Aftershock & Others (40 page)

And then the pavement shook and the night lit up like day as huge explosions ripped through the old freighter, rupturing her hull and shooting hundred-foot columns of flame up from the hatches.

Stenson turned to his photographer. “Are you getting this, Louie?”

“I’m getting it, Joe. Am I ever getting it!”

The adrenaline began seeping away then, leaving Brannigan fagged. He’d missed collaring the Mandarin, but looking at these ten girls, all alive and well because of him, he couldn’t help but feel on top of the world.

But who in the world had called the
Chronicle
?

He sensed motion behind him and turned to see a silver Rolls Royce gliding by. A little red-haired girl smiled and waved from the rear window before the car was swallowed by the fog.

I finished a first draft of my cozy medical mystery (a short novel which I wouldn’t be able to sell), then began outlining Repairman Jack number nine. This time I had a title from the get-go:
Infernal
.

While signing at a Manhattan Barnes & Noble I was approached by a comic book artist named Matthew Dow Smith. He wanted to develop some of my work into graphic novels. I told him he could pitch around and see if anyone was interested. I never shrink from finding a new audience to listen to my stories. By the end of the year we agreed with IDW to do
The Keep
as a five-issue series which would later be combined into a graphic novel: I would script and Matt would illustrate. I was looking forward to this. This graphic novel would show what the movie coulda-shoulda been.

Both
Sims
and
Gateways
were nominated for the 2004 Prometheus Award.
Sims
won and I traveled to the World SF Convention in Boston to accept the award from the Libertarian Futurist Society. As glad as I was to see my novel recognized for its sense of life and defense of human dignity—and asking what exactly does “human” mean?—I experienced no thrill of victory. Maybe because at this stage in my career awards don’t mean much. It’s an honor to be in the running, to have people who care about reading and writing find worth in my work, but the awards themselves…I’ll certainly accept them if offered, but I no longer see much point in them.

Midnight Mass
was published in April but I put off my signing at Dark Delicacies until May, during the Electronic Entertainment Expo (E3) in L.A. Beacon wanted to arrange a meeting between me and Hideo Kojima, the genius who created the
Metal Gear Solid
series of video games. Kojima-san is a major Repairman Jack fan and wants to do a Jack video game. Beacon owns the gaming rights, so Kojima-san has to go through them.

We had lunch at Ivy at the Shore in Santa Monica, one of those places where the elite meet to eat and greet. Saw lots of familiar faces from films and TV that I couldn’t put a name to. (I’m awful at names.)

As of this writing, Kojima and Konami are still waiting for the final film script. (Which may or may not appear in my lifetime.)

We’ve stayed in contact. He sends me his latest games as they come out. I’d send him books but he doesn’t speak English.

As for the script, the producers were underwhelmed with the latest iteration. I sensed a drastic loss of momentum. Then a young, big-name star expressed interest in playing Repairman Jack. His tender age would necessitate some significant rewriting, but his involvement lit a match under the project.

I’d ridden this Hollywood roller coaster before. The best approach was put it on the back burner and not think about it until something happened. At the start of this process (ten years now in development hell) I might have been concerned about a mid-to-late twenties actor playing mid-thirties Jack. But this was Beacon Films. By the time they got around to exposing some film, he’d be just the right age.

Somewhere around midyear I did an extensive edit on
The Tomb
for the Borderlands Press limited edition—excised a lot of extraneous prose. They published the leaner, cleaner, meaner version under my original title,
Rakoshi
.

In November I returned to L.A. for another Dark Delicacies signing (
Crisscross,
this trip). While there I met with folks from Lions Gate TV who wanted to adapt
Sims
into a miniseries. Over the next few weeks the screenwriter, producer, and I discussed changes in the story line to make
Sims
fit a four-hour, two-night format. I was okay with all of them. In fact, one of them struck me as brilliant.

So it was decided: Lions Gate would option
Sims
and pitch it to the networks come January. (SciFi Channel appeared to be the best fit.) LG-TV seemed sanguine about placing it but I wasn’t on the train yet. I’ve learned over the years to wait until the check clears, and even then don’t consider it a lock.

About that time Steve Spruill pointed out a major glitch in
Infernal,
so I went deep into revision mode.

Then I proofed
Reborn
for the Borderlands Press edition. I hadn’t read it since 1989 and had forgotten its wild finale. Wow. Some over-the-top scenes. I wonder if I’d do the same now.

For the few of you who haven’t heard my decades-long whine, listen: In 1983 Paramount released
The Keep
, a film by Michael Mann (yes, that Michael Mann) that happened to share a title and not much else with my novel. A dreadful movie. I learned from a number of sources that Paramount Home Entertainment planned to issue a DVD version late in November with no commentary track. To remedy that I took matters into my own hands by recording an unauthorized commentary track. Along for the ride were Douglas E. Winter (critic, biographer, novelist, columnist for
Video Watchdog
) and David J. Schow (novelist and screenwriter—e.g.,
The Crow
), both acerbic wits with strong opinions about the film. We invited Mann’s input but he passed. (Heh.)

We didn’t exactly trash the film, but we were hard on it—justifiably so. We called the commentary
The Keep Chronicle (Dude, Where’s My Book?)
and planned to release it in a double CD package to be played along with the film. We even had a deal with Pascal Records in L.A. Then we learned that the release was put off indefinitely.

Well, they can run but they can’t hide. When Paramount does release it, we’ll be ready.

During one of my signings at Dark Delicacies, Del Howison (co-owner with his wife, Sue) told me that he and Jeff Gelb were putting together an anthology of stories by people who’d signed at the store. They were calling it—surprise!—
Dark Delicacies
. He had no theme other than a riff on the title.

Delicacies…edibles…

I’d had such fun with my yellow-peril story that I decided to revisit the scene and write a new story, as pulpy as the last, that would intersect “Sex Slaves of the Dragon Tong.”

Some of the epithets might offend those of you with tender ears, but that’s the way they wrote ’em back in the 1930s.

“You have been brought
to attention of a most illustrious one,” Jiang Zhifu said.

The Chinaman wore long black cotton pajamas with a high collar and onyx-buttoned front. He’d woven his hair into a braid that snaked out from beneath a traditional black skullcap. His eyes were as shiny and black as his onyx buttons and, typical of his kind, gave nothing away.

Detective Sergeant Hank Sorenson smiled. “I guess the Mandarin heard about my little show at Wang’s pai gow parlor last night.”

Jiang’s mug remained typically inscrutable. “I not mention such a one.”

“Didn’t have to. Tell him I want to meet him.”

Jiang blinked. Got him! Direct speech always set these chinks back on their heels.

Hank let his cup of tea cool on the small table between them. He’d pretend to take a sip or two but not a drop would pass his lips. He doubted anyone down here would make a move against a bull, but you could never be sure where the Mandarin was concerned.

He tried to get a bead on this coolie. A call in the night from someone saying he was Jiang Zhifu, a “representative”—these chinks made him laugh—of an important man in Chinatown. He didn’t have to say who. Hank knew. The chink said they must meet to discuss important matters of mutual interest. At the Jade Moon. Ten a.m.

Hank knew the place—next to a Plum Street joss house—and he’d arrived early. First thing he’d done was check out the rear alley. All clear. Inside he’d chosen a corner table near the rear door and seated himself with his back to the wall.

The Jade Moon wasn’t exactly high end as Chinkytown restaurants went: dirty floors, smudged tumblers, chipped lacquer on the doors and trim, ratty-looking paper lanterns dangling from the exposed beams.

Not the kind of place he’d expect to meet a minion of the mysterious and powerful and ever-elusive Mandarin.

The Mandarin didn’t run Chinatown’s rackets. He had a better deal: He skimmed them. Never got his hands dirty except with the money that crossed them. Dope, prostitution, gambling…the Mandarin took a cut of everything.

How he’d pulled that off was a bigger mystery than his identity. Hank had dealt with the tongs down here—tough mugs one and all. Not the sort you’d figure to hand over part of their earnings without a fight. But they did.

Well, maybe there’d been a dustup and they lost. But if that was what had happened, it must have been fought out of sight, because he hadn’t heard a word about it.

Hank had been running the no-tickee-no-shirtee beat for SFPD since 1935 and had yet to find anyone who’d ever seen the Mandarin. And they weren’t just saying they’d never seen them—they meant it. If three years down here had taught him anything, it was that you never ask a chink a direct question. You couldn’t treat them like regular people. You had to approach everything on an angle. They were devious, crafty, always dodging and weaving, always ducking the question and avoiding an answer.

He’d developed a nose for their lies, but had never caught a whiff of deceit when he’d asked about the Mandarin. Even when he’d played rough with a character or two, they didn’t know who he was, where he was, or what he looked like.

It had taken Hank a while to reach the astonishing conclusion that they didn’t
want
to know. And that had taken him aback. Chinks were gossip-mongers—yak-yak-yak in their singsong voices, trading rumors and tidbits like a bunch of old biddies. For them to avoid talking about someone meant they were afraid.

Even the little people were afraid. That said something for the Mandarin’s reach.

Hank had to admit he was impressed, but hardly afraid. He wasn’t a chink.

Jiang had arrived exactly at ten, kowtowing before seating himself.

“Even if I knew of such a one,” the Chinaman said, “I am sure he not meet with you. He send emissary, just as my master send me.”

Hank smiled. These chinks…

“Okay, if that’s the way we’re going to play it, you tell your master that I want a piece of his pie.”

Jiang frowned. “Pie?”

“His cream. His skim. His payoff from all the opium and dolla-dolla girls and gambling down here.”

“Ah so.” Jiang nodded. “My master realize that such arrangement is part of everyday business, but one such as he not sully hands with such. He suggest you contact various sources of activities that interest you and make own arrangements with those establishments.”

Hank leaned forward and put on his best snarl.

“Listen, you yellow-faced lug. I don’t have time to go around bracing every penny-ante operation down here. I know your boss gets a cut from all of them, so I want a cut from
him
! Clear?”

“I afraid that quite impossible.”

“
Nothing
is impossible!” He leaned back. “But I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want it all. I don’t even want half of it all. I’ll settle for an even split of just his gambling take.”

Jiang smiled. “This a jest, yes?”

“I’m serious. Dead serious. He can keep everything from the dope and the heifer dens. I want half of the Mandarin’s gambling take.”

Hank knew that was where the money was in Chinatown. Opium was big down here, but gambling…these coolies gambled on anything and everything. They had their games, sure—parlors for fan-tan, mah-jongg, pai gow, sic bo, pak kop piu, and others—but they didn’t stop there. Numbers had a huge take. He’d seen slips collected day and night on street corners all over the quarter. Write down three numbers, hand them in with your money, and pray the last three Dow Jones digits matched yours at the end of trading.

They’d bet on just about any damn thing, even the weather.

They didn’t bother to hide their games either. They’d post the hours of operation on their doors, and some even had touts standing out front urging people inside. Gambling was in their blood, and gambling was where the money was, so gambling was where Hank wanted to be.

No, make that
would
be.

Jiang shook his head and began to rise. “So sorry, Detective Sorenson, but—”

Hank sprang from his chair and grabbed the front of Jiang’s black top.

“Listen, chink-boy! This is not negotiable! One way or another I’m going to be part of the game down here. Get that? A big part. Or else there’ll
be
no game. I’ll bring in squad after squad and we’ll collar every numbers coolie and shut down every lousy parlor in the quarter—mah-jongg, sic bo, you name it, it’s history. And then what will your boss’s take be? What’s a hundred percent of nothing, huh?”

He jerked Jiang closer and backhanded him across the face, then shoved him against the wall.

“Tell him he either gets smart or he gets nothing!”

Hank might have said more, but the look of murderous rage in Jiang’s eyes stalled the words in his throat.

“Dog!” the chink whispered through clenched teeth. “You have made this one lose face before these people!”

Hank looked around the suddenly silent restaurant. Diners and waiters alike stood frozen, gawking at him. But Hank Sorenson wasn’t about to be cowed by a bunch of coolies.

He jabbed a finger at Jiang. “Who do you think you are, calling me a—?”

Jiang made a slashing motion with his hand. “I am servant of one who would not wipe his slippers on your back. You make this one lose face, and that mean you make
him
lose face. Woe to you, Detective Sorenson.”

Without warning he let out a yelp and slammed the knife-edge of his hand onto the table, then turned and walked away.

He was halfway to the door when the table fell apart.

Hank stood in shock, staring down at the pile of splintered wood. What the—?

Never mind that now. He gathered his wits and looked around. He wanted out of here, but didn’t want to walk past all those staring eyes. They might see how he was shaking inside.

That table…if Jiang could do that to wood, what could he do to a neck?

Fending off that unsettling thought, he left by the back door. He took a deep breath of putrid, back-alley air as he stepped outside. The late morning sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to break up the shadows here.

Well, he’d delivered his message. And the fact that Jiang had struck the table instead of him only reinforced what he already knew: no worry about bull busting down here. No chink would dare lay a hand on a buzzer-carrying member of the SFPD. They knew what would happen in their neighborhoods if anyone ever did something like that.

He sighed as he walked toward the street. At least during his time in the restaurant he’d been thinking of something other than Tempest. But now she came back to him. Her face, her form, her voice…oh, that voice.

Tempest, Tempest, Tempest…

“I should have killed
the dog for his insult to you, Venerable,” Jiang said as he knelt before the Mandarin and pressed his forehead against the stone floor.

Instead of his usual Cantonese, Jiang spoke in Mandarin—fittingly, the language the Mandarin preferred.

“No,” the master said in his soft, sibilant voice. “You did well not to harm him. We must find a more indirect path to deal with such a one. Sit, Jiang.”

“Thank you, Illustrious.”

Jiang raised his head from the floor but remained kneeling, daring only a furtive peek at his master. Many times he had seen the one known throughout Chinatown as the Mandarin—not even Jiang knew his true name—but that did not lessen the wonder of his appearance.

A high-shouldered man standing tall and straight with his hands folded inside the sleeves of his embroidered emerald robe; a black skullcap covered the thin hair that fringed his high, domed forehead. Jiang marveled as ever at his light green eyes that almost seemed to glow.

He did not know if his master was a true mandarin—he had heard someone address him once as “Doctor”—or merely called such because of the dialect he preferred. He did know the master spoke many languages. He’d heard him speak English, French, German, and even a low form of Hindi to the dacoits in his employ.

For all the wealth flowing through his coffers, the master lived frugally. The money went back to the homeland for to serve a purpose higher than mere creature comfort.

“So this miserable offspring of a maggot demands half the gambling tribute. Wishes to be—how did he put it?—‘part of the game’?”

“Yes, Magnificent.”

The master closed his eyes. “Part of the game…part of the game…by all means we must grant his wish.”

Jiang spent the ensuing moments of silence in a whirl pool of confusion. The master…giving in to the cockroach’s demands? Unthinkable! And yet he’d said—

An upward glance showed the master’s eyes open again and a hint of a smile curving his thin lips.

“Yes, that is it. We shall make him part of the game.”

Jiang had seen that smile before. He knew what usually followed. It made him three times glad that he was not Detective Sorenson.

Hank held up his
double-breasted tuxedo and inspected it, paying special attention to the wide satin lapels. No spots. Good. He could get a few more wears before sending it for cleaning.

As always, he was struck by the incongruity of a tux in his shabby two-room apartment. Well, it should look out of place. It had cost him a month’s rent.

All for Tempest.

That babe was costing him a fortune. Trouble was, he didn’t have a fortune. But the Chinatown games would fix that.

He shook his head. That kind of scheme would have been unthinkable back in the days when he was a fresh bull. And if not for Tempest it would still be.

But a woman can change everything. A woman can turn you inside out and upside down.

Tempest was one of those women.

He remembered the first time he’d seen her at the Serendipity Club. Like getting gut-punched. She wasn’t just a choice piece of calico; she had the kind of looks that could put your conscience on hold. Then she’d stepped up to the mike and…a voice like an angel. When Hank heard her sing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” that was it. He was gone. He’d heard the song a hundred times on the radio, but Tempest…Tempest made him feel like she was singing to him.

Hank had stayed on through the last show. When she finished he followed her—a flash of his buzzer got him past the geezer guarding the backstage door—and asked her out. A cop wasn’t the usual stage-door Johnny and so she’d said okay.