Lone Star 02 (13 page)

Moore shrugged. “There's no one to catch them, Jessie. Here, corruption is considered the norm.”

“Well, I consider it just plain dishonest!”

Moore burst out laughing. “Shanks would hate to hear you say that. He's an ex-policeman. He has quite a crush on you.”

“Oh, dear,” Jessie giggled, taking another sip of her champagne. “I hope you didn't tease him about my getting the drop on him?” she warned. “He'd asked me not to tell you about it, and I wouldn't have, but then that man came after me, and I had to tell you what happened—”

“Hush,” Moore said. “I never let on that I was informed of what had happened between the two of you.” He shook his head. “Not that the big oaf doesn't deserve to be kidded ...”

Jessie nodded in agreement. “He's not very good.”

“Actually, he's better than you think,” Moore argued. “Don't forget, most people are not as as alert as you are.” He smiled. “Often it helps our interests for Shanks to be so obvious. It panics the subject he's following, and sometimes makes him or her do foolish things. Shanks, as I said, is an ex-policeman. He forgets that he's no longer on the force, and that he has to be careful for his own safety, as well as discreet. The police in this town are pretty much all-powerful. I hope Shanks's swagger doesn't get him into trouble one day.”

And I hope that your overconfidence doesn't get you into the same kind of trouble,
Jessie worried silently. “Lord! I've been having such a good time that I forgot to ask you about that man who tried to kill me. Did you ever find out anything?”

“Only what I knew we'd find out,” Moore sighed. “I asked Shanks to talk to one of his old cronies in the department. It's true that your thug had an assault record, but there is nothing to connect him with either the cartel or the Tong. Shanks had a good point to make about it all, by the way. He pointed out to me that it's unknown for the Tong to use a Caucasian for their dirty work. They sometimes use whites as front men in their business dealings, but never to do anything underhanded. They only trust their own kind for that.”

“That doesn't clear the cartel!” Jessie, sitting with her back to the door, heard some commotion behind her, but did not bother to turn around.

“It
could
have been them, Jessie, but we'll never know—” Moore froze in midsentence. His face blanched, and when he next spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper. “It's them! What rotten luck!”

Jessie, totally mystified, glanced over her shoulder, toward the entrance. A single, ceiling-suspended gas lamp lit the foyer area. She saw in that flickering light a rather full-figured, but extremely attractive middle-aged woman, dressed in a tightly fitted gown of gold lame. Around her shoulders was a mink stole. Its shading matched the auburn color of her mass of curly hair. She wore no hat, but carred, despite there being no prediction of rain, a tightly furled umbrella.

“That's her!” Moore hissed. “That is Greta Kahr!”

“Oh, no!” Jessie groaned softly. “We've got to get out of here! I'm sure she knows what I look like. The cartel must have supplied her with my description before sending her to San Francisco.”

“Jessie!” Moore admonished, his tone quiet, but command ingly sharp. “Just stay where you are. They can't see us, we're hidden by the shadows. Once they're settled in at their table, we'll slip out. For now, take the opportunity to see who your enemies are. The gentleman escorting Madam Kahr happens to be Chang Fong, leader of the Steel Claw Tong.”

Jessie scrutinized the man with Kahr. He was short, about five feet, five inches in height, a small, barrel-chested, bandy-legged Chinese fellow, his middle-aged face clean-shaven, and his glistening, ivory-colored pate hairless. His expensive, pin-striped suit did nothing to hide the length and thickness of his shoulders and arms. “He looks so strong...”

“He got those muscles lifting and hauling tuna and sword-fish, back when he was a fishmonger,” Moore told her.

“He doesn't look that special—” Jessie began, and then gasped. Chang had been standing with his left side toward her, in a three-quarters profile. Now he stood facing Jessie. “His hand!” she whispered, recoiling into the dark protection of their shadowy nook.

“They call him Steel Claw,” Moore reminded her.

Where Chang's right hand should have been was not a metal hook, but a claw. It was as if there were a small, gleaming rake protruding from his sleeve, and each of that rake's five talons glistened needle-sharp in the flickering light.

“They say that he uses that thing to gouge the eyes of those Tong members who have displeased him,” Moore whispered. “I, for one, believe it.”

Jessie stared at Chang's eyes, like two pieces of black onyx set in the ivory-yellow folds of his Chinese face. Those twin, glittering spots of blackness were totally without expression. They reminded Jessie of the eyes of a Gila monster, the big poisonous lizard found in the Southwest. A Gila monster would bite down on you to chew its venom into your flesh, and once that demon's jaws clamped, there wasn't a thing you could do to make it turn you loose.
And all the time it chewed on you, its black, expressionless eyes would glitter like onyx. You could lop the lizard's head clear off with a pair of wire-cutters, but it didn't matter, didn't change a thing; those black, shiny eyes never changed, not at all...

“Jessie?” Moore reached out, placing his hand on hers.

Jessie started. She almost jerked away her fingers.

“What were you thinking about?” Moore asked.

“About monsters.” Jessie shuddered. “About him!”

She gestured toward Chang as he escorted Greta Kahr to their table. Flanking the couple were a pair of stern-faced Chinese bodyguards dressed in the traditional Chinese garb of long, dark blue tunics and pajama pants. Their inky black hair was plaited into queues that dangled down their backs.

“Chang's guards don't seem to be armed,” she mused.

“They don't need weapons,” Moore grimaced. “All of Chang's hatchet men are Chinese boxing masters.”

“Why, yes,” Moore said, surprised. “What
don't
you know?”

“What those two are going to be planning over
their
champagne,” Jessie replied. “Whatever it is, it'll mean trouble for me.”

“For
us,”
Moore gently corrected her. “You're not up against them alone, remember?”

Jessie squeezed Moore's hand. “Yes, I do remember,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling.

“And right now, I'm much more interested in what
we
were planning over
our
champagne.” Moore put some money on the table and stood up. “Come on, they're settled in. We can leave without being noticed.”

“Don't we need to call a carriage?” Jessie asked.

“I'd rather not hang around here waiting for it to arrive,” Moore said slowly. “We're not so far from the Barbary Coast. We'll walk a bit. We'll see a vacant hack soon enough.”

As they left the club, Moore said. “Let's say hello to Shanks. I know he'd love to see you again.”

“What would he be doing around here?” Jessie asked, startled.

“I forgot to tell you,” Moore grinned. “I've had him tailing Kahr. I thought it might put some pressure on her to have a man on her tail—if you'll excuse my poor choice of words.”

“Hmmm,” Jessie slipped her arm through his, to snuggle close to the detective.

“Perhaps I should have put Ki on her tail,” he said slyly, as they strolled down the dark avenue.

“Just make sure you don't tease
him
like that,” Jessie laughed.

“Don't worry about that.” Moore's expression grew distant. “Uh, I'm not sure how to bring this up, but I'd like to know ... there's nothing between you and Ki, is there?” he asked tentatively. “I mean, as a man and a woman,” he fumbled.

“No,” Jessie said, smiling to herself. “It really would never occur to him to make love to me.”

Moore wondered about that as he recalled the scene earlier today in the hotel lobby, when Jessie had hugged Ki. Moore had watched the look in the man's eyes. Ki was clearly head over heels in love with Jessie, who, most likely, had been just too close to the stoic samurai for too long to ever really see how the man felt.
Well, that's just my good luck,
Moore told himself.

“Jordan?” Jessie suddenly asked. “Where is Shanks?”

Moore stopped walking. “You're right, we should have run into him by now.” The detective looked over his shoulder. “Let's walk down the block the other way for a bit.”

“You mean past the club again?” Jessie nervously replied.

“Don't worry,” Moore took her arm to lead her along. “Our two nasty friends inside won't be out for a while.”

They were halfway down the block, on the other side of the Pink Slipper, when they heard faint moans coming from out of the darkness of an abandoned building's hallway.

Jessie's grip on Moore's arm stiffened. “Somebody's hurt in there!” she whispered.

“Stay here,” Moore commanded. In one smooth move he drew his Colt .44 from its shoulder rig.

“Be careful,” Jessie said.

“That's a great idea,” Moore mumbled absently as he cautiously entered the pitch-black interior of the gutted structure. He struck a match against the side of a timber.

Jessie unclasped her purse to draw her own Colt. She watched the faint glow of Moore's match waver and fade as he went deeper into the building's hallway. “What is it?” she called out in exasperated fear. Moore's match went out. She heard the scrape of another against wood, as the weak, flickering light reappeared.

Moore's cry, when it came, was full of pain. “Oh, Christ!”

“What?” Jessie pleaded. When there was no answer, she swore under her breath and rushed into the building, her gun at the ready.

Deep inside she saw a small but steady light. Moore had found an inch of candle stuck into one of the many empty whiskey bottles strewn about the place. Some vagrant had evidently used the abandoned building as a temporary home.

Moore was kneeling over a moaning, ashen-faced Shanks, who was sitting sprawled on the floor, his back propped up against the wall. Shanks was clutching his belly. Blood seeped from between his tightly interlaced fingers.

“He's been stabbed,” Moore muttered, his face grim. “Who did it?” he asked his partner. “Hurry! Tell me.”

“Miss Starbuck, you there?” Shanks gasped.

“Yes, I'm here,” Jessie said, looking down at the man.

“H-hate for you to see me like this, ma‘am,” Shanks said sorrowfully.

“Christ! He's been run clear through!” Moore exclaimed. “He wasn't stabbed with a knife, but with a sword.” He pried apart Shanks's clutching fingers to examine the wet, bubbling wound. He shrugged helplessly. “There's nothing for it, old friend,” he said. “Please, you must tell me who did it!”

“You was right, Miss Starbuck,” Shanks mumbled. “You ... told me ... more deadly ...” His eyelids fluttered as his big lantern jaw slumped to rest upon his chest.

Moore turned to stare up at Jessie. His green eyes were wet with emotion. “He's dead!” Moore snarled. “My partner's dead!”

Chapter 8

Ki walked the distance between the Palace Hotel and Chinatown. It was just dusk when he began his trek. As the sun sank into the bay and the purple shadows lengthened, the samurai found himself on the enclave's outskirts.

All around me is darkness,
Ki thought to himself.
Yes, it is fitting that the light of the sun should fail as I leave behind the world of San Francisco for the world of Chinatown.

As the darkness had increased, so had the narrowness of the streets. Here the clapboard buildings had no bay windows, for trying to catch a ray of light was futile. Little sun could penetrate past the crooked eaves and slooping roofs of the packed-together tenements, themselves like so many stoop-shouldered, gaunt Chinese men, each wearing a broad-brimmed hat.

Ki kept his own hat brim pulled low over his distinctly Nipponese eyes. A Japanese would find no friends in this place. Ki had to smile sadly; he had more in common with these downtrodden people than with his own race.

Truth did indeed have many facets. To Dennis Kearney and his Workingmen's Party followers, the Chinese undercut the white man's wage and happily accepted their exploitation. To the Chinese, the problem was that no one would pay them a decent wage, and that their children could not learn to better themselves because they were not allowed in the whites' school system. A silent, bitter banding-together was the price these proud people had to pay in order to survive in a land that despised and feared them.