I'm as mercenary as they come. I got myself into this looking for a hundred-thousand dollar reward." Rally winked at him. "I do know someone, however, who does not work in an office building either, and has the right stuff for an operation like this. If I asked him, he'd help out, or I'd know the reason why."
Manichetti looked blank for a moment, but an instant later a smile spread slowly across his broad face. "Thank you, Miss. I reckon he'd owe you a few dozen freebies, wouldn't he? I'll take you up on that offer." He extended a hand and Rally shook it briefly. "That's decent of ya."
"This could be a little hazardous, though," muttered Rally to herself. "Not just to me…" She walked over to Smith, who was talking to Wesson and issuing orders into his phone at the same time, and touched his shoulder. "Pete, could I talk to you in private for a moment?"
Smith looked up with an impatient bark. "What? I'm a little busy right now!"
"Keep it down," said Wesson with a hand over the receiver. "Some of us are working."
"This is kind of personal," Rally whispered. She tried to give Smith a message with her eyes, but was mindful of Wesson's presence.
"All right, all right—you ladies are so dainty sometimes," grumbled Smith. "Time of the month coming up? Conference room." He got up.
"Pete," said Wesson, sifting through the folders on his partner's desk. "I think I misplaced something. You have the, uh, the RB folder?"
"No, you have it."
"I can't find it. It was right on my desk, I know. Yesterday, I thought."
"You think I have some idea what you did with it? Look in the can or wherever you do your reading. What do you want it for, anyway?"
"Um…recent developments." Wesson's eyes flickered at Rally.
Smith snorted. "I'd say recent developments made that folder obsolete. If you find it, file and forget." He beckoned Rally out the door. "OK, girl, what's so delicate you can't talk about it in front of my own partner?"
"Not until we're in another room with the door closed." Smith grunted and continued down the hall to the conference room.
Rally shut the door and stood against it. "It's about Bean."
"Yes?" Smith put a hand on the back of a chair.
"I saw him today. This morning, before I came here."
"No shit."
"He…he wanted me to forgive him. For thinking I had planned to cheat him, and all that. He told me why he'd thought that, and it made sense to me, at least enough sense, and I told him I forgave him."
Smith's expression had gone guarded. "That a fact?" He looked out the window. "Where was this?"
"In a parking lot. He followed me on that same black Harley, which I guess he's commandeered for now. I wouldn't get out of my car for a while."
"I see." He glanced back into the room and seemed to make a mental note. "So why tell me?"
"Pete, I think I can trust you with this. Please consider what I'm doing when I say this only to you and not to Wesson. OK?"
"OK. I'll consider it."
"If Bean were to show up… and help me out again, or even help you out, would you feel it necessary to arrest him?"
Smith's face changed. "You think he's going to do that?"
"If I asked him, I feel sure he would." Rally gave him a serious look. "I want the mother and the girl out of 426's hands as much as anyone does. Just as you said, the getaway is going to be crucial, and we're likely to come under fire in the process. I don't know anyone better suited to a job like that, and I think you know what I mean."
"You are right about that. But you are talking about the FBI here! You want to recruit Bean Bandit for a Justice Department operation, and you want my OK? You realize what you're saying?"
"Uh-huh. But he's already involved, and…well, I have my reasons. Will you consider it?"
Smith chewed his lip and seemed to mull over his options. "I guess you realize that getting Bean into the Eight Dragon Triad is, A, not possible any more, and, B, not even necessary now that we have Larry Sam. The FBI has no pressing reason to nab him, except for the minor point that he assaulted four agents…and a cop…and resisted arrest. The SFPD has all the reason in the world. If he and that red car show up again within a hundred miles of Baghdad-by-the-Bay, he will be nailed to the wall."
"But you are not a San Francisco cop."
"No. Who I am is not the only question here. Who Bean is, on the other hand…" Smith looked at his elbow, still wrapped in an elastic bandage, and tenderly massaged it.
"Would you like to talk to him? Face to face? I got the feeling that you want to, and I think I can set it up. Would that reassure you?"
"Reassure me? Face to face with that man? I don't think reassurance would be the dominant emotion in the room, girl!" Smith looked ruefully amused. "OK, you're intriguing me. I get the picture. You want to prove something to me, such as: Bean's nothing near as bad as the Dragons, and that I should let him slip out of my net as long as I can get my hands on 426."
"Something like that."
"Very intriguing. I'm afraid I will have to say something to my partner about this, though."
"Oh."
"Not about meeting with Bean, not before it happens. I get your point. But about not running over and arresting him on the spot if he shows up somewhere. That I can sell on pragmatic grounds. I don't think Bob wants a matching slash on the other cheek!" Smith grinned.
"I think his vanity's been wounded…and Pete, will you do me a favor? That ballistics report. I am crawling up the walls not having a copy yet. Could you please investigate what's going on with that?"
"Sure. I want to see it myself. That all, Miss Rally?"
"That's all. Thank you."
"You are lucky I am a practical man," said Smith, chuckling. "Telling little white fibs of omission to his own partner, no matter how squirrelly he's gotten over the last day or so, is not something an FBI agent does in the normal course of things. But for you, girl, I am willing to bend some principles for a few hours."
"Thank you, Pete," said Rally, genuinely pleased. "You're OK, you know that?"
"No more 'chauvinist pig asshole', hey? OK, I was a jerk, and you were right about the airport. Where Bean is concerned, you know prophet, chapter and verse."
"Huh?" Rally cast around. "I, I never called you—"
"Not to my face, hon." He smiled some more and headed out into the hallway.
"What the hell?" said Rally to herself. "Did I forget to turn the radio off?" No, she was sure she had. "How did he know I said—" He'd asked where her conversation with Bean had taken place. "Oh, no." If that was true, she was going to kill him—but he'd hinted, hadn't he? A warning?
"OK, Pete. Thanks again," Rally murmured, and followed Smith back to his office. There, Wesson was taking notes while Manichetti talked.
"You set up what you feel you need to set up, Miss Rally," said Smith. "You have any more ideas before you run along? Like, the one you mentioned in the hospital?"
Wesson looked up. "Pete, she can't go yet." He made a little circular motion in the air with one finger.
"No, I think she ought to go now," said Smith casually, half winking at Rally, who took the implication. Wesson picked up the phone. "Put that down, Bob. Listen up. I want to tell you something. If you happen to spot Bean Bandit any time soon, keep your trap shut and your pistol in the holster. It's in our interest to keep him on the loose right now, so don't go calling every agency in the Bay Area, hmm?"
"What?" Wesson glanced back and forth at Smith and Rally, obviously confused, but with a sense of dawning suspicion as well. "Is that wise?"
"I don't know if it's wise, but it's what we're going to do, Agent."
"Uh…yes, sir. I guess we'll get him sooner or later."
"Yeah, someone will." Smith smirked at Rally over Wesson's head. "So, that brainstorm?"
"Yes," said Rally, looking down at Wesson. "We need someone to play Brown."
"Huh?"
"If 426 issues a challenge to Brown to come get his family, it could be very useful if we had someone who looked enough like him to be a decoy."
"Hey. No kidding. We will get on that right away—let's see, which agent in the Frisco office looks the most like Sly Brown?" Smith, Manichetti, and Rally all looked straight at Wesson.
"What?" said Wesson, pushing his glasses up. "I don't look anything like—"
"Same height, about," said Rally. "Give him one-inch lifts. Same age, sort of similar build—shoulder pads. Highlight his hair and style it—too bad it's a little short, but I think Brown's real hair color would have to be about the same as his. Turquoise contacts and a bit of putty to straighten the bridge of his nose."
"Whoa." Wesson stood, looking slightly panicked. "I'm not an undercover specialist—"
"You won't have to do much, I think. Just stand there and look pretty. May could help you with that if the FBI makeup artists aren't up to it. Hmm—tan makeup to cover the shiner and the cut, and be sure he gets a plastic cast on the right hand. Manichetti can check off on him when it's done. Spend enough on the clothes and the shoes, and you got yourself a slick Hollywood drug dealer, at least at a distance."
"She's pegged it, Bob," said Smith. "You are on decoy duty."
"Highlights?" said Wesson ruefully. "Blonde highlights?" Rally snickered to herself and slipped out of the room.
"Bean? It's me."
"Huh? Ral—uh, Vincent?"
"I know, you're surprised I'd call you. This isn't a personal matter—I need to ask you a professional favor. Several favors. I want to know if you're willing to work with me for a little while longer."
A brief silence. "You tell me what it is, it's done. On the house. You know that."
"Thank you, Bean. I want you to talk to an FBI agent."
"What?"
"He's told me he's not interested in arresting you. It's only one, anyway, and he already knows you aren't easy to arrest."
"No, I ain't easy to arrest. Where and when?"
"The eastern end of the park. I'll meet you near the band shell, between the museum and the Academy of Sciences." Rally looked around her. "There's a round fountain in a sunken plaza, and it's pretty clear—just plane trees set far apart and roads on all sides, so you can check out the area before you approach. The fog's mostly gone, this far inland."
"Thanks, Vincent, but…I trust ya."
Rally felt another deep twinge, briefly closing her eyes. By contacting Bean, she was inviting one of the dangers she had mentioned to Larry Sam. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea she'd had all day, but she was committed now. "Um…We'll be there in fifteen minutes—actually, I'm already here, right by the fountain. I just have to call him."
"Got it. Can I get some idea what this's about?"
"He only wants to shoot the breeze with you for a little while. Get some idea of what makes you tick. Basically, he wants to know if he can trust you. Though I get the idea that he's inclined to do so anyway."
"An FBI agent trust me? Which one of 'em is it?"
"Smith."
She heard a deep laugh. "All right, Smith. Whoo…that's funny."
"Must be. Why?"
"Oh, I dunno." Bean chuckled again. "He sure did want to arrest me bad, yesterday. I reckon you heard about that."
"Uh-huh. A little, though not nearly enough—I am going to have to ask Roy to give me the whole story." She doubted that Bean would tell her such a tale with any particularity. "Say, why did you cut Wesson on the face? I've been curious."
"Wesson? The snide asshole in specs? Eh. Looked like he needed it."
"You are a judge of character, I think. Most of the time. Why did you try to cut me on the face, Bean?"
"Oh, woman… If ya want to talk personal, least let me see you while you stick in the knives."
"All right, I will. One of these days I will grill you over a slow fire to get every last gory detail out of your twisted psyche. I think you and Smith are going to get along just fine. I'll expect you."
Rally clicked off and checked her watch, then called Smith. In about five minutes, she heard a deep, distinctively rumbling motorcycle engine note approaching from the east, and heard it cut out in the parking area at that end of the museum. She sat on the wide rim of the fountain and deliberately turned her face to the opposite direction. Watching Bean walk toward her, wondering whether to meet his eyes from a distance, was not something she felt up to at this moment.
In point of fact, as she heard a long boot-shod stride descend the granite stairs and approach, her heart began to beat rapidly and her hands to twitch. The pit of her stomach contracted, but fear wasn't the emotion; her face began to grow hot. She'd forgiven Bean for believing she was a thief, and part of the barrier between them had vanished, though by no means all.
Even before it had started to crumble, she'd had the sense that neither of them could do anything about their inclinations. He had said that he knew she didn't want him. Was she as sure about that as he was? Why had she given him a tease in Buttonkettle? Why had she jumped at him in the car? Rally concentrated on controlling her breathing until the steps halted a few feet away, and she turned to look into Bean's face. "That was fast."
"I wasn't too far away." His expression quiet and still, only his eyes alive. He scanned the trees and the roads above with a wary glance. "I'm kinda keepin' track of where ya go, since 426's layin' for you."
"Oh." Rally patted the fountain rim at arm's length. Bean looked down but didn't sit as she had invited; he put one foot up a yard and a half from her and leaned into it, peering down into the green-brown water. "Thanks for coming."
"Yeah, I'm here. Anything you need." This matter-of-fact, but with an inflection of grave earnest.
'Any way you want it…' Rally took a deep involuntary breath and crossed her legs. "It's about Brown's family." Bean made an inquiring grunt and she went on. "Manichetti showed up at the hospital where Smith and Wesson and I were visiting Larry Sam. He begged for our help. Apparently he had the family under his protection, and 426 kidnapped them. Larry's told us a lot about 426, by the way. I don't know how much you've heard about him, but I guess you know he's the chief assassin."
"Yeah, I saw him in Vegas."
"Did you?"
"He's the one told me the Dragons were missing one million bucks."
"How'd you react to that, Bean?"
He met her eyes, forearms resting on his upraised knee. "I got mad."
"Is that why they thought you were going to join the Triad?"
"Uh-huh." He looked away.
"All right, this isn't the time or place for interrogating you. I will do that, make no mistake about it, but not now." Rally shifted, hoping her disturbance at Bean's proximity would subside. "This is business. 426 has Brown's wife and little girl. He's going to try to draw Brown out of hiding, we think. So we're going to take advantage of that if we can, and—"
"Hiding? What hiding? The man's dead!" Bean turned to her, brows going down.
"We don't think so any more. There's a trap door blown in the concrete floor of the pier. Manichetti had the box from the earrings I gave back to Brown. 426 went to the trouble to capture the family, so he must have come to the same conclusions as we have. At any rate, we may need your help to get the mother and child out of 426's clutches. It will have to be a tight operation with only a few people, and we will have to get the hostages clear as fast as possible. Obviously this brought you to mind. I proposed it to Smith, and he's considering it, which is why he wants to talk to you."
"OK, you lost me somewhere there. Brown's alive?"
"He certainly got out of that warehouse alive. There is no way he burned to death."
"Shee-it." Bean jutted his jaw. "So why'd he yell like that? For fun? To get yer goat?"
"Manichetti still maintains that he's dead, but yes, that's the best guess I have, and for Brown, it makes sense. He wanted to play with my head, I suppose, and he accomplished that. In spades." Though she doubted he had ever predicted it would drive her straight into Bean's arms…
Bean's boot hit the ground with a crash. "I'll kill him for you, Vincent. No charge!"
"My sentiments exactly." Rally smiled tightly. "I'm glad you held me back when I tried to get to him." She looked at the faded bruises on her wrists.
Bean passed a hand over his face. "Oh, woman, don't remind me I slugged you. It ain't easy sleepin' these days."
"It isn't?"
"You think I can rest knowin' what I was goin' to do to you and the squirt? I don't know why I didn't get it done, 'cause I sure meant to. I see me crashin' Buff into yer Cobra and I wake up—" He broke off. "It's nothin' but dumb luck that's lettin' me talk to you now. Luck or…something else."
"Oh? I didn't have the impression you really wanted to kill me, Bean. Not when you had me against the fence—if you had truly meant to stab me, you would have done it." Rally shifted again, uncrossing her legs. "On the other hand, when you got that switchblade close, I thought —"
Bean sagged, eyes closing. "Yeah. That was the idea. Cut your face."
"You'd do that to a woman? Give her a scar like yours? What on earth gave you the right—!"
"It was a woman put this one on me, babe!" He stopped and gritted his teeth. "I ain't saying that was a good thing to try to do. I did you a lot of wrong that day."
"No shit! What was the reason for that? A woman cut you and you have a grudge against anything female? You'd fix it so no other man would look at me, or some similar piece of macho crap? Make me match you or something?" Rally jumped up and stalked away a few paces, turning her back on Bean.
He sighed. "Not like that. The gal put this on me, you remind me of her sometimes. Tough broad."
"Who was that? A woman who could slice your face?"
"You never met her. Before your time. I used to do jobs for her years ago. Before I went into business on my own. She'd call me, I'd fetch and carry. Not a big-time operation, but well put together. She taught me a lot. On the job and…off."
"An old lover? Can't imagine why she'd want to cut you up!" Rally knew she was shaking visibly. Oh, this had NOT been a good idea…
"Not like a girlfriend."
"Excuse me?
"Yeah, well, she cornered me one day and I didn't know how to say no to a woman who came on strong. Still got a problem there, I guess." Rally heard his boot scuff the crushed-stone pavement. "I was a kid—sixteen, seventeen—and she was the boss. Lot older'n me, but a looker, so I didn't mind so much. She'd get horny a lot and…well. It was pretty educational, I guess, but I wouldn't call her a sweetheart. Kind of a user, y'know?"
Good God. Bean Bandit was actually telling her some of his history! Rally turned around to look at him again. Hands in jeans pockets, eyes bent on the ground. Was he offering to trust her with some of the contents of his head, beyond what she had forced him to admit in exchange for forgiveness? Extraordinary—surprisingly touching; her anger and agitation began to dissipate like the lifting fog. "So why did she scar your face?"
He smiled crookedly to himself. "I got a little cocky. I was young, you know? Thought I'd make some extra on the side and that she'd never blame it on me 'cause I was screwin' her. She had some other boys that worked for her like I did. I saw a car that belonged to one of the guys, big delivery on board, and I jacked it. Took the shipment and sold it to the wrong buyer. Walked into her garage a couple days later, all cool and innocent-like, and right off I knew I'd made a big mistake. All the guys were waitin'. They grabbed me and spread-eagled me, and the boss strolled up with a blade. Smiled at me real sweet. Told me she'd teach me to steal."
"Oh."
"The guys held me down and she cut that on me." Bean made an X in the air, tracing the scar. "One, two. Didn't hesitate a second, no matter how many times she'd got me into bed."
"God. What did you do?"
"Yelled my head off. It hurt like hell."
"Uh…well, I figured that part."
"She said it would be my balls next time. They tossed me out on my ass and told me not to come back. She was bein' nice, frankly, 'cause she could have just killed me. Thought I was worth saving, I guess, so I was kind've grateful."
"Grateful?"
"Yeah. You know what? Every time I look in the mirror, I know it's up to me to keep my own word. I learned that lesson good. If a man don't keep his word, he's nothin' but scum, and he deserves whatever the hell he gets."
"So you thanked her for it? Did you think I was going to thank you for it?"
"Not exactly." Bean grimaced. "I didn't thank her for it neither, and in my case, I was guilty."
"I'm not sure I want to know this…"
"Went up against her gang about a year later. The whole bunch dry-gulched me in an alley, but I was ready this time. I laid 'em all out flat and it was just her and me." He smiled tightly. "Yeah, I killed her. Fair fight, Vincent. I got cut up some and I got a lucky shot on her, or I'd not be talkin' to you. She was a mean hand with a knife. Taught me a lot of what I know."
"I see. You don't mind killing a woman, even if she's someone you've slept with, as long as she's the kind who can fight you. I guess that shouldn't be a surprise."
Bean shrugged. "Why a surprise? I've figured more'n once you were gonna do me, and I wasn't going to cut you no slack for not havin' a—uh, for not being a guy. If I got killed by a broad, or killed by a guy, I'd be just as dead either way, wouldn't I?"
"Well—"
"It ain't according to the rules, anyway. You want to play in the game, babe, you play in the game."
"In some bizarre sense, that was a feminist statement."
"Aw, hell. You knew Goldie, for chrissake. I ain't so sure I'd've come through with all my parts intact one-on-one with that dame. If some bum like me thought he'd take a handicap versus her just 'cause she was a woman, she'd've upholstered a couch with his hide. I reckon you're about the same."
"That's probably one of the better compliments you've ever paid me, notwithstanding the comparison to Goldie." Rally smiled ironically. "All right, I give you a specific pardon for that offense. We may yet work through the entire list."
"I don't mind tryin'." He gave her a slight returning smile. Over his shoulder, Rally saw Agent Smith disembarking from a Yellow Cab on the road above. Instantly Bean caught her gaze. "What is it?"
"Smith's here." Rally nodded at him, and Bean turned around to look. Smith actually flinched, though he was still thirty yards away. Rally covered her lips for a moment to hide her suppressed laugh. "Don't scare him too bad, Bean."
"Who, me?"
Smith slowly descended the steps and came closer through the plane trees, making a palms-out gesture. "Flag of truce, Bandit. Right?"
"Right," replied Bean, keeping his hands in his pockets.
"OK…so, Miss Rally here says you may be willing to help extract Sarah and Tiffany Brown from the Dragons." Smith stopped two arm's lengths away. "Is that true? You still have a problem with Brown, I assume."
"I don't care who the client is, dude." Bean shrugged. "Vincent's got my marker, she's askin' me, I'm on board. That's all."
Smith took a glance at Rally, his eyes saying much. "Good to hear it, though I might ask for a little more enthusiasm for the operation. How about the FBI? You have a grudge from yesterday?"
"I wasn't the one got that bump on the head, Smith."
"No, you weren't." Smith rubbed his fading bruise. "It was a fair fight, Bandit. I suppose I'd have done the same in your place."
Bean smiled.
"Yeah, if I could take on four armed agents…and a Chicago cop…while handcuffed, with nothing but a bowie knife and a bad attitude. So, Miss Rally, have you two worked out any plans yet?"
"Uh…no, we weren't discussing tactics." Rally flushed slightly, which Smith did not seem to miss. "I do have some thoughts. Mostly along the lines of employing Bean as the getaway driver, of course. Once the hostages are in a car he's driving, they are home free." Bean raised his brows slightly, obviously gratified that she would say so to his face, but taking the compliment for granted at the same time.
"Hum. Bandit, you have that armored car handy? Buff?"
"No, I shipped Buff out've the Bay Area. Take a day or two to get it back. The one I'm drivin' right now is a 'Vette, so it wouldn't do—no back seat. It's likely I'll have someone riding shotgun along with the two gals?" He looked at Rally, who nodded. "I reckon the Dragons know your Cobra, too, so that's no good either."
"Well," said Smith. "I don't know about loaning you a Bu-car, but I've got enough seniority to swing it, if I thought it was the right thing to do."
"Me, drive a Fed car?" Bean chuckled. "With a smog choke and a slushbox? I'll just lift—well, I'll get somethin'."
"Slushbox?" Smith looked offended. "Hell, no. I stocked that garage myself! There's a few confiscated vehicles we use for undercover operations, and plenty of brand-new horsepower. What do you have in mind?"
"You offering?"
"I suppose I am." Smith threw up his hands. "Miss Rally, I bet you knew I'd do something like this all along. Damn, I'm standing here offering the Roadbuster an unsecured loan of United States Government property! Good thing I'm retiring in four months, because I think I just lost my frigging mind!"
"My lips are sealed." She covered a smile again.
"Well, if yer offering," Bean mused, "I reckon somethin' with a steel body and at least three hundred ponies, that you don't mind gettin' a little dinged up. Anything?"
Smith seemed to make a mental inventory. "Let's see—no, that's a two-seater—hey." The agent grinned. "'69 Charger. Four seats, steel body, and this baby's a Hemi. Just got it off a dope runner down in San Jose, and she needs a paint job anyway."
"Hemi, hey?" Bean nodded in approval. "How's she running?"
"Like a kitten. Shifts a little rough and I think I could stand to do a brake job—she's got front discs and the calipers are original. Other than that, she's cherry."
"Rockin'. Hey, I got me a '68 Charger at home. 440 six-pack, but I got a '70 'Cuda with the Hemi."
"Oh, no shit?" Smith's face lit up. "I had a '70 'Cuda right out've the police academy! Wrapped it around a friggin' tree in '74." His accent began to slip into Georgia drawl.
"Shit, that's a heartbreaker. I'm takin' extra-special care of mine. Heated it up some, but it was a kick-ass engine anyway, naturally. Five hundred and twenty to the ground, easy, though ya got to fill her up every mile and a half, I swear."
"No shit—no friggin' LEVs back then! Dynoed that sucker at…" Bean and Smith traded engine displacements, foot-pounds and model years back and forth for a few minutes, stepping on imaginary clutches and making rumbling noises. Rally listened with half-concealed amusement, letting them find their common ground. All a man really needed to know about another was whether he played with the right toys…
"So have we settled this?" she asked when both eventually paused for breath. "Bean borrows a car from you and we set up the rescue? Have the agents checking out the Pacific Avenue house reported back?"
"Yes, they have," said Smith. "Someone's in there, all right. Staying low and not using the utilities so they don't give themselves away—the meters are all stock still. But the surveillance team has a parabolic mike trained on the basement window, and there are conversations going on…not intelligible, but they were almost positive they heard a child's voice. The kid's being held there, at least."
"There you go, Bean. A kid's in danger. You've got some motivation for this other than my request!"
He shrugged noncommittally. "Brown's kid, yeah. Guess she can't help havin' a cocksuckin' SOB for a daddy."
"You goddamn iceberg…" Rally muttered under her breath. Smith's cell phone rang, and he took it out, pulling up the antenna.
"Smith." He listened for a moment. "OK. Yeah, she's with me. We're talking tactics right now. We'll get back to the Federal Building as soon as we can." He clicked off and looked at both of them. "That was my partner. No more time to screw around, Miss Rally. 426 has issued his challenge."
