The Black Dragon (19 page)

They look like they mean business. Ponytail is whipping a pistol from out of his leather jacket. Jug Ears brandishes the polished barrels of a sawn-off shotgun, his holiday shirt mocking the situation.

Ponytail snaps something out at Sing Sing in Cantonese.

“Speak English,” she says defiantly, “so my friends can understand. And wash out your flipping mouth, toilet breath.”

Jug Ears rolls the lollipop from side to side in his mouth, grins—and then meaningfully pumps a shotgun shell into the breach.

Ponytail spits on the ground and then walks up to her. “Get in car, Little Flower. You're in trouble. You too, short man. And you, boy, no funny stuff.”

Danny waits—taking his cue from Sing Sing who stands there, still holding her ground, hands planted on her hips.

“No way,” she says.

No one moves.

Almost as an automatic reflex Danny fingers the cards in his pocket. Ridiculously, in the heat of the moment, he finds himself thinking about which card he has on top of the deck. Ace of spades.
Always know the cards
, Dad would say.
Be ready. You might have to do a trick on the spur of the moment
. The black ace has always struck him as a powerful card with its one huge black spade stamped on it. Reassuring somehow now. He splits it from the deck.

“So? You gonna shoot us here on street?” Sing Sing snorts, jutting her jaw.

Ponytail takes a quick look up and down the road before stepping forward, arm straight, pistol cocked aggressively. “Why not, Little Flower. No one around just now.”

“Don't call me Little Flower.” Gently, almost imperceptibly, she taps Danny's trainer with her foot. “I don't like it. And you're one ugly old triad, Tony.”

Danny tenses his muscles, ready to react to whatever's coming. The soft contact of the shoe says,
Get ready—something's about to happen.

“Get in the car,” Ponytail says, his voice flat, but waggling the pistol again for emphasis.

“OK. OK.”

Sing Sing slumps her shoulders, seemingly defeated, then, without backlift—without any warning at all—her right foot whips up and strikes hard at Ponytail's face. The air hisses between her teeth as the kung fu kick lashes his mouth. Something cracks—like a breaking ping-pong ball—and he drops to the floor, holding his face. Jug Ears, caught off guard, hesitates, then raises the shotgun.

But it's Danny who reacts next.

The ace of spades is out of his pocket, and using a finger snap, he flicks the card—edge on—straight at the bald man's eyes. It flashes like a dart, strikes hard and true—and Jug Ears gives a yelp. He clutches an eye, letting the gun fall.

Ponytail is struggling to his feet, the pistol still in his hands, raising it now at Danny, finger groping for the trigger. But Sing Sing's on him.

She unleashes a flurry of kicks, each thrown from a pirouette, sending him staggering back against the car, an explosive breath syncing with each blow. Extraordinary force in each kick from such a slender frame, as she spins four, five times, making sure contact each time.

Zamora grabs the man's right arm as he slumps against the car, forcing it up behind his back, spilling the gun. “You want this arm broken? Or dislocated?” he snarls. “Your choice,
amigo
.”

Jug Ears, blinking hard, is on his feet, but before he has time to come to the aid of his partner, Sing Sing strikes the base of his neck with a firm blow and he's down, eyelids fluttering, out for the count.

Danny grabs the pistol and hurls it into the undergrowth. A moment later it's joined by the flailing form of Ponytail as Zamora drives him back across the pavement and, using every ounce of his strength, hurls him down the hill. The man keeps going for a long, long time, crashing through the bushes, sending birds shrieking from the trees, releasing the warm smell of crushed undergrowth as he falls.

The three victors look at one another, breathing hard.

“That was amazing,” Danny says. “Where did you learn that?”

“From Charlie. He used to train people for movies. Five animal. Monkey paw. Drunken style. All that jazz.” She straightens her T-shirt, smooths her hair back into place and looks at Danny. “Your card thing was pretty good too, you know.”

“
M goi
,” he says, and feels pride ripple through him. The compliment means a lot, coming from this enigmatic girl. It leaves a kind of glow behind it lingering on the evening air.

Zamora's gazing after Ponytail. “I almost feel sorry for the poor chap. He's had a hard time of it with us. What do you say we borrow their motor?”

“I'll drive,” Sing Sing says. “Let's get going.”

“Are you old enough?” Zamora says doubtfully.

“I'm taller than both of you. And I just saved our skins from a four-twenty-six and a four-thirty-eight. And anyway Charlie taught me how to drive
ages
ago.”

Danny watches her striding to the BMW, argument settled in her mind. That same lightness to her movements. She's as slim as Danny, but there's a wiry strength that belies her age and build. Training too. The kind that only comes through hour upon hour of practice and frustration. Determination. The toughened hands make sense now, and in his mind's eye he sees her striking one of those wooden sparring dummies, again and again, slowly building the muscle, hardening the skin. Ready for anything that the world might throw her way.

“I'm not arguing with you, miss,” Zamora says. “But I'll just hide ugly chops here.”

He drags the heavy bulk of Jug Ears into thick bushes, where he rolls the man into a recovery position and then, almost tenderly, tucks his head on his crooked arm. “
Wan an
, Mister Ears.”

They drop back toward the city proper, the foliage of the Peak giving way to buildings again. The BMW smells as rank as the gym—sweat, spicy food, cigarettes imprinted on the air. Danny sits up front beside Sing Sing, while Zamora holds tight on the backseat. There's a suitcase in the footwell there. Zamora unzips it and peers in: two lengths of rope, some gaffer tape, and a meat cleaver with a ragged blade. A few strands of blonde hair on the floor beside the case.

Zamora surveys the contents then zips the bag shut.

“Anything interesting?” Danny says.

“Let's just say I'm sure this is the car from the kidnapping.”

Sing Sing is driving quickly down the hill, expertly working the clutch and gears, using the engine to brake as they enter each sweeping curve, neatly feeding fuel to the engine as she powers out of them.

“What's a four-twenty-six? And a four-thirty-whatever?” Danny asks.

“Code numbers in triad gangs. Four-twenty-six is a Red Pole. An enforcer. Like a sergeant in the army. Four-thirty-eight is Deputy Mountain Master. Boss's number-two man. That's the guy with the ears.”

“And who's the boss?”

“I was hoping you might tell me.”

Danny looks at her as she pilots the BMW back down to sea level. Something so grown-up about her. And yet something so vulnerable and young too. “How are you mixed up in all this, Sing Sing? I mean, who are you? Really?”

“Friend of a friend. You just trust me, Mr. Danny Woo.”

“I do trust you.”

Something about that hits home. Sing Sing peers forward over the steering wheel, braking hard to take a tight bend. The car fishtails and she has to steer hard to compensate.

“
M goi
,” she says.

Zamora leans forward between the seats. “And you can trust us. But look, miss, talking of numbers, do you know anything about the Forty-Nine?”

“No. Not much,” she says, accelerating to beat a red light, tires thumping the tram lines. “Criminal network. A friend of mine knows more about it.”

“And who's that then?”

“Jules Ricard. Interpol.”

Zamora and Danny exchange glances.

“We should go back to see him,” the major says. “He'll wonder where we've got to . . .”

They're passing a stationary police car and Sing Sing slows the BMW, sitting up as straight as she can in the seat. “Not a good idea right now. He's got his own problems. There's a boat hijacked.”

“The one in the papers?”

“Yep. And a couple of people are out to get him in a lot of trouble. We'll do our own thing. Head for the Ferry Pier and Cheung Chau. OK with you?”

Danny nods. “What can you tell us about Cheung Chau?”

“It's pretty. Little fishing harbor. Very picturesque. There are no cars on it. Just bikes and scooters. And mini fire engines and ambulances. For a while a few years ago,” Sing Sing adds, weaving them into the early evening traffic, “they used to call it Death Island.”

“Lovely,” Zamora says, leaning back heavily in his seat. “Why?”

“People used to go there to kill themselves.”

“Super.”

They're off the Peak now. Above them the first lights are sparking the skyscrapers into night-time brilliance and the sun is dropping fast. It makes Danny think of the running sand of the hourglass video projected onto Dad's escapes.

Time sliding away.

25

HOW TO FORGET YOUR SCRUPLES

A block and a half from Central Ferry terminal there's a small parking lot.

Sing Sing bumps the BMW up onto the pavement alongside it, clumsily straddling the curb. She leaves the trunk sticking out into traffic.

“You can drive well,” Zamora says. “But your parking's lousy.”

“I want the car to get towed,” she says. “It'll take the Dragon longer to work out where we've gone. And it'll be safe in a police pound. Let's hurry.”

Danny gets out and—in what has now become second nature—scans their surroundings for trouble. Close by, tucked among the parked cars, is a red and white taxi. It looks like the hundreds of others crowding the streets, but among the sleek private vehicles it looks incongruous. And the dents to its side are very familiar indeed.

“Look, Major. I'd bet you anything that's Kwan's cab.”

Zamora whistles. “That's his, all right. Same ad for teeth!”

“Who?” Sing Sing says sharply.

“A taxi driver. Drove us for a couple of days. He's been reported missing.”

Zamora trots over to the cab and squints in through the windows. “Come on, Danny, how about using that toothpick of yours. Locks can't be much cop on this old thing. Doubt it's got an alarm.”

“We'll shield you,” Sing Sing says.

No time for scruples now. And maybe they can help Kwan. The lock pick is already in his hands as he approaches Kwan's car. “I need a credit card or something like that,” he says, selecting the longer hook pick and eyeing the lock. Just the feel of the tool in his hand gives him a surge of confidence. He can imagine Dad's big hands gripping the thing and working his magic.

Sing Sing fishes in her wallet and hands him a platinum credit card.

“Charlie's. I borrow it.”

Danny's concentrating hard. He's never done this for real. Just messed around with the stage cuffs and locks under Dad's direction. But once, Jimmy Torrini showed him how to open the door of one of the vans when a drink-sodden Khaos Klown had accidentally locked both himself—and the keys—inside.

Danny probes the lock, then runs the card up the door frame until he finds the catch.
That's it, get a steady pressure there. Now give the lock a twist with the tension tool
. With Danny working both hands together, the door lock suddenly releases with a satisfying clunk. Danny pushes aside any sense of triumph and is inside in a moment, scouring the interior for anything that might give them a clue to Kwan's—or Laura's—whereabouts. There's nothing on the seats, but abandoned on the handbrake is Kwan's red handkerchief. It looks forlorn.

Zamora's inspecting the outside. “There's a parking ticket on the windshield, Danny. Today's date, but early this morning. And the wing mirror's busted.”

“That wasn't broken when we came in from the airport. I was looking in it.”

“Flat tire too. And here on the bodywork—could be a bullet hole, no?”

“Then they must have got him,” Danny says, heart sinking. He thinks of Kwan's puzzled, owlish face submerged in the murky harbor water, seeing nothing. Glasses broken. Gone to join Tan and his lacerated body.

“Let's get a move on,” Sing Sing says, glancing over her shoulder. “We need Pier Five.”

The Central Ferry terminal looks like something from another age, out of place and time amidst the steel and glass of downtown. The white clock tower on the main building shows 6:25, its long minute hand juddering visibly.

Sing Sing rushes them under the sign for Cheung Chau and insists on buying their tickets, snapping Hong Kong dollars from a small fortune stuffed into her wallet.

Zamora raises his eyebrows. “You're a rich girl.”

“Not really. But Uncle Charlie makes sure I have enough for any eventuality. Come on, there's a fast ferry leaving. And we need to be on it.”

26

HOW TO FIND THE LADY

The ferry pulls away on the dot of six thirty. It slips steadily through the crowded waters of the harbor before thrusting out its powerful wake, sending them surging into open sea.

Sing Sing sits back in her seat, massaging the side of her hand. She lets out a deep breath as the safety announcements blare out. “He had one tough flipping neck, that four-thirty-eight.”

Behind them the skyscrapers and Peak are shrinking rapidly against the water and sky. To the southeast there's gathering gloom, to the west pink and orange on the clouds.

“Makes me feel pessimistic if I look one way,” Zamora says thoughtfully, “and optimistic if I look the other. Take your pick, I suppose. I might just check out the cafeteria. If you young ones will excuse me.”

Sing Sing watches him go. “I like him. A lot.”

Danny smiles. Most people would mention Zamora's height—or at least do a double take when meeting him the first time. But Sing Sing has taken the dwarf strongman in her stride, unfazed.