Gunsmith Cats Fan Fiction ❯ Chasing the Dragon ❯ Chapter Three ( Chapter 3 )

 

“She is with her mother, in her own home,” said the assassin, smiling blandly. “I have simply placed guards around the perimeter of the grounds. Each is armed and well concealed. Your wife has been requested not to leave, for her own safety and that of her child. I need not point out that if you or either of your men attempts to escape, I will take all necessary measures.”

 

Brown's handsome face resembled a grinning skull. “You have any children, 426?”

 

“No.”

 

“That's too bad. Some things about life...and death...never really hit you in the face until you do.”

 

“Perhaps,” said the assassin, taking off his gloves. He stepped up to Brown and slapped him across the left cheek. “I hold all your lives in my hands, Brown. Remember that as this week wears on.” He snapped his fingers at his men and left the room. The men took up stations in the hallway on each side of the door, 426 striding down the corridor alone, and O'Toole closed the door with a bang. Manichetti picked up O'Toole's knife and cut the cord holding Brown's hands to the bed rail.

 

“I think you are going to remember that better than I will,” said Brown, meaning it for 426. He reached under his pillow and took out his .44 magnum revolver, laying it on the covers. “I can't fire this any more, Tom. I'm going to be counting on you. You too, Manny.”

 

“Sure, boss,” said the driver.

 

O'Toole retrieved his weapons and paraphenilia, putting them back into the cargo pockets of his fatigues. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I wasn't sure that Chink poof was goin' ta listen.” Dropping to his knees beside Brown's bed, he crossed himself and briefly put his forehead on his clasped hands.

 

“If it's a religious moment for you, Tom, you must have faith,” said Brown, putting his left hand on O'Toole's rusty hair. “I'll get us out of this, huh?”

 

“I know yeh will, sir.” He smiled up at Brown, his sharp face lit with something more than optimism.

 

“But what about Miss Tiffany?” said Manichetti, sitting heavily in his chair. “God, if they're serious...”

 

“Have no doubt about it; they are. You recall correctly. 426 masterminded a plot to befriend a wealthy Hong Kong immigrant, take out life insurance on her son, and kill him for the payout. The police found the little boy in Golden Gate Park, strangled. The actual murderers are in jail. 426, obviously, is not.” Brown reached for his billfold and took out a set of photo inserts, looking at a picture of a beautiful blonde woman holding a dark-eyed girl on her lap. “We can't simply fulfill the terms of the reprieve, of course. The elements in the Dragons that hate me will hate me even more if I escape their revenge. This just grew larger than a dispute about how best to recruit a man who despises taking orders.”

 

“How much larger?” said Manichetti.

 

“Hand me the phone,” said Brown. “I'm going to call the FBI.”

 

 

 

$

 

 

 

“Careful,” said Rally, nonchalantly pulling back her jacket and fingering the butt of her CZ75. “If I don't hear an answer in about ten seconds, I'm going to take the leash off.” She batted her lashes over her shoulder at Bean, who cracked his knuckles and showed his teeth. The bartender's defiance began to slip. He cast a frightened eye around the room; the two or three patrons put their money down on their tables and slipped out. “See, your cronies can figure it out without too much trouble. They'd rather not have to try to pick my friend here out of a photo lineup.”

 

“Who the hell are you people, anyway?” the bartender demanded, shakily. “I never saw either of you before. Why do you want to know about Sly Brown?”

 

“OK, your way now,” said Rally to Bean. She stepped back from the bar to give him room. Bean grinned, then picked the bartender up by the necktie. The man dangled for a moment, gasping and clawing. Bean let him down, then gave him a casual shove that sent him crashing into the liquor display behind the bar. Bottles fell and broke, a pungent smell rising from the floor. The bartender bounced off the shelves and darted a hand under the cash register. He came up brandishing a little black Glock. Rally drew her pistol, shot it out of his hand and leaped up and over the bar. Bean grabbed the man's necktie again and slammed his head to the bar. Rally put the CZ75 under the bartender's jaw.

 

“Look, it doesn't matter why we want to know. We do. So tell us.”

 

“He...he got back in town last night,” gasped the bartender.

 

“And went where?”

 

“He was in the hospital this morning. Got surgery on his hand after a fight.”

 

“Who's with him? Careful, we know something about them.”

 

“Manichetti drove him in, but he had to have some stitches for a cut in the leg. And O'Toole is guarding him with a bullet in his wrist. Said it wasn't bothering him enough to have it taken out yet.”

 

“Guess they went up against an army, hmm?” Rally smiled at Bean.

 

“I don't know what happened. I went to the hospital to get instructions, since he's been gone for a week. Usually he shuttles between here and L.A. This time he flew out to Chicago and back for some kinda big shipment. He told me it was going to take his personal handling.”

 

“Did he say what he's doing next?”

 

“No. He looked pretty shitty. Something went wrong in Chicago, that I gathered. And worse in L.A. But I'm just a middleman. I keep stuff in the back room for a few hours, it gets picked up and I get paid. I mostly see the couriers. But he's a nice guy, you know? He likes to drop by sometimes when he's in town and get acquainted, have a few drinks. Even met his wife once when he brought her up from L.A. for their anniversary.”

 

“What a sweetheart,” said Rally with a laugh.

 

“You're not going to kill him, are you?”

 

“He's got something that belongs to us. Which hospital?”

 

“No way.” Rally ground the muzzle of her pistol harder under the bartender's chin. “Ow! Alexian Brothers! But he's probably checked out by now. You won't find him there. He said it was a red-alert security watch. O'Toole even frisked me before he let me in the room. He'll be at a safe house. I don't know any of those!”

 

“You know who he's watching out for?”

 

“No. O'Toole and Manichetti always stick with him. There were some other wiseguys there, though—some Chinese muscle outside the door. Never saw them before.”

 

“You know who he works for?”

 

“I don't ask questions like that!”

 

“What do you distribute for him? Coke or heroin?”

 

“Coke. He doesn't deal in smack.”

 

Rally cocked a brow at Bean. “I'm getting a funny feeling about this.” She returned her attention to the bartender. “Thanks for the info. If I find out you've called Brown about us, I'm going to send the SFPD in with a search warrant. So keep your mouth shut.”

 

“The cops?” The bartender rubbed his throat when Bean let go of his necktie and Rally holstered her pistol. “You're Chicago mob, aren't you? What's the big—”

 

“Sorry, honey. Bounty hunter.” She flashed her ID at him, not long enough for him to read the name. “I play on the other side of the tracks.”

 

“Coulda fooled me...” the man muttered, shuffling in broken liquor bottles.

 

“Hey, I asked nicely. And my friend was standing right here, too. Tch, tch! He's hard to miss!” She waggled her fingers goodbye as Bean pushed the door open to leave. Outside, the brilliant light of noon struck off the street and the sparkling bay, the skies blue and fresh. Rally blinked and put on her sunglasses. Bean followed suit. They crossed the street quickly and rounded the corner. Buff stood in the mouth of an alley, facing towards the street. They got in and Bean started the car. “We'll have to thank your contact for giving us that address. But we're going to need to know a little more than what this guy could tell us.”

 

Bean shot the car out of the alley and took a hard right, gunning it up a steep hill. “He didn't know much about Brown's plans.”

 

“Probably no one outside his inner circle does. Manichetti and O'Toole, huh?” She got out her pad and jotted some notes. “Italian driver—I remember he was dark—and the other one's a sharpshooter and bodyguard. Sure was a fast mover.”

 

“I didn't see the shooter. But the guy I hit with the throwing knife was a New York wop, all right. He didn't say much, but it stuck out all over. He don't dress like a wiseguy, though. I saw him in Chicago, too.”

 

“Hey, we haven't really discussed that yet! Tell me about the original deal.” They crested the top of the hill and looked down on the ocean over descending rows of white and pastel buildings that cascaded down the slopes like out-of-season snowbanks in the summer sunshine. The ocean shone blue-green and smooth, crisscrossed with an occasional sailboat wake. To their right she could glimpse the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge as it joined high headlands across from the city. Behind the sharp peaks of a group of islands about thirty miles offshore, a low grey cloud bank hunkered far off the coast. “Wow, this is a pretty city. I think I like it here. Better than L.A., anyway! Look, there's the famous San Francisco fog!”

 

“Heeeyyy, nice view,” said Bean. “I think this is where they shot part of the car chase in 'Bullitt'.”

 

“You philistine...hey, I think you're right. Isn't that the corner where the first hubcap comes off the—oh, geez!” Rally laughed and swatted at Bean, who dodged her, snickering. “The deal?”

 

“Yeah. I got a call from Brown last Tuesday evening. He said he'd gotten the number from a regular client of mine. Might have been telling the truth, might not. Plenty of people know that number. Including you.” He grinned at her. “He said he was a Chicago art dealer. He had a shipment coming in to New York and he needed the stuff for a gallery opening the next day, plus he wanted to ride along with it. I told him to call U-Haul. Then he said, all confidential-like, that these paintings didn't have the right export papers. He pussyfooted around for a while—you heard how he likes to jaw—and he never came right out and said it, but I got the idea that he had a bunch of stuff from a museum heist in Europe. That was more up my alley. Since it was short notice and it's riskier when I ain't got some time to plan, I told him I'd do it for a hundred grand. That's about twice what I'd charge a few days ahead of time.”

 

“And he didn't object.”

 

“I didn't get no argument. He said he'd meet me with the money in twenty minutes. I drove out to a bar in the Loop, pretty ritzy joint, and he was there. All dolled up in his Armani suit and his blonde highlights. I could tell he wasn't no Chicagoan—he stunk of L.A. No flunkies with him except one red-head guy with an accent.”

 

“What kind of accent?”

 

“Dunno. Maybe English—or he was a Mick. Yeah, he sounded like the St. Paddy's Day parade. He was packing under his jacket and kept an eye on me.”

 

“That might have been O'Toole. I saw the sharpshooter, but he was wearing a balaclava both times—sort of like—whoa!”

 

“What?”

 

“Like the Provisional I.R.A. Or any number of violent splinter groups. The name would fit, too...there were a number of them that fled to the USA in the '80s and went into the Irish underground. In San Francisco and New York and Boston. Some of them petitioned for asylum and mostly ended up deported back to Northern Ireland. But not all. Some of them never got caught.”

 

“So this guy's got terrorist training? Rockin'.” Bean dug into a bag of walnuts in the shell and offered her one.

 

Rally bit her lips and shook her head at the walnut. “He's done this for real, all right, if that's who he really is.” She looked out the car window at the view again, but they had descended from the heights and now cruised the lower streets, passing ornate Edwardian apartment buildings and blocks of shops and restaurants. “I wonder how many policemen and British soldiers he's sniped. We are going to have to watch out for him. Manichetti isn't much of a fighter, from what we saw.”

 

“Naw, he's a wimp. One poke let all the air out of him.” Bean cracked a walnut in his teeth.

 

“Still, he's a factor. Go on.”

 

“I gave him my conditions—no drugs, no double-crosses, no discounts. He gave me the dough and a map, and never blinked an eye. I cut back home, got my Boss 302 juiced up, went back to pick him up and hit the road. He jabbered the whole way, 'till I was about ready to pitch him out the window. We met the boat in New York early the next morning and they loaded me up with the stuff. It looked like canvas rolls—like they'd cut the paintings off the frames and rolled them inside out. They unrolled one to show me. Some pile of weird-colored crap he said was supposed to be a broad combin' her hair.”

 

“Abstract art?”

 

“Whatever.” He ate the walnut and tossed the shell out the window at a stoplight, hitting it left-handed. “I never touched the things with my own hands. He'd told me his guys would do all the handling since these were so valuable. That was fine with me, though I couldn't see what was so great about 'em. I didn't smell anything wrong. I'm a driver, not a critic. I made good time 'cause he fell asleep on the way back, which probably saved his life, and delivered him and the load to a garage on the South Side that afternoon.”

 

“You drove eighteen hundred miles in less than twenty-four hours?”

 

“No sweat, babe. Driving's my favorite thing to do in this universe. Gettin' paid for it gives me everything I'll ever need.”

 

“Really.” Money and machine...the sum of his attachments!

 

“That guy Manichetti was there, and some other flunkies—just errand boys. Brown kept talking me up while they were unloadin' me. Asked me all kinds of personal questions, like he's trying to be my friend or something. Goddamn touchy-feely Californian.”

 

“Did he ask why you didn't run drugs any more?”

 

“Yep, in a roundabout kind of way. I didn't give him much of an answer—I said I'd lost a bet, but I didn't give any details. I mean, what was I gonna tell him? This little gal asked me not to? And then queered a big deal to make me keep my promise?” Bean shook his head, chuckling. “I don't care if you know I can get blindsided. Nothing I can do about it anyway. But that's not the kind of thing I want gettin' around, huh?”

 

“I suppose not. But Goldie told me once that she knew…”

 

“Yeah, she figured that out on her own. I didn't tell no one.”

 

“Oh…How'd you realize what was really in the load?”

 

“Well, all that personal relating rubbed me wrong. I started paying attention to the unloading. It was hard to see, but Manichetti was poking at the rolls with something. Like a long fat needle. I thought I saw him putting holes in a couple of them. That struck me pretty funny. Why poke holes in valuable paintings? So after they left, I came back and checked the floor with a flashlight. I dabbed up a few grains of smack. Didn't have to test it or nothing. I know that shit blindfolded.”

 

“I'm not sure I want to ask how. What'd you do then?”

 

“Blew my goddamn top, that's what. If Brown'd still been there, I'd have killed him barehanded. You want to know how mad I was? I kicked a dent in my own car door! My Boss Mustang!” Bean shook his head as if astounded at his own capacity for violence. “Then I went home, called a guy I know to ship Buff to L.A., 'cause I knew the bastard must be high-tailing it home, and got in my black 'Vette. I crossed the damn country in three days and chased him to ground. You know the rest.”

 

“Do I? How'd you find him at all?”

 

“Made a lot of phone calls on the way and then started circulating on the street. I got lucky and cornered him pretty quick.”

 

“Lucky? When they'd put O'Toole up in the rafters to be ready for you?”

 

Bean gave her a glance. “OK, I got blindsided. Too damn mad to think it through. Sure, when they heard I was comin', they set it up so I'd find them on their own turf.”

 

“Brown's not a dummy. Not entirely cool-headed—he gave that order to shoot you on the spur of the moment—but perfectly intelligent.”

 

“I don't do so bad, babe.” He made a face. “If I got time to plan, that is. Don't like charging in without thinking it over.”

 

“Of course. You've put together some brilliant...operations. But I've noticed you expect things to go according to plan once you've worked out the steps. You won't change your course in midstream.”

 

“There ain't too many that can make me change my course.”

 

“No, you're practically a force of nature. I guess you can rely on that most of the time.”

 

“Fuckin' A,” said Bean with a nasty grin. “Uhh...'scuse my language,” he said a moment later.

 

“Umm...so, did Becky have any good leads when you called her?”

 

“Heh. Becky tell you that?”

 

“She sold me the info. Along with the background on Brown and that tidbit about his trying to recruit you.”

 

“I think she offered it to me, but all I wanted was their heading. I wasn't going to pay extra for anything else.”

 

“I'd love to hear the two of you negotiating over money!”

 

“She's a pro, like me. Yeah, she told me to go to Frisco and she gave me a quick rundown on the Dragons. I'd figured Brown was an independent, since he had a mix of people. You don't see a wop and a Mick working together like that—'cept in California, I guess.”

 

“So we paid twice for mostly the same information. At least we don't have to do that now.” Bean's uncouth vocabulary rubbed her the wrong way—she'd had slurs applied to her more than once because of her tawny Indic complexion. She could tell he meant nothing by it, so she decided not to comment.

 

“Yep, share and share alike. Though I don't have anything else to tell ya. I got some addresses from some other contacts, but that's all L.A. stuff.”

 

“How about that photograph?”

 

“What photograph?”

 

“The one in your wallet. The woman and the little girl.” He stared at her. “I confess, Bean. I went through your jacket while you were in the shower.”

 

“Fair enough, since I left it there. I knew you weren't shy.” Bean shook his head with a smile. “Nope. I got that picture from Brown himself.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“He gave it to me on the way while he was gabbing. I guess he passes 'em out everywhere, because he had a stack of 'em in his billfold. I dropped it between the seats and dug it out later. I thought it might come in handy, if that really is his old lady.” Bean got his wallet out and tossed it to her.

 

“I have the feeling she probably is. Funny.” Rally extracted the photo and flattened it on the dash. A lovely smile on the mother's face, and a happy laugh on the little girl's. “I guess he's proud of having such a beautiful wife.”

 

“Beautiful?” Bean turned to look and shrugged. “Aaah, I go for brunettes.” His eyes flicked to Rally's hair.

 

She let that pass with no more than a skipped breath. Since he'd left her in his bed, he couldn't have wanted to have sex with her very badly after all—she could take a stray comment knowing that the matter would probably subside in a little while. “He seems to be very attached to his family, for a murderous drug dealer...or at least he wants people to think so.”

 

“Yeah, he's a pussycat. Cuddles up to ya like you were the love of his life, all friendly and purring, then turns around and sinks his teeth into your ass. I hate his frickin' guts.”

 

“I got that impression. You're going to a lot of trouble to get him.”

 

“No, you get him. I get the money.”

 

“Half the money.”

 

“Aw, shit. I didn't drive all this way—”

 

“Why didn't you fly out and get Buff at the airport?”

 

“Fly? In an airplane? You gotta be kidding me.” Bean looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted feathers. “I drive. I don't sit in a damn cargo compartment and wait for some asshole in a uniform to crash his tin bird into a mountain. 'Sides, I don't fit in the damn seats. Tried it once. Never again.”

 

“Hey, I think I finally found something Bean Bandit is afraid of!” Rally whooped and clapped her hands while Bean looked mildly embarrassed.

 

“Well, shit, I took it kinda hard when Stevie Ray Vaughan got killed. It's my tribute to his memory. Why didn't you fly out here, instead of putting five thousand miles on the Cobra for your round trip?”

 

“Hey, I'm a driver too! Don't really like going along for the ride.”

 

Bean twitched his mouth. “What about now? You not enjoyin' ridin' around town?” Rally sat up straight. Now that he had called it to her attention, it did seem strange that she had never even felt the urge to comment on his driving. She'd only been observing his expertise with a half-conscious connoisseur's eye, admiring the perfect acquaintance with his machine that had to come from endless practice, but also from a natural affinity with chassis and wheel and suspension. Of course in extremity he could jump his car over obstacles or hold firm to the wheel while executing a violent slalom at high speed. In town driving, the finer aspects of his absolute control showed. This car functioned as an extension of his body; he wore it like a custom-tailored jacket and carried her as softly as if she nestled in his arms. Rally herself was a skilled and fearless driver, but she had to admit that her passengers sometimes took a beating. Bean seemed to know exactly how far he could push the acceleration on a curve without rolling her around in her seat, exactly how to negotiate the hills without slipping backwards in stop-and-go or jolting her with quick starts. Some of the most spectacular San Francisco streets gave her pause at their extraordinary steepness, but she and Bean climbed and descended them with the smoothness of a gondola on a cable. Buff itself was a superb piece of engineering, but its driver might have been the most impressive feature of a near-perfect system for forward motion. Traffic seemed to part for him as if the cars themselves paid homage.

 

“Something the matter?” said Bean, returning her preoccupied stare.

 

“I...I guess since I know how you drive, it never seemed like a problem. Not exactly a lack of risk, but that comes with the operation. But no, it hasn't bothered me.”

 

Bean smiled out the window. “Guess I'll have to take that as a compliment.”

 

“Oh, I've got one more question about that delivery. I called a contact on the Chicago PD after I got wind of you in Hollywood. He told me about a heroin shipment rumor, but also that they hadn't tracked it down. How did the Chicago cops hear about it?”

 

Bean shrugged.

 

“Come clean with me, Bean. Remember, your best shot?”

 

“Yeah, OK. It's kinda embarrassing.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I was so mad, I called 911. Damn fool thing to do, considerin' I was the courier, but that's what I did. Gave a description of the car they left in. Aaah, it was a long shot.”

 

Rally shook her head in smiling wonder. “Bean Bandit called 911 on some drug traffickers. Truth is stranger than fiction.”

 

“Where the hell we going, anyway? This cruisin' around the sights is kinda fun, but we got work to do.”

 

“I'm hungry. Let's get some lunch, and I'll do some more calling around. I need to put some things together to make two and two...”

 

“There's a Mickey D's.” Bean started to slow.

 

“No!” Rally shouted a little louder than she had meant to, and Bean looked at her strangely. “I...I mean, let's look for something better. The restaurants in San Francisco are famous! How about Chinese, or Thai?”

 

“You like that slop? Little bits a' green stuff on rice? Shee-it.”

 

“Humor me! We're dealing with a Chinese syndicate here—maybe the food will get me thinking along the right lines!” They approached a red and white sign on a storefront, grouped with other Chinese businesses. “Hey! That says Eight Dragon Delight—what a name! That's where I want to eat.”

 

Bean made a boyish face of disgust. “I ain't eatin' broccoli, or that raw fish crap.”

 

“Order whatever the hell you want! And sushi is Japanese, by the way. There's a spot—so park.”

 

“I think I oughtta have a meter chargin' by the quarter mile...” muttered Bean. He pulled Buff into the just-vacated space, cutting off a black Lexus by millimeters. The other car screeched to a halt and the driver jumped out, shaking his fist. Bean unfolded himself from Buff's driver's seat and stood up, barely glancing around at the Lexus.

 

“Hey! Watch where you're going, white boy!” the driver shouted in a California accent. Another man got out of the car. Both were Chinese and both wore flashy suits, accessorized with large gold watches. A gold stud shone in the driver's earlobe. The second man had a gold tooth in front and a bad perm.

 

“What'd you call me?” asked Bean mildly.

 

“White trash cocksucka,” said Gold Tooth. In contrast with the first, he had a heavy Chinese accent. “You get you big ass out of ma pahking spot.”

 

“And what if I don't?” said Bean, just as mildly. Rally took a better look at the men. Both were armed, their indifferently cut suits not hiding the outlines of shoulder holsters. Gangsters. She stood up and unbuttoned her jacket.

 

“We stomp that ugly car, that's what,” said Gold Stud. “Where did you get that piece of shit?”

 

Rally saw Bean's face change. Slowly, he turned around, cracking his knuckles.

 

“Think he have ugly cah built just to fit his big white ass? How tall you, cocksucka?” said Gold Tooth.

 

Bean looked down at the two men, neither of whom was over five foot six. “At least when I fart, I don't blow sand in my shoes.”

 

“Hey, white boy! You don't talk to me like that!” The altercation was drawing an audience. Rally looked into the window of the Eight Dragon Delight and saw a handsome young Chinese man peering out with concern in his face. He stepped behind the host desk and picked up a cordless phone, beginning to dial.

 

“You got bad eyesight, short stuff. My car ain't ugly, and callin' me white is painting at least half of me the wrong color.” Bean stepped closer to Gold Tooth. “Want a better look, 'fore I knock you blind?”

 

Gold Tooth pulled a cheap automatic and began to wave it around. The crowd gasped. Rally drew her CZ75. She took aim at Gold Tooth's trigger finger, but the retreating crowd was too dense for a safe shot. “Shit! His ho's got a gun!” yelled Gold Stud. He reached for his own weapon. This was about to get hideous. The young Chinese man in the restaurant was talking urgently on the cordless phone.

 

“Drop those guns!” shouted Rally. She flashed her ID. “No one has to get hurt here! Drop 'em, I said!”

 

“Drop it yourself, bitch!” shouted Gold Stud, brandishing another cheap automatic. He drew back one shoe and gave Buff a resounding kick. “We're gonna stomp this car into scrap, and then we're gonna kick the shit outta Too Tall here, and then we're gonna make you kneel down and take it from both—”

 

“Feet off the car,” said Bean. “Now.”

 

“Fuck you, white-eyes! What 'cha gonna do about it, big man?” He hit the driver's window with the butt of his automatic, looking surprised when the glass didn't break.

 

“Nothin' much,” said Bean, and took Gold Stud by the collar and belt. He lifted and threw him bodily into Gold Tooth, who went down, his pistol firing wildly. The crowd parted and some people ran. Rally vaulted over Buff's hood and landed face to face with Gold Stud, who rolled up to his knees and swung his pistol around to aim at her. She shot his right forefinger off from six feet away as his shot bounced off Buff and her bullet lodged in his shoulder. He screamed, his hand spurting blood, and dropped the gun. Gold Tooth rolled over and fired up at Bean, who put up one elbow to shield his jaw and kicked the man between the legs with an enormous steel-toed boot. Rally could hear the sickening crunch; the firing ceased and Gold Tooth doubled up on the sidewalk, whining. Bean shook the 9mm slugs out of his jacket and straightened up.

 

“Ya want some lunch?” he said to Rally, then smiled wolfishly and lit a cigarette.

 

Rally scooped up the guns and frisked both the men, then handcuffed them together to a bike rack. “Did anyone else get hit?” Rally stood up and scanned the crowd, but no one seemed to have been injured besides the two gangsters. “Has anyone called the cops?” she yelled.

 

“Yeah,” said the young Chinese man, poking his head out of the restaurant. “They should be here soon. Lady, I'll speak up for you, but they are probably going to arrest everyone involved. Sorry.”

 

“It's OK. Happens to me a lot.” She sat down on Buff's hood. “I'm just glad no one else got hurt, the way those two were blasting away. Sheer luck.”

 

“Luck's my stock in trade,” said the young Chinese man. “Eight dragons for good fortune.” He bobbed his head up at his sign and smiled. “You're not a cop, obviously, and I doubt you're another gangster—so what are you?” A teenaged Chinese girl peeked out the front door, wearing an apron and a wide-eyed expression.

 

“I'm a bounty hunter.” Rally showed him her ID. “Irene Vincent, from Chicago. I go by `Rally'. Sorry about the mess in front of your place.”

 

“There's no one in this neighborhood who more richly deserved to be messed up,” he replied. “They're just cheap punks, but they can make life hard for upstanding pillars of the business community like me.” He smiled, his smooth tan face set off by very white teeth. “I'm Larry Sam.” They shook hands. “This is Mengleng Wu—she's my lone employee.” The teenaged girl smiled shyly. Bean spat on Buff's door and rubbed it with his bandanna, then ambled over. “Who's your powerful friend?”

 

“His name's Bean.”

 

“Really,” said Larry, craning back to look into Bean's face as he shook hands with him. “He sure doesn't look like he grew up on tofu.” He laughed, and Rally laughed with him.

 

“Huh?” said Bean.

 

“You know—tofu, bean curd—get it?” Rally made little circles in the air with one hand. “It's sort of like cheese?”

 

“No,” said Bean, looking suspicious and dropping ashes on the sidewalk. “I don't eat that crap.”

 

Rally sighed. “He's not what you'd call culturally literate,” she said to Larry, who smiled and nodded at the door of the restaurant.

 

“Come on inside to wait for the cops. After going to all that trouble for a parking space, you should take advantage of it.”

 

“I'm not real fond of getting arrested, kid. C'mon, Vincent.” Bean dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, returned to Buff and unlocked the door again. Two black and whites turned the corner two blocks east, sirens sounding.

 

“Too late! Bean, we have to talk to them.”

 

“Do we?”

 

“Yes! Look, we didn't do anything wrong. Mr. Sam saw it all and he said he'll vouch for our actions. If you run, they'll only chase you!”

 

“And the problem with that is...?” Bean grinned. The black and whites pulled up, blocking the street exit.

 

“Let me handle this one, Bean! We don't have time to fight the cops, too!” Four uniformed officers got out of the black and whites, and Rally stood up to greet them.

 

“Hi there!” she said brightly. “Irene Vincent, from Chicago. Licensed bounty hunter. Here's my ID!”

 

$

 

“Man, you sure charmed the pants off those guys,” said Bean, poking skeptically at Rally's platter of garlic-fried eggplant. “Wish I could just bat my baby blues and get 'em off my case.”

 

“Oh, Bean, you don't have to be so grumpy about it!” said Rally through a mouthful of cashew chicken. “Would you rather they had heard of YOU and not of me? Or that Larry hadn't been there to confirm we weren't the aggressors? We'd be down at the station now instead of eating this delicious lunch!”

 

Mengleng Wu waited on a few tables across the room and kept casting covert glances their way. Larry Sam came out of the kitchen with another plate and set it on the table with a flourish. “Tea-smoked duck for our butt-kicking carnivore. I guarantee, it's almost like barbecue...and my dad's deep-frying those pork ribs now.”

 

Bean picked up a duck leg and sniffed it. “Smells OK.” He took a cautious bite. “I dunno. I'm just not used to standin' there scratching my ass while a skirt sweet-talks her way around a bunch of fuzz.” He took a larger bite, then crunched down on the bone. “Hey, this ain't bad.”

 

“I'm deeply honored,” said Larry, bowing. “More tea, Ms. Vincent?” He refilled her cup.

 

Rally smiled at him, then growled at Bean. “You sound as if it were cheating to have some social skills! Geez, I know I needed you to get that bartender softened up, but most people will see reason without the use of force!”

 

“Yeah, yeah. And you shot the guy's finger off to make him see reason.” Bean ate a wing in one bite.

 

“I wish I hadn't had to draw on the street like that, with so many bystanders. Some situations just get worse and worse when the guns come out. They are not the simple solution to any conflict—sometimes they are the major reason a conflict escalates. Using a gun wrongly is one of the most reprehensible things a person can do!” She knew she was pontificating, but Larry's attentive gaze egged her on even as Bean rolled his eyes. “That's what I hate worst about that kind of gangster! But even with them, I'm always going to try talking first and shooting last.”

 

“You two sound like you're in an interesting line of work,” said Larry. He ducked into the kitchen and came out with a sizzling platter of ribs. “Enjoy, Mr. Bean.” Bean's mouth was full, but he nodded.

 

“Well, yes, we are...but we don't always agree on how to do it! Such as what our next move should be.”

 

“What's the problem?”

 

“Um...it's a long story...”

 

“I've got big ears,” said Larry, tweaking the lobes. “And...maybe I can help you.” Bean looked up at him askance, his jaws working away on pork ribs. Rally noticed that there was nothing left of the duck, not even bones.

 

“Pull up a chair, Larry. I'll fill you in.”

 

“Hey,” said Bean, with a loud crunch between his teeth. “What's the idea? You just met this guy an hour ago.”

 

“Is he eating the bones?” said Larry, his eyes widening. “You can do that with the duck, because it's so well cooked...but RIBS?” Bean picked up another one and bit it in half like a snapping dog. “Unbelievable.”

 

“Pay no attention to him. He's showing off. He rolls cars over for a light workout before dinner.”

 

“No kidding? But you've got some skills, too...Rally.” Larry smiled at her, chin resting on fingers. He really was a good-looking man, and not too much older than she was—maybe twenty-four. Bean pulverized bones between his teeth and downed half a bottle of Tsingtao beer in a swig.

 

“Oh, I get along,” said Rally with an airy wave. She helped herself to garlic-fried eggplant. “Well, this all started when someone in Hollywood complimented my car yesterday, around this time...”

 

 

$

 

 

“That her?”

 

“That's her.” Brown lay back in his recliner and passed the photograph across the desk to O'Toole. “I got the best look at her—you were a little far away, Tom.”

 

“I saw her through the scope. Looks colored or something.” O'Toole examined the eight-by-ten, a shot of Rally arresting a man just outside the Chicago Tribune newspaper offices. She had a wide smile, her hair flying as she turned with her CZ75 in her hand. Manichetti looked over his shoulder, raising his brows.

 

“She's part Pakistani, according to the information.” Brown shuffled through a folder, reading documents. The three men sat or stood in a palatial office inside a pier warehouse, the room suspended on steel beams forty feet above the warehouse floor. One wall entirely made of glass let Brown observe the activity among the crates and pallets stacked below, but he was paying no attention to the workers and forklifts. Instead, the ample surface of his rosewood desk held one thick black folder and a thinner tan one, marked 'Vincent'. The thin folder's contents passed from hand to hand around the room or lay on the desk in untidy piles. “Please study everything I have here. I'm looking for ideas, suggestions...anything, really. And memorize that pretty face, too. She's been known to employ disguises.”

 

“Oh, lovely. A stinkin' Paki,” hissed O'Toole. “And that big Jap mongrel—it's the fockin' United Nations of late, innit?” He laughed. “'Course I'm a Derry lad and Manny hails from Cosa Nostra. Dragons only like their own kind, but yeh got the talent to get along with everybody.”

 

“I do seem to pick up the rainbow coalition, don't I?” Brown laughed with hollow mirth. “If only I had picked up Bandit the way I wanted to...” He hefted the thick black folder and dropped it on the desk again.

 

“Well,” said Manichetti in a low voice, “comin' clean with him mighta helped.” No one seemed to hear him.

 

“I don't get it. I mean, sir, I thought I was a hard case back in '89.” O'Toole smiled at Brown. “First time I saw yeh, I thought yeh were a pansy-ass who couldn't wipe his own bum. An hour later, I was tossin' back Bushmills with yeh and tellin' yeh my life story. I thought sure yeh'd have him on a plate by the time yeh got back from Gotham. What's the big bastard's problem? Just the unfriendly type?”

 

“I don't think he got past the pansy-ass stage,” said Brown with a sigh.

 

“Ah, shite. He just don't appreciate the finer things in life.”

 

“Thank you, Tom,” Brown laughed. “When you described how you'd blown the eyes out of that soldier in Shankshill, I knew I'd found a soul mate.”

 

“That's a hell of a story,” said Manichetti, grinning. “One bullet through both sockets! The juice runnin' down his cheeks and he's yelling for his mama—fuckin' priceless.”

 

“Yeah,” said O'Toole with a nostalgic sigh. “Too bad I had to finish 'im off so quick. But it was a tidy bit of shootin' if I do say so. I hope I'm not losin' my touch.” He rubbed his bandaged wrist.

 

“Let's hope I haven't lost mine.”

 

“Never, sir. Even if I don't aim so true as I did once, I can still hit a target the size of Bandit.”

 

“Certainly, Tom. But I don't think he's the most direct threat to us now. Ms. Vincent...now, there's a hazard for you. She's better with firearms than anyone that young has a right to be. She can't be bought off as far as I can tell. She's dead set against drug dealing, and she seems to pop up where Bandit is operating, working both with him and against him. Apparently she's on better terms with him than we are, though their relationship might be a tad volatile.” He tossed all the documents on the desk and lit a cigarette. “That suggests a certain approach to my mind.”

 

“To do what? Waste the big bugger?”

 

“No, no.” Brown's eyes flicked towards the glass wall of his office. “That would be premature. The higher numbers are unanimous; he's to be won over. I'm going to carry out the terms of the reprieve—for now, assuming I get some cooperation with the rescue in L.A. If at all possible, we've got to find the key to him...”

 

Manichetti ventured a remark. “She may be a Paki, but she's a nice bit o' tail.” O'Toole snorted, but Brown nodded.

 

“Exactly. Bandit's not an easy man to reach, but he's tolerated her interference in his affairs for years. Now they're actually traveling and operating together. If Mr. Bandit doesn't have some special regard for Ms. Vincent, I'd be very much surprised.”

 

“And she hates drugs?” said Manichetti. All three men looked at each other.

 

Brown had a dawning smile. “He told me he lost a bet. I got the impression it was with a woman. I thought he might have been pulling my leg, considering his lack of social life.”

 

“Any other woman it could have been?” said Manichetti.

 

“It's doubtful. He has no steady girlfriend and hasn't in years. I'm not sure how often he manages to talk to fellow humans outside of work. Ms. Vincent is one of the few females in the entire city of Chicago who can give him a run for his money...at least since Iron Goldie checked out. It has to be her.”

 

“Lovely,” said O'Toole. “I waste her, the bet's off, and we've got no problems.”

 

“You aren't going to touch her, Tom. Sorry.”

 

“Why the fock not?”

 

“That's not Bandit's way. If he made her a promise, he'll keep it to his own grave. We don't even know the details of this bet, and he'll never tell us, of course. If she dies now, so do all our chances.”

 

“As long as he thinks she's the kinda woman he ought to keep his promises to,” said Manichetti.

 

“Manny, you're batting a thousand today...” Brown waggled the remaining fingers on his right hand, grimacing in both pain and thought. “What would offend this man the most? What does he value over all else? For the sake of what ideal or commodity would he willingly discard his well-nigh bulletproof sense of professional honor, not to mention the only woman he's cared about in years?”

 

“Christ, that's an easy one,” said Manichetti.

 

 

$

 

 

“You want green tea ice cream or fortune cookies? Dad does a mean deep-fried banana fritter, but you're probably too full for that...”

 

“Oogh, you're right...though I'll have to try it some other time! Fortune cookies, please. I always liked breaking them open when I was a kid.” Rally surveyed the table, strewn with sauce-streaked platters and particles of rice. “Give your dad my compliments, and Bean's too.”

 

“I think the sheer quantity might have tipped him off already. You think you might be back my way while you're in San Francisco? Sounds like you're going to be...busy.”

 

“That's putting it mildly. Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Anything,” said Larry, toying with an extra set of paper-wrapped chopsticks while Mengleng began to clear the table. Rally glanced at the girl and Larry hesitated a moment, then pointed his chin at the kitchen. Mengleng looked puzzled, but wiped her hands on her apron and retreated. The swinging doors shut behind her to show a poster supporting Wen Ho Lee.

 

“What do you know about the local organized crime syndicates?” Rally began. “Specifically...the Asian ones.”

 

Larry let out a long quiet breath, and dropped the chopsticks into an empty teacup. “That's a delicate question.”

 

“I know. That's why I left it this long, and that's why I told you all I did about what I'm doing in San Francisco. I didn't give you the whole story, of course. I'm not at liberty to do that.” She had given him a bare outline of her adventures, naming no names and emphasizing the excitement of the chase. About Bean's history and financial interests in the deal she had scrupulously said nothing.

 

Rally had a good instinct for people, and in the course of the conversation she had evaluated Larry very thoroughly. He was an observant man, keenly intelligent under a light-hearted, affable manner. She knew crooks, and if he was a crook, she was very mistaken. But if anyone was in a position to give her information about Asian gangsters in San Francisco, it was a Chinese businessman whose restaurant shared its name with a Triad. Perhaps some good fortune, or Rally's unexplainable instincts, had first steered them to the Eight Dragon Delight. Larry himself had kept her here and highly interested, in far more ways than one.

 

“You mean...your friend Bean?” Larry nodded at the closed door of the restroom.

 

“Yes, mostly. He's got some interests in this deal that aren't quite the same as mine. That's all I can say.”

 

“Can I ask you a question?” said Larry.

 

“Shoot.”

 

“What's his interest...in you?”

 

“You mean, is he my boyfriend?” Rally gave her dry lips a quick lick. “No, he's not.”

 

Larry furrowed his brow. “It was hard to tell. He's older than you are—maybe thirty? But that doesn't mean too much. I kept thinking I was seeing signals from one or the other of you, and then I wasn't sure.” Rally smiled queasily. “He sure clammed up when you started telling me your saga. I kept waiting for him to fill in something, but he never did. God, that man can eat.” He looked at a stack of seven or eight greasy platters next to three crumpled napkins and four empty beer bottles.

 

“For the things he likes, he's voracious.”

 

“Yeah, I can see he would be.” Larry scanned her face, his clear dark eyes lingering on her hair. “But he's not your boyfriend.” His brows implied a question—he obviously didn't miss much.

 

“No.”

 

“Good. I'd hate to get on the down side of a guy like that.” He smiled softly, and Rally felt a mild, pleasant stirring in her middle. “But you asked me your question first. Shall I wait until your partner joins us again?”

 

“Thank you, Larry. I can see I came to the right place.”

 

“Rally, I'm a working man. I'm running this restaurant while my dad does the cooking and my mom does the food buying and my sisters finish their educations. When Vanessa graduates from Berkeley and can take over here for a while, I'm going to go for an MBA. I've been admitted to Stanford Business School.”

 

“Congratulations.”

 

“Thanks.” He leaned forward. “You know, I am glad to be an American. My parents came here from Guangzhou in 1972. They had a rough time in China, and they had a rough time here for a while—but here they could work hard and improve their lives.” Bean came out of the restroom and sat at the table again, glancing at Rally and putting his feet up on a vacant chair. “Mengleng came here last year, for the same reason. In China, the government takes what you earn. The officials take their cut, and the gangsters feed on what's left. If you want to get anywhere, you have to pay bribes to everyone, official and otherwise. Wherever Chinese have gone, the gangsters have followed.” His voice was low and passionate; obviously he felt strongly about this, and Rally grew more and more confident that here was a priceless resource—possibly for free! “Mengleng almost fell into the hands of a Taiwanese pimp down in Burlingame right after she got here, and my sister Emerald—she's going to go to law school—brought her over from the women's shelter and I gave her a job. In this country, you can do something about those scumbags. They aren't a centuries-old tradition. The mold isn't hardened yet. They are here, and there are more coming, but they aren't invincible. If you're going after them, I want to give you all the luck you can handle.”

 

“The Eight Dragon Triad, from Macau,” said Rally. “That's the one we want.”

 

“Shit,” said Larry, his handsome face twisting. “Sorry. But it was just yesterday that two of their thugs came in here, right here in my nice place, and threatened to take it all out into the street in small pieces if I didn't start paying ten percent of my receipts to them, effective immediately. I told them to go fuck themselves. They didn't speak English too well, so I told them in Cantonese too. It's even more insulting that way.” His eyes flicked down and up again. “The two you took out today were probably the next level of muscle.”

 

“If giving information to us is going to get you in trouble—” Rally began.

 

“Let him talk, babe,” said Bean, picking his teeth. His eyes met Larry's. “Sounds like a point of honor to me.”

 

“Damn straight,” said Larry. “I decided I'm not ever going to behave as if they have a claim on us. I'm proud of our restaurant and of its name. Eight's a lucky number. Every Chinese knows that. And the place opened in the Year of the Dragon. I have nothing to do with gangsters no matter what they call themselves. They're a perversion of everything my family is about. If you can help put them in jail, I'll help you, and I don't care what kind of threats they make. I could cringe and pay up. But why the hell did my parents slave to come to America, then? This isn't just for me. It's for their grandchildren, when they come.”

 

“So what did you tell the cops?” said Bean, rolling his eyes again.

 

“Just what I told you. Extortion attempt, threats, all that. I doubt it will come to anything unless some solid crime gets committed. I don't blame the police for that. They have to chase the worst first. But I knew the bastards were going to try to horn in on me sooner or later, so I've been arming myself. Not your way.” He smiled at Rally. “That's not my style. I've been getting information on who they are and what they're doing. What do you want to know?”

 

“We're after a man named Sly Brown. He's from Los Angeles, but he operates here as well. He's a drug dealer who's just gotten into heroin after sticking strictly to coke. The FBI's linked him to the Eight Dragon Triad, even though he's not Chinese. Why would he associate with them, and why heroin?”

 

“Heroin? That's easy. They control the sources for it, because the best sources are Asian. Coke's South American. Opium's cultivated in China, the Indian subcontinent plus Afghanistan, and Southeast Asia. Mexico's producing low-quality black tar heroin, but it's not China White and it sometimes causes fatal infections. If they recruited this guy, or took him over, which is more likely, they would want to use his distribution channels for their own stuff.”

 

“Makes sense. Took him over, huh?” Rally raised a brow.

 

“Yeah. They move into a new territory, and they give the existing syndicates a choice. Fight it out, move out, or work for them. They don't have much compunction about murder and everyone knows it, so threats are pretty effective. Macau is an open city, practically. It's a lot less tidy than Hong Kong even though it's smaller—there are dozens of Triads with international ties. The Commies will clean it up in 2000, in their inimitable fashion, of course. They'll leave some room for the syndicates, depending on how much squeeze the gangsters pay to the Party officials, but it's going to be a big shakeup. The Dragons know they have to build an overseas base fast and they've been doing it for eight or ten years.”

 

“Wow, that long?”

 

“They are patient. You may know something about Japanese gangsters—the yakuza?”

 

“Yes, I know the name. We don't get many of them out in Chicago yet!”

 

“They are mixed up with legitimate businesses to a great extent, but compared to the Chinese Triads, they have a short attention span, and a much more disreputable image. Triad members don't advertise their wealth any more than average Chinese do. None of this gold jewelry and flashy clothing stuff—they sock it away in mutual funds.” Larry grinned. “I'm talking about the higher-ups, of course, not the cheap thugs you took out. No one gets to the top in a Triad organization without a sense of restraint and decorum.”

 

“Gee, that doesn't sound much like Brown,” said Rally. “But then he started out as a Hollywood cocaine pusher, I guess. The Dragons wanted his distribution system?”

 

“Probably. Using existing syndicates is more efficient, at least at first. The Dragons are more flexible, and therefore more dangerous, than many of the Hong Kong Triads. Natives of Macau tend to have mixed blood—Portugese, Malay—and are tolerant of racial differences, to some extent. They aren't as Chinese-chauvinist as mainlanders—as my parents.” Larry shrugged with a faint smile. “When the Dragons know the ropes in the US, they will probably get rid of the Americans and replace them with their own people. Though they'll use anyone they think will get the job done, they're still fundamentally Chinese. Anyone who isn't at least part Asian is not ever going to be a part of the brotherhood.”

 

“So Brown's position could be precarious?”

 

“Sure. They might use him for dirty jobs for a while. If he does well, he'll last longer. If he doesn't, as he might if they are pushing him into areas he's not familiar with, he could be shrimp toast in no time.”

 

“That all fits with what we'd found out.”

 

“Yep,” said Bean, chuckling. “I'm a dirty job if there ever was one.”

 

“I guess he decided he didn't want to recruit you after all. Too scared of you.”

 

“Recruit him?” said Larry, his brows drawing down. “What the hell do you do that they want?”

 

“Drive,” said Bean. “I just drive.”

 

Larry looked hard at him, then at Rally. His eyes didn't hold fear or anger, but they did size her up with a new perspective. “Something you're not telling me, Ms. Vincent?”

 

“Yes. Plenty. But I promise you, I'm on the side of the law. I've got enough to put Brown away for life, if I can catch him. And the FBI wants to talk to him very badly. He may be able to bring down the whole American enterprise, or at least a big chunk of it. That's what I'm after, and that's why I asked you for information.”

 

“I believe you,” said Larry after a pause. “Excuse me for a moment.” He got up and went into the kitchen.

 

“OK, you get to pick the restaurants from now on,” said Bean. He smiled and belched loudly. “This kid is a freakin' encyclopedia.”

 

“It's important to him. To a lot of people. That's why we have to do the best we can...”

 

“That and five hundred grand. That's what I'm countin' on, babe.”

 

Rally felt her skin crawl. The contrast between the two men seemed like night and day at that moment. “Two hundred and fifty grand, you son of a bitch. There is no way I am going to let you waltz off with all that filthy money!”

 

“Hey!” Bean's boots hit the floor with a loud thud. “What's with the dirty names?”

 

She looked him in the face, his forehead wrinkling with a scowl. The X over his nose stood out whitely against his tanned skin. Someone had cut that on him for a reason...

 

“I don't know.” She rubbed her temples. “It just slipped out.”

 

“I don't get you, girl. You get all hifalutin' with your talk about higher motives, and then you practically cream for Pretty Larry here—” Rally hissed in furious surprise, but Bean went on, jabbing a finger at the kitchen door. “You think he's the kind can get you what you want? That college boy? He may have the facts, babe, but I've got the fists.” He slammed one of them down on the table, rattling the dishes. “Don't forget that. You ain't moving one inch in this town without me, unless you want to walk!”

 

“What the hell just got into you?”

 

“I'm goin' out to the car. Here's to the family enterprise.” He dropped a fifty on the table. “In case you ain't noticed, babe, it's Brown's money you've been eatin' off of. And it's two grand out of the five grand he gave me that's waiting at Buttonkettle to fix your Cobra. Money is money. It washes itself clean.” He got up and walked out.

 

“Not in a thousand years, Bean,” said Rally softly. “Never.” She turned to see Larry Sam looking after Bean.

 

“You two have a slight disagreement?”

 

“We have them a lot. Boy, I need my car...”

 

“I can see how that might happen. How did a woman like you get mixed up with a man like that?”

 

“Just ran into each other,” said Rally with a groan. “A car wreck; that's the only way to put it.”

 

“I've got something else for you.” He rummaged in the host desk. “Mama gets around town more than Dad and I do. She goes to the produce mart and the meat distributors. And she loves to gossip with the vendors. I just went upstairs to ask her if she'd heard where the Dragons hang their hats these days. She gave me some leads you might be able to use.” He brought a map to the table and spread it out in the sunlight. “This is the waterfront, from Hunter's Point to the Golden Gate. San Francisco's got a lot of piers on the bay side. Some of them are still working cargo warehouses, some are tourist attractions, and some are derelict. This one here.” He drew a finger along a Y-forked tongue that pointed roughly east. “That, according to the best market gossip in Chinatown, is the Dragon's lair.”

 

“I can't thank you enough, Larry. You're a lucky charm.” She put out her hand. He took it in one, then in both of his own.

 

“Let's hope that luck holds. Come back for dinner.”

 

“As soon as I can, I promise.” She dropped a light kiss on his cheek.

 

“Now that just paid for your meal,” said Larry. “What's that money doing on the table?” He picked up the fifty and started to hand it to her.

 

“No, keep it. It's Bean's.” A loud honk sounded from outside. “Gee, I think my taxi is getting impatient. Guess I'll have to go...if I don't want to walk.”

 

“Fortune cookies!” said Larry, and gave her a small paper bag. “Take your pick of fates—there are four in here. Unfortunately, I don't stock the X-rated ones.” She giggled and took it, moving to the door.

 

“Rally...if you need somewhere to come to...I mean, if you get into too much of a disagreement with him...” She looked up to see concern on his face, much the same expression he'd had when he'd looked out at a developing fight on his sidewalk. “I've got an apartment upstairs, next to my parents'. I'll go sleep on their hide-a-bed and you can have my bedroom. Any time, day or night. I'm always here.” He leaned one hand on the door as he opened it for her. Bean had pulled out of the parking space and Buff stood idling aggressively in the street. He raced the engine when she emerged from the restaurant.

 

“Thank you.” She smiled at him. “I don't think I'll need to. But that's a sweet offer.” She felt a sexual stir, a small one. He returned her smile, his lips closed.

 

“I know you can take care of yourself. But watch your back. Here's my number.” He slipped a card into her hand and went back into the Eight Dragon Delight. Rally got into Buff's passenger seat and Bean peeled out with an emphatic squeal of tires. He had left his city map on the floor of the car, and Rally picked it up and circled the Y-shaped pier with a pencil from her purse.

 

“Here,” she said, and handed the map to Bean. He glanced at it and let it fall, then took a left turn. Rally reached into her bag of fortune cookies and broke one open. The crisp vanilla scent made her smile nostalgically. The paper slip inside was pink and the printing was uneven.

 

“You are personable and make friends with ease. Lottery numbers: 5 12 36 44 51 60.” She ate the cookie and broke another one. “Do not discount the lure of wealth. Lottery numbers: 1 9 18 24 29 47.” She glanced over at Bean, who was staring stonily out the windshield, and broke the third one. “A long journey will end in happiness. Lottery numbers: 3 14 19 22 49 59.”

 

“Yeah, right,” muttered Rally, and broke the final one. The paper was white, and the printing clearer. “The sere leaf falls in autumn; who is to say precisely when?” There were no lottery numbers. Rally stuffed all the cookie fragments and fortunes back into the bag and put them under her seat. Bean took a right turn and cleared his throat.

 

“So what's the pier?”

 

“It's owned by the Dragons, apparently, or at least they use it. Want to check it out?”

 

“Sure. Though we oughta wait until dark.”

 

“Yes. I suppose we need to find a hotel.”

 

“Oh, you ain't got a date after all? College boy that slow on the draw?”

 

“What is your problem, Bean?! He gave us a hell of a lot of help, at risk to himself! You think the only reason he told us all that was because he wanted something from me? What the hell does that say about YOU?”

 

He slid a narrowed gaze over to her, one burning with something intense that she at first took for anger. “I think you've got a better answer to that than mine, lady. I ain't forgot you unbuttonin' your blouse and I ain't forgot the way you kissed me. And I ain't forgot you moanin' and wigglin' like—shit, I got a blue steel hard-on right now just thinkin' about fingering your sweet slick —”

 

“Stop it!” Rally felt a deep panicked throb in her stomach and chest, her face flushing hot. “You...you...”

 

“Don't look so friggin' shocked, babe. Trying to fuck Rally Vincent maybe wasn't the smartest thing I ever did in my life, but I got an invite, didn't I?”

 

“Ohh!”

 

“I ain't touchin' you again, never fear! I don't know what the hell you thought you were doing, or me either! I'm not the kind of guy you think is good for anything but bustin' heads, but for a little while there, you didn't give a damn. Don't suppose I'll ever know why.” He changed lanes and broke eye contact.

 

Rally sat shaking, the Eight Dragon Delight card in her hand. She tucked it into her jacket pocket and clasped her hands together to stop their tremors. Why had she not given a damn about what he was? A violent felon of ravenous appetites! He was the worst possible choice she could have made. Wasn't he? But his words had brought back all the heat of that motel bed, focused into something that cut her like a wrecker's blowtorch. This matter wasn't subsiding. Who could explain the random spark, the flashing ignition of sexual passion? She'd never thought Bean was the kind to set her ablaze. Not a nice man. Not a man other people approved of or got along with. He wasn't ever going to earn an MBA or put himself on the line for the sake of his children yet unborn. Though he did have that goofy soft spot for kids...

 

Her cell phone rang and she quickly fished it out of her purse. “That must be May! She should have made it to Buttonkettle by now.” Rally clicked the button and put the phone to her ear. “Hello! Rally Vincent here.”

 

“Hello, Rally,” said a smooth, California-accented voice. “I briefly made your acquaintance yesterday, under trying circumstances. I wasn't able to introduce myself at the time. My name's Sylvester Brown.”