Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (11 page)

The detective reached for his pocketbook, pulled out a quarter and flipped it up in the air.  The little boy was unable to catch it, but scrambled around on the ground to grab it.  “Excellent work, young Leroy,” Detective Porter said.  “You have proven to ‘most helpful.  Would you care to make a few extra dollars?”

“Yes, sir.  Very much!”

“Then head down to this curio shop, ensure it has no hidden egresses, and choose an elevated vantage point from which you can monitor the Chinaman should he leave again.”

“What the hell is an egress and a vantage point?” the boy replied. 

“Your swearing is inexcusable, young Master Leroy.  I merely want you to keep an eye on the place to ensure our Chinaman doesn’t leave.”

“What happens if he leaves?” the boy asked. 

“Then you will receive a great deal more money to follow him and report his whereabouts to me here.”

“Why don’t you go after him now, then?” the boy asked.

“I am afraid I am in no shape to confront an adversary at this point in the evening,” the detective answered.”

“What the . . . er . . . what exactly is an adversary?” Leroy asked.

“A very bad man whose ways must be changed for the better.  Now, can I count on you, young Master Leroy?”

“Yes sir,” he replied.

“Excellent.  Head down there now, and if there is no news, I shall see you in a half hour.”

The detective walked back into The House of Black Curtains.  The brothel was desolate, save for a few drunkards and the bouncers in the corner gathering themselves and talking quietly.  Thankfully they took no notice of him, but Madame Deborah did.  A few steps closer to the bar, and she scurried toward him with her shotgun.  “Get the hell out of here, stranger.  We’re closed for the evening!”  She pointed the shotgun at his head. 

“Madame, allow me to show you the receipt for my room,” Detective Porter replied.  He held up the receipt with a few dollars cash in front of it.

Madame Deborah snatched the papers from his hand.  She looked at it keenly before throwing her graying dark hair back behind her bare shoulders.  “And who was your escort this evening, good sir?”

“Edwina, ma’ am.  I understand there has been something of a disturbance here tonight, but I assure you, I am just looking for a few moments’ rest.”

“Were you part of it?” she yelled, as she noticed dried blood down one side of his scalp.  She lifted her shotgun closer to his face.

“Just an innocent bystander, I’m afraid, caught in the crossfire,” Detective Porter replied, eyeing the preoccupied bouncers. 

“Head on upstairs, then.  Have Edwina holler down if you need anything.”  She lowered the shotgun and nodded toward the staircase. 

The detective found his way to his room to find Edwina cowering in the corner by the bed.  “Is it over?  Is everything OK downstairs?” she asked.

“At the moment, yes,” he replied.  “Tell me, Edwina, do you know anything of a curio shop a few blocks from here? On Bourbon Street, with a green light hanging above it?

“Can’t say I do,” she said.

“Edwina, I am in need of some more mending, and I’m afraid I am in a hurry.”

Detective Simon Porter

June 10, 1914

Bourbon Street

New Orleans, Louisiana 

It was just after midnight, and the detective’s bandaged head still throbbed.  He jogged, and at times, briskly walked, then jogged again, following the instruction Master Leroy had given him.  Even at such an hour, there were still currents of motley folk streaming past, creating a strange ebb and flow on the streets of New Orleans. 

He came to the inconspicuous store with closed wooden shutters in the only window.  A sole green light burned above the door.  A small sign read: 
Le Pharmacie Chinois
.  He quickly surveyed his surroundings.  “
Pssst
!  Over here!”  Leroy interrupted.  He appeared from a nearby alley.  “I ain’t seen anyone come in or out, sure as shit, I think he still might be in there!”  Leroy Jardin held out his hand expecting his payment like an impoverished bell boy.

“Master Leroy,” Detective Porter said, “Do you hereby affirm to cease the use of such atrocious language?”

“Atrocious?” Leroy asked.

“Oh, just take the goddamn money.”  The detective handed him a dollar. 
One lash!

“Thank you, sir.  It’s been an honor discernin’ your atrocious-ness.”  Leroy tipped his hat and ran down Bourbon Street as though the detective might change his mind on the payment and give chase.

The detective shook his head and, hesitantly, walked into the shop with the sole green light.  Despite its small size, inside was another world filled with curious and ancient smells. Statues of an obese Buddha filled one shelf, statues of an ascetic Buddha filled another.  Confucian icons graced another shelf, and delicate drawings of ying yangs, waterfalls, and Lao Tzu filled yet another.  The majority of the shelves, however, contained jars of earth-colored herbs used for medicinal purposes.  The detective could smell them all but identify very few.  He looked toward the U-shaped counter. An old lady with white hair and hard lines on her tan face sat there, fast asleep.  She was sitting on a stool, her head slumped over her chest and occasionally bobbing.  Detective Porter cleared his throat.  It failed to wake her up.  He cleared it again louder, and this time stomped his foot. 
Nothing.  A deep sleep? 

He investigated the shelves more closely.  He smelled a variety of new scents, identifiable only by their poorly written labels.  Sugary Chrysanthemum flower: Disperses Wind.  Bitter Crow Dipper: Relieves Phlegm.  Earthly Ginko: Mental Clarity.  Fruity Ginseng:  Stimulation of Mind.  Sour Goat Weed:  Aphrodisiac.  Floral Lily Bulb: Sore Throat.  Sweet Wormwood:  Fever & Chills
.

Then, he smelled it.  Between the Lily bulb and the sweet Wormwood, a smell he remembered from his youth, wafting from his father’s den.  A smell he remembered from his years of service as a Pinkerton agent, working cases in the slums of society. 
Opium!

He narrowed down the smell.  It emanated from a small, nearly seamless crack in the divide between two of the shelves.  He pushed on it gently.  Part of the wall gave way, but not enough.  He looked again at the shelves. 
Nothing?
  Hanging, however, from the ceiling was a small, round paper lantern with a metal base, tethered by chain links.  It was the only one of its kind in the store and placed near the hidden door. 
Surely not a coincidence.
  The detective instinctively reached up and pulled it.  A locking mechanism clicked and released.  The wall now budged.  The detective pushed the hidden door open all the way and looked back at the counter.  The shopkeeper was still asleep.

With extreme caution, Detective Porter entered the secret passage.  The sweetly offensive smell was now stronger.  A few steps down the hallway, he entered a den and saw people—addicts—through the shifting, milky white smoke.  Purple curtains partitioned the den, a haven dimly lit with gaslights and beeswax candles fastened to the red brick walls.  Some men sat in cushioned booths inhaling deeply through large, arm-sized pipes.  Others used smaller artisan pipes to inhale the vaporized sap from poppy flowers.  Some lay in loungers or asleep on mats and colorful rugs on the floor.  For those waking up from their initial dream state, women in colorful mandarin gowns provided refreshing spirits and chilled rose water.  The detective walked through the snoring, chattering, and quiet laughter of the addicts.

He walked through curtain after curtain until the labyrinth ended in a larger room where he saw Mr. Jade, the Chinaman from the bar, conversing with a couple by a nearby hallway.  The rotund opium peddler seemed to be brokering a deal between a man with a dock worker’s build and an Oriental woman clad in a black silk robe embroidered with deep red roses.  It did not quite reach her knees.  Her coal-black hair was tied back in a ponytail that contrasted her smooth, seemingly ashen skin.  She looked delicate, illusory, like she might evaporate wholly in a wisp of smoke after removing her robe.  Mr. Jade provided more recreation than just opium.

A girl approached Detective Porter from behind and wrapped her sinewy tan arms around his waist. She felt the hard leather holster near his belt buckle and muttered something in Chinese. 

“No,” the detective said firmly as he removed her arms.  Mr. Jade led the couple down a narrow hallway with three doors on either side.  The detective, still unnoticed, followed.  The girl—who, Detective Porter realized upon turning around, wore no clothes—pranced behind him, whispering more Chinese phrases at him in a slurred voice.  Mr. Jade showed the happy couple to the first room in the hallway before walking down the end of the hallway and turning into another room.  The detective proceeded down the hallway and glanced into all the rooms on his left and right. 

“
Sǐwáng
,” the naked girl whispered. “
Sǐwáng
!”

Some rooms were vacant, a few had sleeping patrons, others had moaning men and women contorted in curious positions on wicker mats.  The last room on the right, the room Mr. Jade had entered, had a drawn curtain.  Detective Porter peeked inside and saw the old man leaning over a tall dresser in the back of the room.  The detective let the curtain fall back down and unbuttoned his jacket to reveal his gun.  The naked girl finally ran back to the den.  He pushed the curtain aside and made his entrance. 

He’s vanished again!

A shadow slithered quickly from the only unlit corner.  Mr. Jade attacked like a viper lying in wait.  The detective did his best to counter the punches, but they came so fast and so frequent.  Sometimes a closed fist, sometimes an open one, sometimes aimed toward his stomach, and others his neck.  The detective finally punched back, but to no avail.  The old man was spry, surprisingly quick; when he didn’t evade the attack, he blocked it effortlessly with his hands in circular motions.  The detective suddenly felt like a cat’s prey, merely being toyed with before the final blow.

The old man spun around and unleashed a kick to the detective’s midsection, launching him across the room into the wall. With the wind knocked out of him, the detective stood and drew his gun.  Before he could cock the hammer, Mr. Jade disarmed him, threw the gun across the room, and punched him twice in the ribs before retreating.  The detective slouched; he thought he hadn’t any wind to lose but was wrong.  He raised his hand in submission.  “One moment, please,” the detective said pleadingly. 

Mr. Jade stroked his long white mustache before folding his arms. 

“I only wish to converse,” Detective Porter assured him.

Mr. Jade remained silent and tilted his head.

“I wish to bargain for the stone . . . the . . . the one Captain Pascal relieved Mr. Hamilton of.  That is all.  I only wish to . . .” The detective suddenly felt a strange burning coursing through his body.  His legs gave way.  His back hit the wall, and he slid down to the floor.  Once on the ground, he steadied himself with his hands.

“What have you done to me?” the detective asked, his voice alarmed.  He looked down at his body. 
Did he poison me?  How?

Mr. Jade lifted a hand; a thin needle reflected the flickering candle light.

The detective tried to surge to his feet, but the viper’s poison had spread.  His left arm began to go numb.  He saw his gun laying on the floor across the room, the barrel pointed directly at him. 

Mr. Jade finally spoke in a steady, sagely voice. “Calm yourself.  It will slow the process.”

“What have you done to me!” the detective repeated, now feeling panicked.

Mr. Jade turned around and slid back to his dresser.  He lit a small candle and placed it by a nearby mirror.  Then he shed his skin.  His mandarin hat came off first and along with it, his long white hair.  His real hair was black and closely cropped at the sides.  With a few quick motions, he ripped off his mustache, goatee, and alabaster eyebrows.  The old man was not so old.  He reached in his mouth and pulled out wads of cotton from his cheeks, changing the contour of his face from a gluttonous round to a wrathful square.  He threw the saliva-soaked wads on top of his dresser and rolled his tongue around in his mouth, making a sound like an eel skirting coral.  He began rubbing his face violently and checking the mirror; an odd powder was flaking off.  Next, he opened his black robes and pulled out the pillows responsible for his roundness.  With all the pillows removed, he shed the black robe entirely.  And there he stood, nearly naked save for a white wrap cloth.  He was a much younger oriental man, with nearly every one of his solid muscles inked in different irezumi colors of black, blue, green, and orange.  Two snakes ran up one arm, and a tiger and dragon wrestled on the other. His whole body was a wild menagerie and an exquisite garden intertwined in a harmonious landscape—a beautiful veneer for such a dangerous man 

“Who are you, really?” Detective Porter asked.

The former Mr. Jade turned and opened a drawer.  The wild animals undulated as his muscles contracted and expanded.  He pulled out two bowls, a pipe, and a black pouch.  “My name is Monomi Mono.”  From the pouch he pulled the curious stone that had once been attached to Jonathan Hamilton’s chest.  He spit on it, and threw it toward the detective.  The thin stone shattered into three uneven pieces just next to the detective’s now inoperable left arm.  “There is your stone.”

Monomi took the candle, bowls, and pipe before he walked toward the detective and sat down on the floor a few feet away, legs crossed.  He set up the simple contraption in front of him.  The detective recorded as best he could.  The markings on the shattered stone, they matched the ones burned into Monomi’s tattooed chest. 

“Is it poison?  What you did to me?” the detective asked.

Monomi held the bowl over the candle and rocked it back and forth.  “Yes,” he replied, concentrating on his task.

“Will it hurt?” the detective asked.

“Yes,” Monomi said, as the small yellow cube of poppy sap began smoking. He took his small pipe and inhaled the vapors.  He exhaled a large plume of white, which hung in the air, and for a moment it looked like his soul hovered above his painted body.  “
Fugu
,” he said.

“What?” Detective Porter asked.

“There is a fish where I am from called
fugu
.  Very deadly.  The poison I gave you comes from its liver.  It will paralyze your muscles, paralyze your lungs, but leave your mind intact.  It will most l  ikely kill you.”

“Most likely?” Detective Porter repeated.

“Most likely,” Monomi affirmed.

The detective raised his right arm to point and felt a burning sensation.  “You are not Chinese.”

“No.”

“Why steal the stone?  Why the deception?  What does the stone mean?” the detective asked.

Monomi laughed and mimicked the detective’s pointing finger.  He pointed to the all- seeing Pinkerton eye on the detective’s lapel.  “Even in the throes of deaths, you continue your work.  You are a noble man, Detective Porter.”  Monomi briefly reheated the opium and sucked in more of the vapor through his pipe.  This time he got up, grabbed the detective by his throat and exhaled the vapor directly into the detective’s nostrils. 

No, please . . . no . . . stop!” The detective tried to struggle, but now both arms ceased to function.

Monomi resumed his original position a few feet away.  He crossed his legs and tapped his pipe.  “It will calm your mind and ease your passing.”

“If you want to ease my passing, give me answers,” the detective said, still trying to expel the narcotic from his lungs. 

“Very well,” Monomi replied.  “I remember that you told Captain Pascal you played chess.  Tell me, what do you think is the most powerful piece on the chessboard?”

“The King,” he answered.  “The game ends with his demise.”

“No.”

“The Queen, then,” the detective said.

“No.”

“I don’t understand,” the detective said, feeling his neck get stiffer.  It was getting harder to swallow.

“The pieces do nothing without a hand to move them,” Monomi said.

“No . . . no,” the detective said.  “The mind, then . . . the mind is the most important. The mind has to make the decision of which piece to move.”