‘It’s a matter of considering the profit in actions,’ subtle Hernando Haw from Macao began to explain to Alice and the gang. ‘To rush blindly in like madmen is not to consider that each action in life is intimately intermeshed with considerations of business and profitable dealing. To consider each and every action carefully and in advance is the sign of a—’
‘Kill,’ Mr Boon said.
‘Of course,’ Hernando Haw said, ‘Killing would be best.’
‘Kill,’ Mr Boon said.
‘If you like,’ Low Fat said. ‘Anything you decide is O.K. with me.’
Mr Boon kept his eyes on the telephone. He said, ‘Kill.’
Alice drew in her breath and turned herself into a pregnant pigeon. She ruffled her feathers happily and tapped at the ear bandages girlishly with his shoulder. She said, ‘Dee-dum,’ lightly and merrily and tapped at her ear.
‘Kill,’ Mr Boon said.
‘Kill,’ Hernando Haw said. ‘Kill the Mongolian bastard.’
‘Mongolian bastard,’ Low Fat said. Tinkerbell Lin Wong smiled at him secretly and he smiled back secretly at Tinkerbell Lin Wong.
‘My friends,’ Alice said.
‘My friend,’ Low Fat said to Tinkerbell Lin Wong.
‘My agreement,’ Hernando Haw said. He indicated that section of the seated lethal human flesh that was his. He offered it to Mr Boon’s disposition. Hernando Haw said, ‘My personnel.’
‘Edgar Tan and Company,’ Mr Boon said.
‘My dear friends,’ Alice said.
‘Yes?’ Hernando Haw said to Mr Boon.
‘My shop,’ Mr Boon said, ‘That Mongolian bastard’s dead. That was my shop!’
‘My God!’ The Club (With Nails) who was a failed Presbyterian said.
‘—my revenge—!’ Alice protested.
‘My shop!’ Mr Boon said and sucked his hollow tooth. He sent The Fourth Gangster out to another of his bars across the road to get more men.
Spencer was on the phone. He said unhappily, ‘Yellowthread Street—yes, Constable Cho?’
Spencer said, ‘Really? Gosh!’
O’Yee glanced at him. Ah Pin the cleaner came hobbling in the front door to begin his early morning sweeping. O’Yee said to him in English, ‘Hullo, Ah Pin.’
‘Inspector sir,’ Ah Pin said.
‘What do you hear, Pin?’ Feiffer asked absently. He lifted the statement form off Spencer’s desk and checked that it was properly signed, ‘How’s life?’
Ah Pin opened the door of the broom closet behind the main door and took out the tools of his trade.
‘Go on,’ Spencer said into the phone. He was scribbling details of the call on his desk blotter, ‘I’m taking it all down.’
‘See Miss Oh in Icehouse Street,’ Ah Pin told no one in particular. ‘No good place for lady policeman.’
‘She must have gone out the back way,’ Auden commented bitterly to O’Yee.
‘Devious,’ O’Yee said, ‘more VD notices for the girlies.’
‘See her near Jasmine Steps going Wanchai Street,’ Ah Pin said.
‘Who the bloody hell typed up this statement form?’ Feiffer demanded, ‘It’s bloody illegible. What the hell does “conteszion” mean?’ He took out his pen and changed it to ‘confession.’
‘Spencer,’ Auden said.
‘Auden,’ O’Yee said.
‘She go about killing?’ Ah Pin asked. He swept away two empty coffee cups and a ragged trail of cigarette butts into a cut-open one gallon tin made into a dustpan.
Feiffer said, ‘I’m going to type these things myself in future. I do all the work and this is what I get to show for it.’ He glanced hungrily at O’Yee’s machine, ‘Does your typewriter work, Christopher?’
‘No,’ O’Yee said. ‘Keep your lustful eyes off my typewriter and use your own.’
‘Mine needs repair or someone around here needs typing lessons.’ He said to Ah Pin, ‘What killing? Oh, no. That’s all sorted out.’
‘You get him?’ Ah Pin asked happily. It was nice to be associated with the workings of justice. Policemen were nice to know: they gave you a feeling of security and armed might.
‘Yeah,’ Feiffer said, ‘he’s in the cells.’
‘What name?’
Feiffer considered the illiteracy of Inspectors and the generally debilitating effect working in Hong Bay had on the English language. ‘Can’t tell you that,’ he said to Pin. ‘Not allowed. You know that. Don’t ask.’
‘Go on,’ Spencer said hoarsely into the phone. His breathing came more heavily and he wiped a bead of sweat away from under his eyes.
O’Yee looked up at the ceiling fan. It was working. He said to Auden, ‘He must be talking to Sweaty Glance Minnie Oh. Either that or it’s the old white man’s burden of constipation again.’
‘Go on,’ Spencer said excitedly into the phone.
‘Bad man,’ Pin said to the floor, ‘bad man Mongolian man.’
‘Hmm,’ Feiffer said.
‘Bad killing.’
‘Who?’
‘Man being killed Camphorwood Lane,’ Ah Pin said as to an idiot boy, ‘bad, bad.’
‘What?’ Feiffer said. ‘Who’s being killed?’
‘Killing all over finish now,’ Pin said. He was, Feiffer had reckoned once in an idle moment, no less than eighty summers ancient, and he had one arm grown longer than the other from permanently pushing a broom across police station floors. Ah Pin said, ‘You get him quick. Good in cell.’
‘Who?’ Feiffer asked. He felt like an idiot boy.
‘Go on,’ Spencer said, but whoever it was at the other end of the telephone must have said, ‘That’s all.’ Spencer said, ‘Oh—’
‘Mongolian kill Edgar Tan in Camphorwood Lane,’ Ah Pin said. ‘He kill him bang! bang! chop! chop! dead.’
Spencer hung up the phone. He paused. He regarded Feiffer with a look of secret triumph. He regarded Auden as a failed rival. He regarded O’Yee with undisguised contempt. He said, ‘You’ll never guess—’
‘I’ll be buggered!’ Feiffer said. He said to Spencer, ‘The Mongolian’s killed Edgar Tan in Camphorwood Lane.’
Spencer looked at him. His mouth fell open. He said, ‘I know!’
Feiffer looked at him. He shook his head at Spencer’s moronically fallen open countenance. Feiffer said, ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell us?’ He said, ‘My God, you must be deranged!’
Mrs Skilbeck tipped the bellboy insultingly inadequately and pulled her mouth back over her teeth. She looked at the seven suitcases on the double bed and felt her fury increase. The bellboy cleared his throat uncomfortably and pulled the door to quickly. She was bigger than he was.
Mrs Skilbeck lit a cigarette, looked at the luggage, sucked the life out of the cigarette, smashed it into a glass ashtray on the dresser and felt furious.
The airline label attached to the top suitcase said in gay Italic script,
Sorry! But we got it back for you and we’re sorry. Honest!
Mrs Skilbeck ripped the label off the handle and stamped her foot on it.
She said aloud, ‘I’m going to kill him!’ and stamped on the label again. She lit another cigarette, gathered up her raffia bag, went out, and slammed the door behind her so hard the key fell out. She picked it up and stuffed it into her raffia bag and thought she wasn’t going to hand the key into some goddamned hotel clerk so he could lose it the way everything got lost around here.
Mrs Skilbeck was furious.
O’Yee’s phone rang. The voice, a drunken voice, said, ‘Feiffer!’
O’Yee handed the phone to Feiffer. He said, ‘It’s your wife.’
‘Hullo?’ Feiffer said pleasantly.
‘This is an anonymous call,’ the drunken man’s voice said, ‘I’m going to get you!’
‘How are you, darling?’
‘Feiffer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘This is a—’
‘O.K.’
‘I’m going to get you!’
‘Goodbye, dear,’ Feiffer said. He hung up.
‘Who was it?’ O’Yee asked. They had been questioning Ah Pin. O’Yee forgot what he was going to ask. He said again, ‘Who was it?’
‘Where did you hear about this killing?’ Feiffer asked Ah Pin. ‘Who told you?’
‘I hear.’
‘Where from?’
‘Who was it?’ O’Yee asked again.
‘Who told you?’
Ah Pin put down his broom. He glanced at the clock. Time spent talking to policemen was time not spent brooming. He rested his elbow on Feiffer’s desk and thought about it.
‘Well?’ Feiffer asked.
‘Don’t you think we ought to—’ Spencer said. He wanted to get out and solve the crime.
‘Cho’s there,’ Feiffer told him. ‘The body isn’t going anywhere.’ He watched Ah Pin think. It was a painful sight to see. He asked Ah Pin, ‘Well?’
‘It wasn’t your wife,’ O’Yee said, ‘It was a drunken man. I only said it was your wife—’
‘Cousin,’ Ah Pin said. ‘Cousin tell me.’
‘Where?’
‘Camphorwood Lane.’
‘What were you doing in Camphorwood Lane?’
‘Not me; killing in Camphorwood Lane. Ah Pin not in—’
‘Did your cousin see it happen?’
Ah Pin thought about it. He shook his head.
‘It was a joke!’ O’Yee said desperately, ‘It was a bad joke! It wasn’t your wife at all!’
‘Cousin tell me in Icehouse Street.’
‘Where in Icehouse Street?’
Ah Pin was a friend of the police. Without them, food would stop. Life had to go on. He said, ‘Cousin say Tan shop man killed. Big trouble. Shop of Mr Boon.’
‘Aye?’ O’Yee said. He forgot about the mystery of the drunken transvestite wife with the deep voice, ‘What did you say?’ He said in Cantonese, ‘What did you say?’
‘Mr Boon’s shop,’ Ah Pin said back in Cantonese. He thought O’Yee spoke it quite well for a half-Chinese, better than Feiffer or the others, in fact, reasonably well. He said totally ungrammatically, ‘Gangster Boon shop of Hanford Hill.’
‘Jesus,’ Auden said.
Spencer said, ‘Gosh!’
‘This man Tan was an employee of Mr Boon’s? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
Feiffer looked at Ah Pin’s eighty ancient summers. He said,
‘How does your cousin know that?’
‘Cousin gangster,’ Ah Pin said proudly. ‘Work for Mr Boon.’
The phone on O’Yee’s desk rang again. O’Yee looked at it. He waived its sole rights to Feiffer with a motion of his hand.
‘What?’ Feiffer said into the phone.
‘Feiffer?’ the drunken voice demanded, ‘Listen, I’m going to get you!’
Feiffer hung up. ‘Where did you see your cousin?’ he asked Pin.
‘Icehouse Street. See Miss Oh in Icehouse Street near Jasmine Steps. Big gangster talk about Mongolian bastard. Going kill Mongolian bastard bang! bang! chop! chop! dead.’
‘Constable Oh’s gone down to the dancehall district,’ Feiffer said.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, “yes”?’
‘Gangsters in dancehall district bang! bang!—’
‘Where?’ Feiffer demanded, ‘You saw Boon and—’
‘No saw—Mr Boon, Macao man, Low Fat going to—’
‘Bang, bang, chop, chop,’ Spencer said nervously. He thought of fragile Minnie Oh in the middle of a Saint Valentine’s Day shoot-out and his heart sank.
‘Yes!’ Ah Pin said gleefully. If you told them enough times eventually they got it, ‘Yes! Yes!’
The phone rang again. Feiffer lifted it off the cradle and then replaced it.
‘Where’s the Mongolian now?’
‘Not know,’ Ah Pin admitted regretfully. He brightened up. ‘No one know. Police not know. Gangsters not know.’ He smiled widely, ‘No one know.’ He nodded to himself sagely, ‘Clever fellow Mongolian.’ No one said anything else to him so he went back to his sweeping.
‘Mongolian,’ Mr Boon said to the circle. He was met by blank stares and slowly shaken heads, ‘The Mongolian lives—where?’
‘He’s an independent,’ Alice said. They were the difficult ones to find. Low Fat smiled at Tinkerbell Lin Wong and considered her young body.
‘Hmm,’ Mr Boon said. He gazed at the flesh of Apricot Tang Lee, Posey Yin and Tinkerbell Lin Wong with the knowledge of the human foibles such flesh aroused. He said, ‘Your girls know where he lives.’
‘No,’ Alice Ping said. ‘I’m like their mother. They would have told me.’ She said to the girls, ‘You would have told Mummy.’
Mr Boon glanced at her with a glance of brief nausea. He asked the girls brusquely, ‘Which one of you works Camphorwood Lane?’
‘No!’ Alice said, ‘My girls work for me. I’ve given them a roof over their heads. They don’t work the lanes any more.’
‘Dung!’ Mr Boon said. He said, ‘Which one works Camphorwood Lane?’
No one answered.
‘Five hundred dollars,’ Mr Boon said, ‘for the one who tells me which one. Face acid for the one who works Camphorwood Lane and lies.’
Tinkerbell Lin Wong worked Camphorwood Lane on her days off. She knew the Mongolian. She knew where he lived. Posey Yin said, ‘Her.’
‘You,’ Mr Boon said. Low Fat looked surprised.
Low Fat said, ‘You?’
‘Her,’ Posey Yin said.
‘You—’ Alice Ping started, but Mr Boon said, ‘You.’ He fixed Tinkerbell with his unblinking eyes, ‘Mongolian lives—where?’
‘Roof,’ Tinkerbell Lin Wong said. She was not one to compound her errors. ‘Roof opposite shop of Edgar Tan.’ She smiled nervously at Low Fat. Low Fat pursed his lips and considered this new complication to his otherwise uncomplicated life.
‘Acid in the face . . .’ Alice said unhappily. She touched her
ear and tut-tutted. She said again, ‘Acid in the face . . . tsk, tsk.’
‘Got protector,’ Tinkerbell said. She glanced at Low Fat and nodded. She said spitefully to Alice, ‘Got big man protector.’
‘Who?’ Mr Boon asked Low Fat.
‘Beats me,’ Low Fat said. He shook his head at Tinkerbell Lin Wong in dismay and incomprehension. He went out to the cars with the others.
Low Fat thought of himself as many things. Other people thought of him as many things. Suicidal, however, was not one of them.
The phone rang again. Feiffer picked it up and said, ‘Stuff off!’
It was Minnie Oh.
Feiffer said, ‘Oh—’
‘Yes,’ Minnie said, ‘it’s me.’
‘Oh,’ Feiffer said.
‘Yes,’ Minnie said again. She thought something terrible must have happened at the station for Feiffer to have become unhinged. She said, ‘I’m across from
Alice’s.’
‘You’d better get out of there,’ Feiffer said, ‘Boon and his gang are down from the Hill and they’re somewhere in that area.’
‘I know,’ Minnie’s voice said, ‘I can see them across the street. They’re all coming out of
Alice’s
and getting into cars. One of them has a shotgun under his coat.’
‘Right,’ Feiffer said.