BLACK BOOK, WHITE DEATHS
By Hugh Lessig

Published on the Web by the Frisco Foil Stories
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/8002/


Prologue

     Harriett Hill ran a soup kitchen in the Warehouse District, and on Tuesday she came to the newsroom with a gun.
     It was 2 p.m. and she walked straight to my desk. My fingers hammered the keys of my Underwood as I crashed on deadline. Fifteen crackerjack column inches on the city's goofball investment in a chain of fleabag hotels. And smo-o-o-o-th.
     "I'm busy, Mrs. Hill," I mumbled. "I got my fastball working today."
     'Mr. Smith. You didn't even look up. How did you know it was me?" Old lady guilt and bright blue eyes. A crinkled smile, 58 years young.
     "Your perfume preceded you. Lavender sachet, I believe. Very nice. I also smell gun oil. Please don't tell me you've brought another firearm into the newsroom."
     Tappity-tappity-tappity-tappity-tap. Bing. Carriage return.
     "What's the matter with me bringing you another gun?"
     I stopped writing and looked up. "Look, Mrs. Hill. I appreciate that you run a soup kitchen. I appreciate that you try to fix up run-down houses. And I really appreciate that you're a pain in the hoo-hah to the city Housing Authority. But even though you don't trust cops, you can't bring everything you find to me. I have a locker full of brass knuckles, shivs, zip-guns, magnums and -- aw geez, now look at this."
     She placed a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun on my desk. Ten gauge. Twin hammers. Carved walnut stock. Vintage 1920.
     "Mrs. Hill, this would drop a rhino at 30 yards. Maybe even an editor."
     "I'm not asking you to use it, Mr. Smith. I'm asking you to write about it."
     "Fine. What's the story?"
     She placed her wrinkled hand on top of mine. Her fingers trembled. She smiled, trying to be brave. I picked up the gun and smelled fresh powder burn. "I killed two boys with this just now," she whispered. "They're on my steps. White-eyed dead with holes big enough to shine a light through." 
     "Now wait a minute, Mrs. Hill -- "
     "Oh, and by the way, there's 20 pounds of heroin in my root cellar."

Chapter One

     I punched in a grab quote from the city codes inspector, yelled "Copy!" and filed my masterpiece. I fed Mrs. Hill a slug of brandy from my bottom drawer and she told it from the beginning.
     Three weeks ago, she took in a homeless guy named Victory Begezzio. She did this all the time. Juvies, mostly. Begezzio claimed he was turning his life around. He said he was working for a church. She bought the story and gave him a cot in the cellar.
     He started bringing home bags of white powder. She called him on it. He said the church was having a bake sale and the church ladies told him to hoard baking soda. She bought that, too. Some Bible verse told her she should. How do you question that stuff?
     Victory brought home a friend. Older guy. Unshaven. Nervous hands and dishonest eyes. Wore the same clothes every day and walked like he owned the world. Her dander got up. She stayed awake and listened for trouble. She found it last night.
     "They were having a party," she said. "Just the two of them. They had a phonograph and they were playing Artie Shaw. Then I heard something that sounded like a fight. A lightbulb popped and it scared the dickens out of me. So I took Mr. Hill's shotgun -- may he rest in peace - and went to the cellar.
     "Well, the lightbulb had gone out, and it was dark. I heard someone say 'Get her!' and these shadows moved toward me. Stinking, sweaty shadows. That's when I fired. Bada-bing, bada-boom, two triggers pulled just like that. It was very easy. I ran upstairs and got my oil lamp. When I returned, I saw them staring back at me in the light."
     I was just about to ask about the other guy when half the San Francisco police department tumbled into the newsroom. A sergeant fired his pistol in the air and demanded quiet. He got a faceful of ceiling plaster. A copy boy shuffled by and handed the sergeant a broom.
     "Really, sergeant," Mrs. Hill called. "You don't have to shoot me."
     I put the shotgun down in case the cops had other ideas. Mrs. Hill laughed. "I told them I'd be here, Mr. Smith. No sense in being on the lam. I can't shimmy down a drain pipe anymore. But I wanted to give you the scoop. You've always been so nice to me."
     A patrolman slapped a pair of wrist bracelets on Mrs. Hill. Another one grabbed the cannon. I got hot. "Hey! She's 58 years old! Maybe three of you can handle her without getting your doughnut asses kicked in?"
     A sergeant caught the doughnut remark and sauntered up to my desk. He twirled his nightstick and whistled a nameless tune. Our eyes locked and we understood each other. "Watch your mouth, Foiler. You got no business harboring a killer in your newsroom."
     "We've got the likes of you."
     He laughed and his eyes shrunk into little pinpricks of rage. White knuckles gripped his nightstick. He tapped it on my desk, softly, dangerously. "We're putting her in solitary. She'll get bread and water and I'll be surprised if they give her a phone call."
     "Come on, chief. She had two thugs in her basement. They were riding high on horse and wasting a good Artie Shaw record. One guy was named Victory Begezzio. He probably has a record."
     "I'm sure he does," the sergeant snarled. "The problem is the other guy."
     "Who's the other guy?"
     The sergeant pointed at Mrs. Hill as cops hustled her out of the newsroom. "I got ten bucks that says she'll be sucking gas before Easter."
     "How do you figure?"
     "She just killed the mayor's son."

Chapter Two

     We sent a cop reporter to get the nuts and bolts. My editor told me to make the next big play since me and Mrs. Hill were tight from the City Hall beat. I sat down with a notebook and made a list.
     Item One: Mrs. Hill was no killer. I know killers. I even like some killers. She' doesn't belong to the club.
     Item Two: The mayor of San Francisco was Solly Bupkis, a 55-year-old Republican ward heeler with designs on running for state senator, then governor. Wore black derbies and ate salami sandwiches. Hated the Foil. The feeling was mutual. Count on him for nothing.
     Item Three: Mayor Bupkis honed an image as a crimefighter. Lived for it. Always showed up at big police cases to make a statement. The ten bucks on sucking gas looked like smart money.
     Item Four: The mayor's spoiled brat no-account excuse for a son had a reputation as a crotch scratcher and a pants pisser who couldn't light a dim bulb with his brain power. Running a heroin ring seemed above his ability. And what the hell was he doing in Mrs. Hill's basement?
     I didn't know the answer, but I knew someone who might. I grabbed my hat and told the boss not to expect me for a while. I headed out into the late January afternoon. A light fog had swept in by the time I reached the docks. Wet wood smelled like dead fish. The union shacks smelled like something worse. I passed four longshoremen huddled around a burn barrel. One of them tipped his hat and called me by name. That happens sometimes.
     When I reached the Dogtown Cafe, I went straight to the back room and opened it with my key. The room had plain hardwood floors and plain plaster walls. In the middle sat four men around a table. I guessed maybe $2,000 was on the table. Three of the men were strangers. The fourth man smiled at me through a haze of blue cigar smoke. He wore a three-piece suit and a diamond tie-tack. He weighed at least 350 pounds and had fingers like bratwurst.
     "Why, it's Picasso Smith," the man said.
     "Hello, councilman. How's the cards?"
     Vitalis McPhoon looked at his poker hand and the wads of cash on the table. "Cards? Cards? I don't see any cards, Smith. You must be mistaken. Only Republicans gamble in this city."
     I took a closer look at the table. "My mistake, your honor. It must be this story I'm working on. It's got my judgment all unsettled."
     McPhoon shifted the cigar to the side of his mouth. His eyes remained fixed on his hand. "What story might that be, Smith?"
     "Oh nothing you'd be interested in. This woman called Harriett Hill shot a couple of men in her home overnight. One was a guy named Victory Begezzio. Sounds like a punk hophead. The other was the mayor's son. The cops put the pinch on Mrs. Hill in our newsroom. Word has it she's already on Death Row."
     McPhoon held his cards daintily. His eyes betrayed nothing. A smile crept into the corners of his mouth.
     "Mayor Bupkis. My old friend. I'm assuming he's still a Republican."
     "I believe so," I answered. "At least if you're still a Democrat."
     McPhoon chuckled. His mound of girth shifted inside his suit. "It's a shame about his son. I believe his name was George. Yes, that's it. Poor George. Tell me about his untimely death."
     I kept my hands in my pockets. "As Mrs. Hill tells it, George and his friend, Victory, were hoarding baking soda for church ladies. The church was having a bake sale, so they wanted to stock up. They ended up with a lot of baking soda, Mr. McPhoon. Scads of it."
     "I suppose they kept it in Mrs. Hill's basement."
     I nodded.
     "I'm aware of Mrs. Hill," McPhoon said. "She comes to our council meetings. I had no idea she was tied up with church ladies."
     "She wasn't. George Bupkis and Victory Begezzio had the church ladies all to themselves. Since George's death is such a tragedy -- which I'm sure you'll agree -- it would be fruitful to interview these church ladies who dealt with him. I'm sure they could give me some insight into the true character of George Bupkis and perhaps shed more light on the story. Do you think that would be the right thing to do?"
     McPhoon smiled again. "That would be very nice, Foiler. But I don't truck with church ladies. You should know that." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of business cards. He thumbed through them one by one. Then, with an almost imperceptible flick of his thumb, one of the cards fell to the floor.
     "Get that for me, will you, Mr. Smith?"
     I bent down and picked it up. It read:
     Chow Fat's Tonsorial Parlor and Brew Pub  Corner of Mott and Main Chinatown San Francisco. USA
     "Keep the card, Foiler. I have another one."
     "Thank you, councilman. You have a good day." I tipped my hat to the assemblage and started to walk towards the door.
     "Mr. Smith!"
     I turned at the sound of McPhoon's booming voice.
     "You should be careful these days, what with mayor's sons getting killed and all."
     He stared hard at me for a second. Then his eyes returned to the cards.

Chapter Three

     Why was it always Chinatown? I went back to the newsroom to get the dope on Chow Fat. If I had any hope of saving Mrs. Hill, I had to paint George Bupkis for what he really was -- a heroin dealer who controlled sad-eyed freaks like Victory Begezzio. But Georgie Bupkis wouldn't be number-one on the food chain.
     Our business file had several clips on Chow Fat. His front-end business was legit and somewhat unique. It's not everyone who combines a barbershop and a tavern. We wrote him up a couple of times -- Chinatown Businessman of the Year 1932. Again in '34. A feature on a barbershop/bar being the ultimate place for conversation. Nothing in the past year.
     I turned to the crime file and got my eyes opened.
     Three people had been murdered at Chow Fat's during the last 14 months: a shooting at the bar, a stabbing in the men's room and a particularly colorful throat cutting in barber chair number three. Our crime columinst, Spit Forbes, dusted Chow Fat a couple of times. Forbes found out that Chow Fat contributed heavily to the campaign of Mayor Bupkis, and that Fat, in turn, had won several big catering contracts. The three murders had all been American businessmen known as big-time donors to the Democratic Party. No wonder Vitalis McPhoon had it in for the guy.
     I asked around the newsroom for Forbes. Someone said he was on a three-week bender in Mexico City with a squeeze named Delilah and a glue-sniffing midget named Prudence who kept his appointment book.
     I doubted that Delilah really existed. I had met Prudence several times. Either way, I couldn't count on Forbes for help. I went to my desk and tried to figure out my next play. I had gone into Chinatown alone before, but with mixed success. Sometimes I got lucky on a story, but more often than not, I found myself needing an interpreter.
     My eyes wandered over the newsroom, towards a window. Then I saw my answer -- or at least the beginnings of one. Across the street from the Frisco Foil was our favorite bar, The Chinaman's Tooth. Owned and operated by Woo, a man whose last name was unknown to me, but whom I considered a close friend.
     Woo would always give you a tip. Then again,I had never asked him to rat on one of his own.

Chapter Four

     Happy hour was in full swing by the time I made it across the street. A few newsroom drunks were already leaning on the bar rail. They mingled with the gadflies, greaseballs, rummies and two-bit floozies who populated The Tooth from time to time.
     Woo stood at his customary place behind the bar. He saw me and started pumping the tap. I had a beer by the time I sat down.
     "It is good to see you, Picasso Smith. You have been gone too long." Woo always says the same thing.
     I raised my glass, which is what I always do, and took a stiff drink. Then I motioned him over and showed him Chow Fat's business card. "You ever hear of this mug, Woo? He may be tied up in something dirty."
     Woo's face fell. He look at the card for a long time. Then he took it and walked back into the kitchen. After a few minutes he came out. Woo's wife and several children followed. He turned around and shooshed them back into kitchen.
     "I know this man, Mr. Smith."
     "Tell it if you can, Woo. I need to know."
     He took a deep breath and started talking: "My grandfather came to this country perhaps 50 years ago. Sometime around 1880. He started this business. Chow Fat came around the same time. He also started a bar. It was on Augustus Street."
     "The next street over?"
     "Yes. Except Chow Fat wanted all the tavern business for himself in this entire ward. He bribed the local councilman to get tax breaks and ran gambling out of his kitchen. And that still wasn't enough. My grandfather could cook, and built up a lunch trade. Chow Fat hired people to beat up my grandfather on a regular basis. There are some who say Chow Fat was the forerunner of organized mayhem in Chinatown."
     "The Tong Gangs?"
     "Correct."
     "What happened to your grandfather, Woo?"
     The barkeep smiled. "He never backed down. Chow Fat's men would come into the bar once a week and rough him up, sometimes wreck the place. My grandfather kept rebuilding. People began to see that he was not to be swayed. They came to his bar."
     "That's a pretty good story."
     "My father, in time, worked for my grandfather. He was -- how might you put it -- not as peaceful as my grandfather. When Chow Fat's thugs would come in, my father finally began to take them on."
     "Hey, wasn't your father a boxer or something?"
     "Golden Gloves champion, featherweight division, city of San Francisco, 1910 to 1915. Very often, Chow Fat's thugs would leave this bar missing several of their teeth. As a symbol of defiance, my father would keep the teeth in a cup by the door. The cup stood against the wall underneath a sign that read: 'If you cause trouble, you will contribute to this cup.' That is how 'The Chinaman's Tooth got its name, Mr. Smith. When I took over this bar, I renamed it in honor of my ancestors who fought so hard, and who knocked out so many teeth."
     I took another drink and studied my mug for a moment. "It sounds like you have a major ax to grind with Chow Fat. But I feel funny about asking for your help, Woo. He's still your countryman."
     Woo shook his head. "Chow Fat is a thug and a coward. Besides, Mr. Smith, I owe much more to The Frisco Foil than I do to him. You forget, this is where The Frisco Foil began."
     "I didn't forget, Woo."
     He didn't have to tell me that story. Every Foiler knew it. Back in the 1880s, a man came out from Iowa looking for gold. His name was Tiberius Kirk. He never found gold, but he found a lot of poor saps who got swindled by liars promsing riches. Tiberius decided to start a newspaper to skewer all those phonies, and he called it The Frisco Foil. For a time, he published it with a hand-crank press -- out of this very bar, with Woo's grandfather giving him the space.
     "You still have the old press out back, Woo?"
     "Still there."
     "Mr. Kirk was good for a few newspapers I guess," I said.
     "When people didn't read the paper," Woo recalled, "they used them for placemats."
     "Or as fishwrap."
     We had a laugh. Woo was all right. "Listen, bartender. If I go see Chow Fat, you think you might be able to find me a good interpreter? Someone who won't back down? I gotta grill him on a story. There's an old woman who's going to be on Death Row, and one of his thugs might be behind it."
     Woo leaned across the bar. He half-smiled, then the smile disappeared.
     "When do we leave?"

Chapter Five

     We needed a cover story. Something to get us through the front door of the worst tonsorial parlor in Chinatown. I had never worked a grift with Woo, but we put our heads together and came up with something.
     "Will Chow Fat recognize you?" I asked.
     "I doubt it. It's been 15 years since he's walked down this street. But I'll know him."
     The time was 6 p.m. It had been four hours since Harriett Hill walked into the newsroom to tell her story. We could have waited until tomorrow, but I had the feeling the meter was running on this story. Once in prison, she could wake up dead 20 different ways before even seeing a judge. Hell, the food might kill her on general principle. We took a cab to Chinatown. We got out in front of Chow Fat's place. I smelled fish and spices and a few things I couldn't place. We dodged a couple of bicycles and went inside. We found ourselves in a small foyer: to the left was the barbershop and to the right was the bar.
     "We go right," I said.
     Inside the bar, the air hung heavy with scented smoke from hookahs that sat at every table. We walked up to the beer taps like we owned the place. Woo said something to the bartender and pointed to me. The bartender gave me a look that suggested I was in the wrong place, I took out my notebook and slapped it on the bar. The bartender disappeared out back.
     "I don't know if this will work, Woo."
     "Have faith, Mr. Smith."
     I thought for a moment. "Faith in what? Do Chinese believe in Jesus? I thought you were all Buddhists or something."
     "Hey, watch it. I'm Episcopalian."
     The kitchen door swung open. The bartender motioned for us to follow. The kitchen had tiled floors and gas stoves. Large metal vats bubbled merrily and released gouts of steam. One vat had greenish tentacles hanging over the lip. The tentacles seemed attached to something alive. A worker came by and beat it with fork.
     "Squid?" I asked.
     Woo shrugged. "Maybe you don't want to know, Mr. Smith."
     The kitchen opened into a narrow hallway with doors off to either side. The bartender pointed to a large, ornate door at the end of the hallway. Woo nodded his thanks. I walked ahead and opened it. We found ourselves in a large office. A small lamp on the desk provided the only light. The room was done in dark wood and tapestries. The desk was fit for a vice president of Standard Oil. Behind the desk sat a man half-hidden in the shadow.
     "Come in Mr. Smith. Bring your friend."
     I walked ahead. Woo closed the door behind me.
     "It has been some time since The Frisco Foil visited this place." Darkness hid the top half of his face. The bottom half showed a thin mouth with colorless lips that just now broke into a smile.
     "Are you Chow Fat?"
     "No, Mr. Smith. I am Gene Autry. Shall I sing you a song?"
     "Just asking, bub." I pushed up my fedora. "See, Chow Fat is a candidate for businessman of the year. Before our editorial board votes, we like to conduct interviews with all prospective candidates. So if you're him, I'd like to know a little bit more about your business operation. It could mean some good publicity. This is my interpreter, Wang. I brought him along just in case."
     The man stepped out from behind the desk. He was of medium build and wore a white dinner jacket, black pants and a string tie. He had no hair except for a pencil-thin mustache that curved expertly above his upper lip. His eyes revealed nothing.
     "I am Chow Fat, and no, you will not be needing an interpreter, although I welcome him nontheless." He nodded toward Woo. "I am more interested in you, Mr.Smith. Why would the Frisco Foil consider me for businessman of the year? I have been the victim of shamless, biased journalism for the past year, mostly at the hands of your so-called columnist, Mr. Forbes. I find it difficult to believe that your editorial board has had a change of heart."
     "We always return to the scene of the crime," I said. "Every business has a down year or two. So you had a few murders at your place and profits fell off. That's American capitalism. You've shown yourself to be a keen practioner of it. And besides, we Americans love someone who makes a comeback. From what I can see, the place is going great guns now. How about answering a few questions?"
     Chow Fat considered my words. Woo stood perfectly still behind me.
     "Very well, Mr. Smith. Ask your questions."
     I tossed him a few softballs. What made you come to America, how did you get a start in business, do you remember your first customer, blah, blah, blah. I skipped over the murders and got him talking about this year. He told me about his new lunch menu, about how he serves as a major employer for the Chinese in San Francisco, about how he pays them a better wage than most white men, and puts Chinese in management positions. I had him primed.
     "If I may, let's stay with that point for a moment," I said. "It is often said that good leaders surround themselves with good people. Who are some of the people you surround yourself with?"
     He rattled off the names of several Chinese men. I pretended to take notes.
     "It is also said that a good leader surrounds himself with all types of people. Your leadership role in the Chinese community is unquestioned, of course, but is there room for white men in your operation?"
     Chow Fat hesitated. "I have surrounded myself with men from all races."
     Now. Move in. "I note you've done extensive business with City Hall. Catering the annual employee banquet, for instance. I also note that you were a heavy contributor to the campaign of Mayor Bupkis, mostly in the form of in-kind services, such as meals. Are you and the mayor friends?"
     Chow Fat folded his hands. His eyes shifted to my right. "I am a casual friend of the mayor, yes."
     "I see. Do you know the mayor's son by any chance?"
     A big smile now. "Why Mr. Smith. I can't imagine what you might do with that piece of information."
     "Just a simple question."
     "Not so simple, I think. Tell me, Woo, did you put him on to me? You are sympathetic with these Foilers, and you have the same troublesome look that I found so annoying in your grandfather."
     Grating noises. The squeak of a pulley belt. The crack of knuckles as Woo clenched his fists. Then his voice cackled.
     "You will find no connection to your murder here, Mr. Smith. My employees have destroyed all my personnel records. An unfortunate mistake, but if the police come to question me, I will have no documention to show them. And you won't be here, either."
     Side panels opened in the wall.
     Men spilled out.
     Big, faceless men with fists as big as Smith-Coronas.
     At least that's how it seemed as my world faded into sticky blackness.

Chapter Six

     I woke up tasting blood, up to my neck in garbage, and with something sticking in my chest.
     "Rough interview," I mumbled to no one in particular.
     I thrashed around for firm footing but couldn't find any. A pair of hands steadied my shoulders. I couldn't see.
     "Easy, Mr. Smith. They have beaten us."
     "Woo. You're here. Fill me in."
     "Chow Fat's men. Jumped us. Woke up a couple of minutes ago."
     Dried blood crusted my eyes. I pried them open and looked into the starry night. "Where are we?"
     "In a dumpster behind Chow Fat's place."
     "Unless this is heaven, that means he didn't kill us."
     I moved around to make sure everything worked I looked at my watch. It was eight o'clock. We had been out for nearly two hours. My feet found the bottom of the dumpster. One of Chow Fat's thugs had taken my fountain pen and stuck it my chest. It wasn't very deep, and it had bled until it clotted. I pulled out the pen and stuck it in a dead cod.
     "You Asians. So subtle. We need to climb out of here, Woo. You get out first, OK?"
     I boosted him up to the lip of the dumpster. Woo found a handhold. As he hoisted himself up, I saw what they had done to his back. Straight cuts with some kind of straight razor. Not deep enough to kill him. Only enough to bleed and maybe get infected.
     "Jesus, Woo."
     My partner said nothing. As he climbed out over the side, he caught his leg on the dumpster and fell into the street. A big clump of garbage went with him. I had to laugh as he stood up. Dozens of pieces of notebook paper stuck on his shirt and pants.
     "You look like the bird of paradise," I said.
     "Very funny, Mr. Smith. But you look worse."
     Pieces of paper stuck to my shirt and my back. One was pasted on the nape of my neck. I pulled it off and looked at it. It had columns of Chinese writing, followed by numbers.
     "Woo! Good God! This is it!"
     "This is what?"
     "Chow Fat's records! They're here! We're hip-deep in them! If one of these pieces of paper has the name of George Bupkis on it, that could be our connection. We need something that has the names of people. Payroll records. A ledger. Anything. Except I don't know this language from Swahili."
     Woo grinned. "It looks like you need an interpreter after all."
     To this day, I don't know how Woo found it, or why Chow Fat's thugs didn't come back to check on us. The dumpster faced a back alley, so it wasn't like a lot of people strolled by to look at us. It took nearly two hours of rummaging through eggshells, coffee grounds, chicken bones and discarded green tentacles.
     "This is really squid, isn't it?" I asked at one point.
     Woo took the tentacle from my hand and threw it aside. "Just give the pieces of paper to me," he said.
     So that's what I did. Finally, Woo let out a yell.
     "Got something!"
     It was a small, spiral-bound notebook in Chinese symbols. The outside read "Record of Deliveries," according to Woo. Inside, it listed four columns of information:
     Name. Date. Destination. Amount delivered
     The amount was measured in bags. Under "names," one said George Bupkis. Under "address," it listed Harriett Hill's residence in the Warehouse District. Another said Victory Begezzio, same address.
     "It doesn't say he's running heroin," Woo pointed out. "At least not in so many words."
     "No, but it makes the connection. Fact: Harriett Hill had heroin in her root cellar. Fact: George Bupkis and Victory Begezzio were there. Fact: Chow Fat keeps a record of delivery of some substance that is contained in bags. Fact: George Bupkis and Victory Begezzio were delivering said substance to Harriett Hill's house. A district attorney would go to bat on this. We got him, Woo."
     "So what do we do next?"
     I stood in the dumpster, thinking until my brain got sore. "If we go back in to Chow Fat's and say we have the book, he might not believe us. But if we show him the book, he'll swipe it back and his goons will just come down on us again. Maybe for good."
     We thought in silence for a while longer. Then Woo snapped his fingers.
     "I have an idea, Mr. Smith. Don't go anywhere." He ran down the alley. "What is it, Woo?"
     "You know what I'm thinking, Mr. Smith. You know."
     And then I did know.
     Of course. It was so simple.
     I stood among dead fish and nameless green tentacles laughing my guts out as my favorite bartender disappeared into the night.

Chapter Seven

     Three hours later, I walked into Chow Fat's through the front door with a new gray suit and a fresh notebook.
     It was 11 p.m., still a Tuesday, but Chinatown didn't know a Tuesday from a good Saturday night. The hookahs belched clouds. Every table had a knot of smiling, dreamy-eyed people and at lease one pitcher of beer. Funny thing about the Chinese. They made a decent mug of beer.
     I elbowed my way to the front of the bar. I waited for the bartender to pass and threw a 10-dollar bill straight at his puss. He grabbed it and gave me a look that said I had his attention.
     "I need to see Chow Fat now. I don't care that he had me beaten up. I don't care that he had me thrown in a pile of garbage. Someone stuck a pen in my chest, but it wasn't my good pen, so I forgive that, too. Now I've got a fresh notebook and some real questions, and that C-note says that your boss can't handle my curves. And don't act like you don't understand me. Your look gives it away. Now go find him."
     The bartender backed away with a thin smile. Ten minutes later, I was again standing in Chow Fat's office looking nervously at walls that could move. Suddenly, Chow Fat drifted out of a shadowy corner to face me.
     "Mr. Smith. You are most persistent."
     "Yeah well. Don't you have any windows in this place? I'd like to take some notes."
     He actually smiled. Then he turned around and pulled up a shade. The starry night appeared behind me.
     "That's perfect," I said. "Now, do you have a few minutes?"
     "The question is, Mr. Smith, do you?"
     The grating noise. Sounds of a pulley. My scabs began to pull. I grabbed the back of a chair. What the hell.
     I took the black book and tossed it on the desk.
     "Care to explain that?"
     Chow Fat picked up the book and examined it. "Ah yes, As I suspected. I recently discovered that my employees did less than a thorough job of destroying my records. No matter. You have stupidly brought back the one document that mattered. You Americans. So confident. You do not realize that my people were civilized when your Native Americans were chasing down buffalo with sharp sticks."
     My eyes narrowed to slits. "Careful, Chow. A good Apache might kick your ass."
     "What do you know of me? Of my people?"
     "Now give me credit for a little knowledge here, Chow. I know, for instance, that the Chinese invented gunpowder, macaroni, and you did a few things with silk, if I recall."
     "So condescending." The panels in the wall opened.
     "And let me see. You folks invented printing, didn't you? I mean, Guttenburg gets the credit, but that's another thing you've got over on us."
     "Make your point, Mr. Smith. You are about to die."
     "My point," I said, "is right outside the window."
     Chow Fat turned and looked into the San Francisco night, where it was snowing. Thin delicate slices of white drifted on the air, floated down toward the ground. Hundreds of hundreds of slices. Making no sound. Chow Fat watched for a moment, then he turned to me.
     "What is the meaning of this?" He asked.
     "Those pieces of paper falling before you eyes are copies of this book," I drawled. "You can destroy this original, but me and Woo have churned out 5,000 copies of this book, thanks to a little hand-crank printing press we've been keeping around for just such an emergency. We're going to paper the city with them. Woo is on the roof of your place right now, dumping them off. The police will have them tomorrow. It's over, Chow. And thanks for inventing the printing press. You guys are all right."
     Chow Fat's lipless mouth twisted into an impossible frown. He walked toward me and raised his hand. Something told me to sit still.
     "If you kill me," I whispered, "it'll only be a bigger story."
     His raised hand clenched into a fist. It hung in the air for a moment. Then he turned and ran toward the wall. I saw shadowy shapes standing by the secret panels. Chow Fat disappeared. His henchmen followed. The wall closed behind him.
     Outside, it was still snowing.

Epilog

     My only regret was not making deadline.
     I got Woo off the roof and we sped back to the newsroom. A bunch of homeless people from the Warehouse District had camped out on the sidewalk with burn barrels and signs. They were demanding the release of Harriett Hill. They saw me trying to get in a side door and wanted an update.
     I stopped to talk. Woo slipped away with two bundles of copies for the police station. I ended up doing interviews. Some homeless guy handed me a hot sandwich and a cup of coffee. The sandwich had a parsley garnish. You just can't figure this business sometimes.
     By sunrise, the story was on the street. Literally.
     Woo had climnbed the roof the cop station and dumped everything he had into the prowler pool.
     We hit the streets with our Waterfront Edition at 6 a.m. I had 10 quick front-page column inches connecting George Bupkis with Chow Fat, and tying both of them to the drugs in Harriett Hill's basement. By 7 a.m., the cops and the Coast Guard had cornered Chow Fat in a skiff trying to get out of the bay, so I had 20 inches for our Breakfast Edition. By 8:30 a.m., they had skunked the skiff with tear gas and set it on fire, and the San Francisco Herald finally made it out.
     I put out 20 column inches for our main morning newsstand edition -- drugs, crooks, gas and fire. It purred like a low-slung Merc.
     At 2 p.m., the divers fished a crispy critter from the water and said it was Chow. My editor wanted me to wait for the dental records. I pasted a back-door lead on top of my previous version, did a short write-thru, and emptied my notebook -- 35 inches for the main afternoon edition.
     At 4 p.m., Harriett Hill walked out of prison a free woman. By then, Chow Fat was cold in the morge and rated a sidebar on page A-6. Harriett's smile was three columns wide underneath the big banner.
     At 7:32 p.m., I called it a night and walked across the street to The Chinaman's Tooth. Woo was behind the bar acting like nothing happened. He was moving a little stiff, but then so was I.
     He slid me a beer as I took a stool. I pointed to a ham sandwich on the menu. He went back and made it. He brought out the sandwich on a heavy white plate. He put down a fork and napkin.
     He put down a placemat.
     It had four columns of Chinese writing.
     "Your sandwich, Mr. Smith," he said, and put down the plate.
     I took a bite and savored it. I took a swig of my beer. "You know something, Woo," I said. "You'll have to teach me that lingo of yours sometime."
     Woo thought about that. He almost said something, then a longshoreman came up and asked for a beer and he went to pour it for him.

                                                          
Hugh Lessig, 41, is a newspaper reporter for the Daily Press in Newport News, Va. He lives in the state capital of Richmond, with his wife, Ann Marie. He writes about state government, politics and whichever elected official happens to commit news on a given day. Given his life's calling, he is a particular fan of reporter-detectives such as Frederick Nebel's "Kennedy of the Free Press."

Copyrights (c) 2000 Hugh Lessig