Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and/or used fictionally.
Copyright Notice Reminder
This story is copyright by the author and the author retains all rights. Expressly prohibited is the posting of the story to any sites not approved by the author or charging for the story in any manner. Single copies may be downloaded and printed for personal use provided the story remains unchanged.
Copyright 2007 by John Ellison
WARNING: This chapter contains graphic scenes that some readers might find disturbing. What is written in no way whatsoever represents the author's personal feelings and is written in the context of the overall series. Reader discretion is advised.
Reader comments -- except flames -- are always welcome. Please address your comments/opinions to paradegi@sympatico.ca
Aurora Crusade
Chapter 17
A light breeze set the lace curtains covering the window to stirring. In the darkened bedroom on the first floor of the Jade Doll Restaurant, Trevor Li heard the muted sound of rolling thunder to the west. A storm was coming in.
Trevor's dark eyes scanned the street below. For once the roadway was empty of trucks and cars, and the cacophony of the loading of the ship tied to the jetty had ended. Behind the high, metal clad gates and brick wall, only the deck lights of the freighter broke the darkness. Beyond the jetty the dark shape of a tug towing a line of barges hid and then revealed the twinkling lights of North Vancouver across Burrard Inlet.
As Trevor sat watching, waiting, there was a soft tapping on the door. Leaving his lookout, Trevor walked to the door, opened it. To his surprise there were two men standing in the hall. They were both tall and slim of build, and dressed in dark clothing. One was white, the other, younger, Asian. Trevor knew the white man: Pete Sheppard, Michael Chan's new Chief of Security. The Asian, a boy barely into manhood, Trevor did not know.
Pete entered the room, moved quickly to the window and looked out. He turned and asked quietly, "Anything?"
Trevor, his eyes darting toward the Asian boy, and then back to Pete, shrugged. "The ship across the way has stopped loading, there's been a couple of cars trolling by every so often. Other than that, it's been quiet."
Pete saw Trevor looking intently at his companion. "This is Alistair Chan. He is to observe, nothing more." He looked deliberately at Trevor. The look said: "Don't ask!"
Lowering his eyes, Trevor nodded imperceptibly. He knew enough about Michael Chan to know never to ask. "Okay." Trevor returned to his rifle.
Pete spoke quietly to Alistair. "Remember, you observe, nothing more."
Alistair nodded. "I know. The Serenity was very clear."
"Good." Pete jerked his head toward Trevor. "He knows his job. He can be trusted."
Trevor, who was pretending to peer through the sniper scope, bristled. Of course he knew his job. If he didn't he'd be downstairs slinging beer and fried rice! He heard the door close softly, paused and then asked, "You a real Chan?" he asked.
Alistair was aware that there were Chans, and then there were Chans. "My father and the Serenity's father are brothers. I am a cousin to the Serenity."
"A `cousin'?" Trevor mused aloud. He thought a moment. All his life Trevor had heard whispers about Michael Chan, Emperor of Chinatown. Trevor had heard much, but not once had he heard that any of Michael's relatives had been brought into the real business. The presence of this good looking young man meant that Michael had, for some reason, changed his mind.
Trevor left the scope and sat in a chair. He regarded Alistair and a small, wry smile, formed on his lips. "I guess that makes you royalty," he said inoffensively.
Alistair looked at Trevor and shrugged. Michael's speech to the amahs, and to the mothers of the Cousins, had been plain, pointed and to the point. He, his brother, and the other boy Cousins were royalty, Princes of the House of Chan. Unlike his brother, Arden, Alistair had not assumed the airs of a prince. Quite the contrary, for he was essentially an unassuming, private young man. Arden was his opposite. Free of the power of the amahs, Arden was making the most of his newfound freedom, and when last seen was cavorting in the Orangerie pool with the younger Cousins, all of them as naked as babes, and all of them conspicuously ignoring the disapproving glares of the amahs.
Not quite ready to acknowledge his new status, Alistair answered, "I was sealed to the service of the Serenity. It is my duty to do what he asks of me."
That was not quite what Trevor expected. The young man's diffidence perplexed him. Still, it was not his place to question Michael Chan. Trevor did, however, understand the meaning of Alistair's sealing, just as he understood the meaning of the "sealing" of the Victoria Tsangs. They were men set apart, special, and totally devoted to Michael Chan.
Trevor briefly wondered if he should impart the knowledge that he too was "sealed" - albeit courtesy of the United States Marine Corps - but did not. He regarded Alistair and thought that the kid was much too serious. "So, should I salute, or curtsey?" he asked with a grin.
Alistair started. He saw the grin on Trevor's face and realized that Trevor was trying to get him to relax. He said, "If you wish, although neither is necessary. A tug on the forelock will also do." He returned Trevor's grin.
Trevor was surprised at the joke. He laughed and said, "So, you know how to pull a guy's pisser!"
Having been around twenty-odd rowdy sea cadets, Alistair understood the phrase. "While I do know," he said, assuming a formal expression, "I would prefer not to." His dark eyes were sparkling with hidden laughter.
Alistair's dead pan delivery caused Trevor to laugh. He rose out of his chair and thumped Alistair on the back. "You're okay!" he declared. He gestured toward the sniper rifle. "So, what do you want to know?"
Alistair shrugged simply. "Whatever you wish to teach me," he replied.
"Okay, well, first lesson, the care and feeding of a sniper rifle," said Trevor. "There's more to it than just squinting through a sight and blowing some bad ass gook away." He leaned down and took another look through the sniper scope.
"Actually, I am here to watch an expert at work. That is the way Major Meinertzhagen explained it to me," Alistair said as he peered into the scope. What he saw made him draw back slightly. Everything was . . . green. He glanced at Trevor, a puzzled look on his face.
Trevor knew who the Major was. He also knew the Major's reputation and said nothing. He pointed. "Night vision scope," he explained without inflection.
Looking again, Alistair saw the blank wall of the gate to the jetty. "Somewhat of an overkill, isn't it?" he asked as he straightened and pushed the curtain to one side. "It's what, 50 fifty feet from here to the gate?"
"Forty-eight feet, two inches," responded Trevor. "Stewart Street is wider because of the trucks turning into the docks." He pointed to the scope. "Look again. On the side is a range finder, built in."
Alistair looked and shook his head. "I never noticed," he said, somewhat embarrassed. But then he had no knowledge at all of sophisticated sniper scopes, or firearms for that matter. "It would seem that I have much to learn."
Trevor did not respond to Alistair. He moved to one side and sat on the bed. He parted the curtains again. Still nothing except for a passing taxi. He smiled and looked at Alistair. "I'll teach you," he said. Then he nodded toward the street. "It's started."
"I am sorry, I do not understand," Alistair said.
"A taxi just went by."
"So, taxis do go by, you know," responded Alistair.
"Not on a street where there's no need, and not doing 20 miles an hour," replied Trevor. "Come and sit with me, and I'll explain."
Alistair drew up a chair and sat beside the young Chinese.
"Okay, Alistair, here's the skinny," began Trevor. "When you're on the job you have to look at everything, and I mean everything. You have to consider the area, and what usually happens in that area. The whole neighbourhood is basically dockland, wide open spaces, rail lines crisscrossing everything, tractor trailers parked all over the place, with plenty of spaces to hide."
He lay back a bit and propped himself on his elbows. "During the day there's a lot of traffic, which you expect to see. At night, everything is locked up tight, unless there's a ship loading. You expect to see vans and trucks, working vehicles. You never see a taxi except when the ship's crew comes back from leave, and usually around 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, after the bars downtown close. When you do see a taxi, it's either picking up or dropping off a fare. You got me so far?"
Alistair had nodded. The Major, who had experience in such things, had said as much when he began Alistair's education earlier in the day. "Yes, I understand. One looks for not only the ordinary, but also the extraordinary, anomalies, strange changes in an otherwise mundane routine."
Trevor thought that Alistair's pedantic formality was a bit much and wondered if he should actually pull the boy's pisser, if only to get him to loosen up! Then he thought that pulling Alistair's pisser was not such a good idea. He was, after all, royalty, and Trevor was astute enough to know that Alistair's presence here was a harbinger of things to come. The kid was anointed in some way and it was best not to tempt fate.
"I'd have put it differently, but yeah, you're right," Trevor said. He bobbed his head toward the window. "Now, everything appears normal, right?" He waved his hand toward the wharf. "It's 11:33," he said. "The ship across the way has finished loading and will sail on the morning tide. There's no one on board but the Duty Watch. Everybody else left around 9:00. The crew is downtown, drinking, gambling, getting a dose, whatever."
"Which means there is really no need for a taxi to be cruising Stewart Street." He smiled. "An anomaly."
Trevor smiled and nodded his head. "Yeah."
Alistair thought again. "Time is money to a cabby," he said. "So, why would a cabby be cruising a street where there's no hope of a fare or . . ."
"Travelling slowly," finished Trevor.
"Which means he is keeping watch, to see if there is something there that should not be there," said Alistair tentatively. "A mobile . . . spy?"
"Yeah," answered Trevor. "The cabby is scoping out the terrain. General Minh is very careful. He's not taking any chances that he might be walking in to a trap." He laughed quietly. "Which he is, and one which he'll not walk away from." He reached out and his finger barely stroked the stock of the XM21 sniper rifle.
Alistair saw the gesture and the small gleam that came into Trevor's eyes. "Trevor is becoming aroused at this!" he thought.
"Where did you learn to shoot?" Alistair asked abruptly.
"Quantico," replied Trevor. "I got bored with dishing out fried rice and lo mein so I went down to Bellingham and joined up."
"You were a Marine?"
"Sure was," responded Trevor proudly. "Did one hitch and then came home."
"You became bored? Perhaps the allure of the Marines did not live up to your expectations?"
"No, not at all," returned Trevor with an airy wave of his hand. "My grandfather agreed to letting me join up, but only for one tour. As a proper and dutiful grandson I obeyed." He shrugged. "I may go back, one day."
Alistair heard the nostalgic tone of Trevor's voice. Having seen the Aurora cadets, and listened to them, he understood the bond that Trevor had with the Corps. Alistair now understood why Pete Sheppard was so honourable a man. "You miss it, don't you," he asked.
Trevor laughed. "Well, I don't miss the yelling and the screaming, or the 50-mile hikes, or being the only Chinaman in a squad of white boys, but yes, I do miss it."
"Then you should speak to the Serenity," said Alistair. "He will understand and smooth the way for you. He will speak to your grandfather." He did not add, "Or I will."
Trevor regarded Alistair. He knew of Michael Chan's power and he suddenly realized that Alistair was much more than he appeared to be. Having him as a friend would not be a bad thing at all. "Well, I suppose I could do worse," said Trevor. Then he looked at directly at Alistair. He leaned back and stretched. "I hate the waiting," he said presently. "Takes the edge off."
Alistair looked at his watch. "You won't have long to wait."
Another hint. Alistair was aware of what was going on. Trevor nodded. "So, you're up here with me?"
"Yes."
Trevor cocked his head. "So, tell me, how come you're in on this? I mean, everybody knows that Michael Chan usually lets the Tsangs do his dirty work."
"They are around," Alistair replied obliquely. He was aware that Eddy Tsang had been funnelling cousins and assorted hangers-on from Victoria into Vancouver since dawn. He was also aware that Tsang Su Shun, Elder Brother of the clan, had organized his sons, grandsons, and in-laws. Every male Tsang had been called in.
Alistair also knew that the Italians were helping. In the surrounding streets, from Clark Drive to the West and Powell Street to the South, and in the cross streets, North Woodland, North Salisbury and Commercial Drive, carloads of Don Giovanni's men, under the leadership of Cosmo "The Bull" Manna, waited. They would be used only if things went wrong. The feud was between Michael Chan and Minh, and the Italians would lend moral support and muscle only if necessary.
Unlike Don Giovanni, or his Consigliere, Michael Chan was also waiting, in the shipping office of the wharf. The Don never went on "operations", and insulated himself from all business, to the extent that he never, ever, used the telephone and his office downtown was swept for listening devices weekly. Michael was as careful as the aging Don. However, this operation was personal, and not business.
Don Giovanni was astute enough to know what Michael was doing. The Don for his part had been asked a service. In return he would be paid with Michael's connections with the Triads and their worldwide connections. The Don's plan to counterfeit American currency could go ahead at minimal cost to him. The Don would also reap the spoils in that he would move into the narcotic trade once controlled by General Minh and Michael Chan would be rid of an implacable enemy.
Alistair did not say anything to Trevor. He did not have a need to know. Alistair had told the truth, and he repeated it. "The Serenity uses many means to carry out his ends," Alistair said presently. "You, and I, are two of those means. You are to execute General Minh." He shrugged. "I am merely here to observe, and to learn."
Trevor nodded. "Well, we have some time," he said rising from the bed. "Let me give you a run through on the sniper rifle. It's a great weapon." He stood beside the tripoded rifle and began to describe the attributes of the weapon. "The trigger is as smooth as a baby's butt," he began. "Later, I'll take you to a range I know."
Alistair heard the enthusiasm in Trevor's voice and smiled inwardly. The Serenity had chosen well, and his loss would be the Marine Corps' gain. He would speak to Cousin Michael and Trevor would return to the Corps.
The Jade Doll Restaurant was, to the casual passerby, busier that it had ever been. Waiters and servers rushed back and forth between the kitchens and the dining room, carrying trays laden with food and beer. Behind the counter Li Hung Chang, Trevor's grandfather, smiled his benign smile, his old eyes constantly scanning the room, paying particular attention to the two young Vietnamese males who occupied a window table with a clear view of the docks across Stewart Street.
Behind the decorative grill work that formed part of one wall, Cousin Tommy Chan sat with Eddy Tsang in the small "security" room, normally occupied by one of old Li's nephews. The air was close, but the room had a clear view of the dining room beyond. Cousin Tommy's eyes never left the two young Vietnamese.
"Everything is ready," Cousin Eddy said casually. Then he laughed dryly and nodded toward Van Trang and Billy Ng. "Those two are in for a shock when they find out that Christine and Isabel are really males!"
The transformation from male to female took time. First, Christine and Isabel visited M. Antoine's, a very upscale and very expensive beauty spa. They were crimped and exfoliated, had their nails done, and generally came away feeling like "a new woman!" M. Antoine's was not normally an establishment the girls patronised but as everything was on Cousin Tommy, they figured why not?
Next in the transformation the "girls" shaved, removing every vestige of hair from their bodies. Then came a long, hot bath, each one using "her" bath salts, rose for Christine, lilac for Isabel.
Bathed, they began their make-up. Cousin Tommy had been very firm and clear on the role they would play and how important their parts were. They were to be demure, well-heeled college girls, co-eds out for an exciting evening on the town. They were not to look or act like a couple of trollops doing the stroll on Powell Street!
After powdering and rouge came the final preparations. First, each donned a theatrical g-string. This was fitted with a special slot for the penis to be held upright, and an extra layer of padding. The testicles were pushed into the scrotal vault and the g-string pulled on carefully. After adjustments, the illusion was perfect, enhanced by the breast implants each girl had, and the estrogen treatments they underwent weekly.
Both girls chose the sporty look, shorts, a top and a sweater tied around the waist. Christine thought that they looked years younger. Isabel bitched that the g-string was riding up the crack of her ass. Christine gave Isabel a dark look and then, after final application of lip gloss, off they went, to take up position in the restaurant's back room.
Billy Ng glanced around the crowded room. He had not yet lost the naiveté of a village urchin from Quang Tri Province. To him the men at the crowded tables, and the other men drifting in and out of the back room, where the gaming tables were, were longshoremen celebrating the end of a busy week of hard work. That some of them were a little too well dressed, a little too clean cut, escaped him.
Van Trang, on the other hand, was not quite so naïve as his companion. Diem, General Minh's enforcer, had warned Van that Michael Chan would take precautions. This was expected from a man who had managed to rise to such heights. Michael Chan always made sure that his back was covered. Both Diem and Van expected that some of the diners and gamblers would be on either Michael's payroll or Don Giovanni's. Diem had also warned that there might be "Hispanics" lurking about. After all, the meeting tonight was to discuss Michael's entry into the drug trade. Van had not been told any details, only that the Italians, Michael Chan, and a new player, a Columbian, were involved.
Van had tried to impress on Billy the importance of their role. They were to watch and report when the principals arrived. They would then leave the restaurant and act as back-up to the men who waited around the neighbourhood. Nothing more.
Billy was a peasant, with a peasant's outlook, and thinking more with his little head than his big one, looking more for the two girls who had pleasured them than for any sign that the meeting was about to start. Instead of paying attention to business he kept darting his eyes up and down the street, and rubbing his crotch.
In a way Van did not blame Billy. The opportunities for a Vietnamese male to put the blocks to a white woman were few and far between. Back home, in Saigon, even the visiting hippies, druggies and anti-war female riff-raff who came visiting, drew the line at sleeping with a Vietnamese man. In point of fact, as Van had learned very early on, he had a better chance of bedding a white male than he did a female, which he'd done when he needed a bundle of American greenbacks. Even the French whores who haunted the lobbies of the better class hotels in Saigon avoided Vietnamese partners, if they could, even though the men paid a hefty premium and never quibbled. Vietnamese men were good for a quick turnover. As one of the "ladies" put it, it was all "small dick, comes quick", and good only when a girl wanted to turn a quick buck and move on to better heeled, and longer lasting, white Americans.
But . . . business was business, and Van snarled at Billy, ordering him to keep his mind on the task at hand. If not, General Minh, or rather, Diem, would learn of it, and Billy knew what that meant. Billy paled and stopped playing with himself. He also turned his eyes to the street.
"Okay," Cousin Tommy said. "Let's get this done with."
He pushed past Eddy Tsang and went down the short flight of stairs and into the restaurant kitchens. Through another door and he was in the casino. He saw Christine and Isabel sitting at a side table, drinking tea. He walked over and regarded the girls.
"In a few minutes we'll start," he told the girls. "When Hubie comes in, get out there and take care of the two gooks." Cousin Tommy's eyes hardened. "Keep them busy and try to get them out of the restaurant."
Christine nodded. Isabel looked pale. Tommy hastened to reassure them. "Listen, all you have to do is distract them. If things get dicey I have men out there." He smiled. "Just a few more minutes and then you're off to start a new life."
"Everything is ready, then?" asked Christine.
Cousin Tommy nodded. "First Class British Airways to Hong Kong. A suite at the Peninsular Hotel."
"And . . .?" prompted Isabel.
"The money will be transferred into your accounts within 24 hours," said Cousin Tommy. He leaned forward until his nose all but touched Isabel's. "Remember who your benefactor is." His voice was low and dangerous.
Both of girls caught Tommy's warning. They would disappear for a while, and when the coast was clear and Minh a faded memory, they might return. They had also been reminded that so far as their role was concerned they took no part, and were never here at all.
Cousin Tommy slipped out of the back entrance of the restaurant and walked to the long, black car waiting in the courtyard. In the back seat of the car two men waited. They were Victoria Tsangs, and one bore a passing resemblance to Michael Chan. Without speaking Cousin Tommy started the car and drove out of the courtyard, following a lead car, and trailed by a backup car. The small convoy turned onto Stewart Street, and drove slowly toward the entrance to the dock and stopped. Cousin Tommy deliberately tapped the horn.
Inside the restaurant, Van's head jerked up at the sound the horn. He peered out of the window and saw the long, black car. He had been told the make and model of the car Michael Chan habitually used whenever he left his compound: late model Buick, black, nothing flashy, no chrome . . . anonymous. There was very little light in the street (the overhead lights having been removed before hand) and for a moment Van wondered if it was the right car. His doubts were put to rest when the gate swung open and a doddering old man came out. He bent at the driver's side of the car and Van watched as the window rolled down. The guard flashed his light in Tommy's face, and then gestured, passing him through
Van recognized Cousin Tommy. He had been told that Tommy drove Michael Chan, and was in fact the Viceroy's personal bodyguard. Satisfied, Van left his seat and went to the payphone. The telephone on the other end was answered at the first ring.
"Chan has arrived," said Van, shielding his mouth and the mouthpiece with his hand. "Tommy Chan is driving." He looked around nervously to see if he was being overheard. None of the other diners and drinkers seemed to be paying him any attention. "Two other cars, one in front, one in back," he continued.
"Guards, probably four to a car," said Diem. "Not unexpected. Continue to watch and report." Abruptly, he hung up the telephone.
Diem looked at his employer and said sarcastically, "The Emperor of Chinatown has arrived at the meeting place."
General Minh nodded. "And the others?"
"Not yet." Diem looked at his watch. "Chan will naturally arrive early to make sure that his security arrangements are in place."
Again General Minh nodded his head. "The Italians will also take precautions. They might do business with Chan, but they do not trust him."
The telephone rang again and Diem answered it, listened, grunted what sounded like a note of approval and hung up the telephone. "The Italians have arrived. The one they call `The Bull' apparently represents them," Diem said.
"As I expected," replied Minh. "The Don never involves himself in such things, nor does his Consigliere." He waved his hand deprecatingly. "Not that it matters. They have already made up their minds and The Bull is merely their messenger. He will set their price and Chan will pretend to listen, and then agree." He laughed caustically. "What is happening this evening is merely a formalization of what Chan and the Italians have already agreed to. It is the way business is done."
General Minh stood up abruptly. "It is time."
Diem followed suit. As he slipped a pistol into his suit coat pocket he asked, "What about the Columbian? Should we not wait?"
Minh shook his head. He walked briskly from the office and Diem followed. Minh paused before the door that led into the building behind the brothel. "I will be in on the kill," he said grimly. "For too long I have endured Chan's insults! He has refused to meet me! He has insulted me, a General in the Army of Vietnam! I will be there and I will look into his eyes and see his fear as I put a bullet in his head!"
Diem's face remained inscrutable. He was worried, though. Minh was committing a cardinal sin of misjudgement. While it was true that Michael Chan had insulted the general, had made it known that he would not do business with the Vietnamese, and expressed the contempt many Chinese had for Viets, the general refused to consider the matter as business. That was the point. To Michael Chan, it was business. To the Italians, it was business. They might loathe each other but they would do business. It was the way of things and neither Michael nor Don Giovanni allowed their personal feelings to interfere in business. Minh had forgotten that, and Diem hoped that the general knew what he was doing.
Passing through the passageway to the next building, Diem expressed concern about the Italians. There would be shooting, for Michael Chan's security people, and the Tsangs, would not go quietly into the dark night.
"Their deaths cannot be helped," General Minh said over his shoulder as he approached the stairwell that led to the parking area downstairs. He stopped and regarded Diem a moment. "The Italians entered into their agreement with Chan freely. They must know that I will oppose such an arrangement." Minh shrugged. "The Americans aptly called such deaths `casualties of war'." He saw Diem about to object and raised his hand. "The Italians will understand. When they learn that Michael Chan is dead, and that I am the only one left to deal with, they will make the peace."
Diem was not at all convinced that the Italians would "understand" and as they descended the stairs he remembered a tea chest filled with body parts. "What of the Tsangs?" he asked, trying to keep the terror he felt from his voice.
General Minh snorted contemptuously. "They are animals, without souls. When their leader falls they will mill about in confusion, as animals do. Without their leader they will disintegrate and we will cull the herd. I doubt the world will be lessened by their loss!"
As they approached the waiting car, Diem wondered just how far the general was prepared to go in his vendetta against Michael Chan . . . and how many tea chests the Tsangs had waiting to be filled.
"Well, here we go," Christine murmured quietly to Isabel as they stood outside of the restaurant. They pretended to hesitate before entering, two co-eds reluctant to enter a room filled with roughnecks. Isabel could see Billy Ng sitting at one of the window tables, but pretended not to see him at all. She pushed Christine slightly, to a casual observer the act of a girl who wanted to enter, trying to convince her partner, who was apparently reluctant.
Christine, quick on the uptake, shook her head and said, "Let's make this look good."
Isabel reached out and made to pull Christine into the restaurant. Isabel pulled again and Christine shook off her hand. "Okay, show's over."
With Isabel leading they entered the restaurant. They paused in the doorway, keeping up their pretence. They looked around and Isabel saw that Billy was smiling like a loon. She smiled winningly back and with the still "reluctant" Christine following, hurried to the table. By pre-arrangement Isabel settled beside Billy Ng and Christine sat beside Van Trang.
Deliberately, Isabel gave Billy a quick peck on his cheek. "Thank the Lord, a friendly face." She looked around the room. "We never expected the place to be so crowded!"
Billy, tongue-tied, could only nod his head. Van regarded the two girls suspiciously. "It is Sunday and the ship across the way has finished lading." He felt Christine's hand rest gently on his thigh. "You're out late!"
Thinking quickly, Christine said, "Well, we hadn't planned on going out at all." She rubbed Van's thigh, her hand moving upward toward his crotch.
"I think we overloaded the fuses," Isabel continued hurriedly. "I think we blew one because all the lights went out and the air conditioner . . ." She was moving her hand upward as well and stopped when she felt the lump in Billy's jeans. Deliberately she scratched it with her nails, which caused Billy to drool and squirm. "The air conditioner went off and well, it was just too hot in the house, so we thought we'd get some air." She smiled at Van. "I'm so glad you're here." She looked around the room pointedly. "A girl never knows . . ."
"This is not a good time," Van interrupted.
Christine, whose hand had also moved upward, feigned surprise. "Oh, what's going on?"
Van hesitated, feeling Christine's gently squeezing hand on his rapidly inflating penis. "We're busy," he managed to say. He looked over at Billy, who had dazed look in his eyes, with a small stream a drool running from the corner of his lips.
Billy was lost in never-never land as Isabel's nails continued to scratch seductively. He spread his legs wider. "Keep scratching! Keep scratching!" he moaned softly.
Van moved his hand down, determined not to allow anything, or anyone to deter him. He looked disgustedly at Billy, whose eyes were now closed and was panting like a mastiff on heat. "Stop," Van hissed at Christine, "This is not the time!"
Christine's eyes narrowed. "Well, I never," she spat in pretended outrage. She saw where Van was looking and hissed back, "What's the matter, Billy your private stud?"
Van's eyes flared at the insinuation. He raised his hand but paused as the low growling of a powerful engine filled the street.
Christine reacted immediately. Her hand squeezed Van's privates - hard. Van gasped as the pain shot upward from his testicles. Billy, his crotch exploding with the force of his orgasm, saw nothing, heard nothing, as his jaw dropped and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Hubie Li, seeing Van's hand rising, moved quickly, followed by two white men, Pete Sheppard and a rehabilitated Frank "The Horse" Campbell, who had drawn their weapons and were standing next to Van and Billy in a flash.
The noise in the room died abruptly. The longshoremen, completely at a loss as to what was happening, quickly looked away as a good dozen other white men rose from their chairs, drawing weapons as they did so.
Both Billy and Van felt strong hands on their shoulders and cold steel against their necks. They knew better than to protest and even if they had their voices would have been lost as the gravel truck smashed through the gates leading to the dock.
Minh had drawn on his experience in fighting Communists back home and planned a massive, armoured assault on the wharf and surrounding buildings. The "armour" took the form of a huge gravel truck, half-filled to add weight, carrying ten men in the load area. This was followed by a panel truck, also carrying men. The general, with Diem, followed in a dark sedan, which pulled to a stop just outside the gates.
Inside the restaurant, Pete Sheppard ignored the muffled sound and flashes of gunfire coming from inside the dock area. He saw his men moving into position to cover the door and windows. Old Li Hung Chang dropped behind his counter, but not before he saw two menacing hulks emerge from the kitchens - the Tsangs had arrived.
Around the room men dropped to the floor. Some quickly placed their hands on the back of their heads protectively. Many buried their faces in their arms. What they did not see, they could not talk about.
In the darkened bedroom above the doorway to the restaurant, Trevor Li took up his position. He had heard the growling of the gravel truck, and ignored the noise that filled the street. He said nothing as Alistair moved to stand to one side. Trevor's hand reached up and his finger curled around the trigger guard of the sniper rifle.
Trevor's breathing was slow and steady as he concentrated on the task at hand. He drew back slightly as the glare of headlights flashed in the scope. He raised his head, looked out, and then his eye returned to the scope. In the cross hairs he saw the moon-shaped face of Cao Din Minh, onetime general in the South Vietnamese Army. Trevor's finger curled around the trigger of the sniper rifle and squeezed the curving metal lovingly.
Diem had no time to react. The general's head exploded in a burst of blood and brains. Diem felt the sharpness in his neck as the bullet, travelling at a remarkable velocity, passed through the general's head and struck Diem in the neck, severing first his jugular vein and then his carotid artery. As he slumped against the side of the car he did not see the driver's head explode, filling the car with a mist of blood and brains.
Pete Sheppard yelled, "Go, go, go!" into the hand-held walkie talkie that connected him with the teams that surround the area. He paid no attention as the struggling Van and Billy were hustled out of the room by the two Tsangs.
"Go!" Pete ordered as he gestured to the armed men in the room. He moved quickly forward and exited the restaurant at the run, followed by Frank and Bengt Lagerberg. Behind them more men rushed from the restaurant, some running across the street, some taking up positions along the sidewalk.
Unlike General Minh, who had learned his trade from his American allies, and thought in terms of earth shattering prepatory artillery barrages, armoured thrusts and massive sweeps by brigades of infantry, Pete Sheppard had learned from his enemies. Unlike Minh, who was fighting a guerrilla war using World War II tactics, Pete knew how to use the night, use the surroundings, use subterfuge and camouflage. Pete had listened to Miles Boulton, who had wandered the neighbourhood around the Jade Doll Restaurant, ostensibly looking for old bottles and cans. Miles, who had spent 20 years with the Seattle PD, and then took his pension and entered the field of confidential investigations, saw everything, heard everything and established himself as a street person, unknown and unseen.
Drawing on his years of experience Miles sharp eyes picked out hiding places, a nook here, an alley there. The composition of the neighbourhood helped. Many of the three and four-storied buildings that lined the main streets housed shipping offices, ship's chandlers and the like. The side streets were, for the most part, lined with near-derelict houses, "missions" to seamen funded by the Anglican Church and the Salvation Army and small mom and pop corner shops. By day the area was busy, with trucks coming and going, but at night the streets emptied. It was a rough neighbourhood where the permanent residents learned very quickly to mind their own business.
Miles wandered the streets all day and then reported to Cousin Tommy who co-ordinated with Pete Sheppard. Cousin Eddy Tsang brought over as many men as he could rely on, and Michael ordered the Vancouver Tsangs to arms. He also told Pete to supply as many men as he could. Michael knew, as Pete knew, that every member of the Security Force was a veteran and had served in Vietnam. Perhaps half had been through the Tet Offensive of 1968, and thus were experienced in urban warfare. Pete used this experience and knowledge well . . . and unlike General Minh, made sure that his men could communicate with him, and with each other. With cheap Taiwanese and Korean knockoffs flooding the market it had been an easy feat to acquire enough walkie-talkies to outfit every man in Pete's force.
As Pete Sheppard was careful in his planning, so was Michael Chan, ably supported by Major Meinertzhagen, who had fought Communist insurgents in Malaya to excellent results. Michael did not want to alienate the Vietnamese population too much and did not want bodies littering the streets. He was adamant that he did not want a bloodbath. There were two targets: General Minh and his enforcer Diem. If there were "troublemakers" or those who would fight back, then they were to be eliminated. As for the others, once disarmed and warned, they were to be released. Michael expected that some of Minh's men would fight back - they were losing their livelihood after all - and the Tsangs could take care of them.
While both Michael and Pete Sheppard doubted heavy casualties on either side - they were dealing with street punks and former Saigon Cowboys after all - they did prepare, just in case. The gymnasium, where the late, unlamented Doctor Bradley-Smith had taken some of the newer men into the stratosphere with his ministrations, had been turned into a miniature hospital.
Thad Stevens and Jude Benjamin, former Navy corpsmen, were given free rein. They could deal with everything from gunshot wounds to WP and napalm burns. A quick telephone call by Major Meinertzhagen had produced an ample supply of bandages and therapeutic drugs. For Thad and Jude the only fly in the ointment had been Jesus Javier Lopez, who would go on about the way the doctor had taken a semen sample from him, to the extent that Thad threatened to stab Jesus with a needle filled with Thorazine. Pete intervened and sent Jesus, along with Malcolm Mathers, Patrick Feehily and Tom Welling over the family compound to act as security there.
In the main house, The Maestro and Ginger had suddenly reappeared, offering their services. How they had come to know of the planned operation Michael did not ask, although he suspected Chef. The caterers brought a crew of men, including a rehabilitated Quinn Bogart, and before very long cauldrons of soup and mountains of sandwiches were ready. The Maestro also supervised the preparations to house the boys that Michael hoped to rescue on the second phase of the night's operations.
Before leaving for the docks, Michael had made a tour of inspection, nodded his approval and then, with Pete Sheppard, hurried into the night.
Minh's men were overwhelmed, with little chance to defend themselves or even, in most cases, to draw their weapons. As the gravel truck smashed through the metal clad gates leading to the wharf area, the captain of the ship that had been loading yelled through his PA system and every piece of deck machinery roared into life, the better to muffle the sound of gunfire. Men streamed from the archways that lined the narrow passage and stormed into the wide loading area, guns drawn. The Jade Doll emptied as more men, reacting to Pete's shouted "Go, go, go!" poured into the street, surrounding the chase car. The five men inside had no time to react at all. They wisely raised their hands as they saw through the closed windows of the car the raised weapons surrounding them. They were quickly hustled from the car and stood against the wall surrounding the dock, under guard. None was stupid enough to attempt any move.
In the surrounding neighbourhood Pete's men seemed to appear from out of the pavement as three more cars converged on the dock. Dark-clad wraiths, armed, materialized and from out of nowhere, quickly jerked open car doors and pulled Minh's cowboys out. While most of the men decided that now was not the time they would choose to join their ancestors, one or two reached for their guns. It was the last thing they ever did.
As the two trucks rumbled into the loading area a hail of bullets poured down from the roofs of the buildings on either side. The windows of the panel truck shattered and the men inside died as round after round penetrated the thin metal sides. The same fate came to the men in the bed of the gravel truck. While the sides of the truck bed were all but impenetrable, the bed was open and these men soon sprawled dead or wounded across the layer of gravel beneath them.
Michael Chan, who watched from a window on the second floor of the stone-walled administration building, remained stoic as his men mopped up and made no comment when three of Minh's men, grievously wounded, and deemed too far gone to warrant medical assistance, were dispatched onto the Celestial Plain by two of the Tsangs. Since the men in the car and trucks were vicious thugs, the worst that Minh employed, nobody seemed overly bothered.
Michael did not linger at the dock. He had another, to him, much more important campaign to wage. He left Eddy Tsang to take care of the cleanup. Minh's car was driven inside the wharf gates and into a waiting 40-foot long container. The panel truck followed. No attempt was made to extricate any of the bodies each vehicle contained, not did anyone bother to check if any of the men who had ridden in the back of the panel truck was still alive. The bodies of the men in the gravel truck were thrown into the container as well. The container was sealed and a crane lifted it onto the deck of the freighter. The ship would sail with the morning tide and somewhere in mid-Pacific the container would be dropped overboard. The bullet-scarred gravel truck was driven away. As it was difficult to hide, the truck would be refurbished, repainted, and become part of a fleet of trucks owned by a contractor who owed Michael Chan a service. The undamaged chase cars would be repainted and become service vehicles for Michael's protection staff.
More cars appeared and the men who had defeated Minh departed. Minh's men, thankful to be alive, disappeared, scuttling east, west and south. Eddy laughed inwardly. There was nothing like a little blood and gore to make a man rethink his priorities.
As the intense activity died down, Eddy Tsang watched as his men swiftly swept the area of ammunition casings. Although it would be impossible to retrieve every bit of evidence, he felt certain that they could eliminate the appearance of anything more significant than a vengeful driver taking out his frustrations on a dockyard gate. Then his mind turned to the copious blood and flesh that would become obvious in the morning light. With serendipitous timing that could not have been better if it had been planned, the thunderstorm that had been threatening crashed down on the city. Sheets of rain began to flush away the last physical evidence of the evening's events. Cousin Eddy looked into the dark sky, felt the rain against his face and marvelled at how Michael Chan had managed to arrange a thunderstorm!
Satisfied that the cleanup would now be complete, Eddy walked around the corner and entered the small apartment where Christine and Isabel lived. He found the girls busily finishing their packing for their coming trip. He also found Van Trang and Billy Ng sitting in the small living room. Eddy walked into a problem, which left him nonplussed and incapable of speech for at least five minutes. Eddy had expected trouble from Van, whose street reputation was that of a vicious, uncaring punk who enjoyed killing. What Eddy had not expected was a problem with Billy Ng.
Billy was a farm boy, a peasant, quite gentle really, who had joined Minh's gang out of economic necessity. Barely literate, and with no skills other than tweaking the ears of a water buffalo with his toes, Billy had no job prospects and no future except in the criminal world. Billy was basically a good kid. He was not emotionally prepared for the life of a criminal, and in fact the sight of blood terrified him. God knew that Billy had seen enough blood in his short life. The VC had executed his father and grandfather for "collaboration" with the Saigon regime. His mother and two sisters had drowned when the leaking boat they had managed to find sank, throwing all 153 refugees into the sea. Billy had had a hard life thus far, and wanted something more than the miserly stipend Minh had paid him to shake down Vietnamese shopkeepers. Billy also did not like Van. He knew a thug when he saw one, and if anyone fit that description it was Van Trang.
Eddy, who knew nothing of Billy's past life, at first could not understand the young Vietnamese intransigence. Billy refused to go! He would not leave the apartment and swore heartily at Van, who was anxious to get away. Van recognized, if Billy did not, the opportunities that had suddenly opened up with the deaths of Minh and Diem. Van was ambitious, and venal enough to step into the empty shoes left behind. He was not going to go into mourning. He was going to contact some of his friends, each as grasping and greedy as he was. He knew that with Minh gone Little Saigon was now open territory, where the strongest would prevail if they had no scruples, which Van had never had. So far as Van was concerned the spoils of this "war" would not belong to the victors. Michael Chan had no desire to take over Little Saigon. Van Trang did.
Van knew enough to keep his mouth shout - a loaded automatic pressed against his temple by a Tsang more or less helped him to remember. He would agree to anything to get away. He was as docile as a sick puppy and raged inwardly when Billy would not leave. Van was even more enraged, and more than a little astonished when he learned the reason for Billy's stubbornness. Billy, it seemed, was in love!
Eddy Tsang could scarcely believe his ears when he listened to Billy's halting explanation for his refusal leave. Eddy was as astonished as Van had been. He stared at the peasant boy and willed himself not to smile, or to laugh out loud.
"You're kidding!" he managed to gasp when Billy stopped speaking.
"No kid!" Billy replied with a firm shake of his head. "Stay!"
Cousin Tommy, who had been finishing his business with old Li, came to Eddy's rescue. He listened as Eddy explained what was going on. Then he hurried into the small kitchen to compose himself. He had to stuff a dish towel into his mouth to muffle his laughter! When he calmed down, although still shaking with hidden laughter, and his dark eyes dancing, Cousin Tommy returned to the living room.
"This is not funny," Eddy growled.
"Well, yes it is," Tommy replied. "Our problem is what in the hell we do about it!"
Eddy, who was beginning to see the humour of the situation, smiled tightly. "Um, Tommy, does this kid know . . .?" His voice trailed away as he looked intently at Billy.
"Obviously not," replied Tommy. He shrugged expressively. "He's in for a shock!"
"And then some," muttered Eddy. He regarded Billy and said, "Look, Little Brother, there is something you should know."
Before Eddy could continue Billy shook his head. "Want to stay, want to protect beautiful lady! No go!"
Van could not believe his ears. He looked darkly at Billy, who was blushing furiously and all but drooling!
Van was a city boy, born and barely raised in Saigon. He had early on drifted into a life of petty crime, stealing and picking the pockets of the American soldiers who wandered the streets looking for booze and hookers. Van had no core values, and the morals of a tomcat. He could not understand that in the countryside a whole different culture existed. Where Van looked at women as merely vessels in which to slake his lust, Billy had been raised to respect them. Women played a very important part in his life and while the Elders were all male, Billy had been raised in a matriarchal society where the men knew when to bend to female wiles.
Billy's lack of guile, and his obvious morality - Van thought, correctly, that the blow job Billy had received from Isabel the first night they had set up their surveillance had been his first sexual experience - made Van secretly decide to get rid of the young boy.
Cousin Tommy was still trying to decide what to do. It was a strange situation and something he had never come across before.
Eddy Tsang was impatient to get away. He had things to do, and so did Cousin Tommy. "He has to be told," Eddy said briskly.
"Well, you tell him!" responded Cousin Tommy.
"No way!" said Eddy firmly. "I am not going to tell this slobbering idiot that he's fallen in love with a . . ."
Eddy's tirade was interrupted by the entry of Isabel. She was dressed, and ready to leave. She stopped when she saw Eddy and Cousin Tommy looking at her and started when she saw the look of Billy Ng's face. "What's going on?" she asked. "And whatever is wrong with that fool?" She pointed a manicured finger at Billy, who was all but glowing with desire, the flames of passion burning brightly in his eyes. "He looks like he's on heat!"
"You'd know," muttered Eddy Tsang under his breath.
Cousin Tommy shot Eddy a dark look. "Keep still, he said." Then he looked at Isabel. "We, um, we have a slight problem," he said. He looked at Billy, who was all but falling off of his chair.
Isabel saw Cousin Tommy's look. "Which concerns me how?" she asked as she looked back and forth between the two men.
Cousin Tommy stifled a snicker. He also saw the dark looks Van was shooting at Billy. "Get him out of here," Cousin Tommy said to the Tsangs. "Take him to the Derry Road brothel." He could not resist adding, "I'm sure he's familiar with the place."
Van, who had never availed himself of the comforts the brothel offered, and in fact had only been in the place once, to help discipline a difficult resident, took umbrage at Cousin Tommy's remark. He did not express his outrage, however. Not with two of the dreaded Tsangs at his back.
Dismissing thoughts of the insult, Van's eyes narrowed. The brothel! No one could possibly know that Minh was as dead as yesterday's fish. Opportunity had come knocking and Van was smart enough to know it. With Minh and Diem dead, there would be a vacuum in leadership! Van was fully prepared to fill that vacuum and just managed to suppress his smile. If he played his cards right, and he would, the Dallas Street brothel would very shortly have a new manager!
The Tsangs prodded Van out of the room. Cousin Tommy turned to Isabel. "You'd better sit down," he said.
Isabel sat, arranging the skirt just so, and waited.
Cousin Tommy coughed. "It would seem that this young man . . ."
"Billy . . . Billy Ng," interrupted Billy. He shyly reached out his hand.
"We've met," sniffed Isabel, "but not in the Biblical sense."
"That will change if Billy has anything to say about it!" thought Cousin Tommy. "Well, um, that's the problem," he said. "Billy would like to, well, he wants to stay with you, protect you, and I suspect know you in the Biblical sense," Cousin Tommy said, not bothering to hide his smile.
"I don't need protecting, thank you very much," returned Isabel with an airy wave of her hand. "And why would I want this . . ." She stopped, her eyes wide. "What did you say?"
From the bedroom, where Christine was listening, came a loud and very unladylike chortle.
"Quiet, bitch!" hissed Isabel. She glared at Cousin Tommy. "Would you care to explain?" she asked, a dangerous edge to her voice.
"Well, it would seem that young Billy has fallen in love." Cousin Tommy pointed at Isabel. "With you."
Isabel collapsed against the back of her chair. "You're kidding!" she spat. "Him?"
"What's wrong with him?" interposed Eddy. "Okay, he's kinda skinny, and he's no Don Juan, but what the hell, a cat can look at the queen."
Isabel bridled. She was not in anyway a "queen". She knew enough, however, not to cross or in any way rile a Tsang, even a rehabilitated Tsang. She thought quickly. "But . . . but . . ." she stammered. "I'm a man!"
"He doesn't know that!" countered Cousin Tommy.
Isabel, who had spent thousands on her transformation from male to female, and only lacked the final, and most essential operation, had to agree with Cousin Tommy. Thanks to breast implants, cosmetic surgery and estrogen, she was, outwardly, a woman. While flattered that Billy might be infatuated with her, Isabel did not want him to be in love with her. Billy wasn't all that bad looking, for an Oriental, and was obviously smitten. However, Isabel was not about to settle down with him.
While a hardened pro, Isabel had a heart of gold. She loved men, and she appreciated the attention, and the little gifts, they gave her. She fancied herself a student of men, and while she wasn't on the job for the good of her health, she had always found that a little TLC went a long way. She had also never truly hidden her true sex, and her clients seemed satisfied with the illusion she offered. Her clients also knew that anatomically she was a male. It was hardly a secret, not when the same men she serviced drank in the same place she worked. Men, being men, boasted of their conquests and making it with a he/she, while hardly something to boast about, carried a certain cachet. That Isabel gave good value for money was evident by her repeat business.
Doing Billy Ng had been business, nothing more, and Isabel had hardly expected the boy to fall in love with her! This had never happened before, and she was confused. And a little dazed. Still . . .
Rising, Isabel walked to where Billy was sitting. She would let him down easily. "Billy," she began, her voice low, "thank you for . . ."
Billy shook his head. His command of the English language was limited to be sure, but he knew what he wanted. "Love you!" he declared breathlessly. "You beautiful lady! Make Billy feel wonderful!"
Ignoring Billy's outburst, Isabel forged ahead. "Billy, you're a very nice boy, but . . . Billy, I'm a prostitute! You know, a hooker?"
Billy understood. "Know you sell self to men." He shrugged. "Does not change way I feel." He suddenly reached out and took Isabel's hand in his. "Billy loves you. Don't need too much suckee-suckee, don't need any fuckee-fuckee. Just want to be with you!"
Isabel, taken about, stared at Billy and then made her decision. "Billy," she said as she drew her hand away, "you don't understand. I'm not a woman! I'm a man!"
Billy's face fell slightly. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You? You a man?" Then he thought that the girl was just trying to get rid of him. "You too beautiful to be a man. Billy knows!"
"Oy!" Isabel exclaimed under her breath. Billy was too far gone, to infatuated to believe her! Well, there was a way to make him believe. She turned to Cousin Tommy and Eddy. "Turn around!"
"Huh, what are you doing?" Cousin Tommy asked as Isabel reached under her skirt.
"Never you mind!" snapped Isabel. "Now turn around!"
When Cousin Tommy and Eddy turned their backs to her, Isabel lifted her skirt, exposing her white, designer label panties. Her genitals were clearly outlined under the silk fabric. "See?" she said without inflection.
Billy looked and then, much to Isabel's surprise (and Cousin Tommy and Eddy's, and Christine, all of whom were listening) he shrugged. "Don't care. Billy loves Miss Isabel." His face grew stony. "Billy stays," he finished stubbornly.
Isabel lowered her skirt. "Billy, I'm a man!" she said in an exasperated tone.
Billy shrugged, and then grinned. "Nobody perfect!"
"Well, what are you going to do now?" demanded Eddy as he and Cousin Tommy left the apartment. They had left Isabel and Billy sitting together, and holding hands.
Cousin Tommy sighed. "Well, we can't kill him, and we can't lock him up until he comes to his senses. So . . ." He grinned at Eddy. "Good help is hard to find," he said.
"What?"
"I hope he has a passport," replied.
"What passport? Where's he going?" Eddy demanded.
"He'll need a black suit," Cousin Tommy said, ignoring Eddy's questions. "And some basics."
Eddy stopped abruptly. "A black suit? What does he need a black suit for? You said we can't kill him so he doesn't need to be buried."
"I have no intention of doing Billy Ng any harm." He chuckled as he reached his car. "I'll leave that to Isabel and Christine."
"So what . . .?"
"Eddy, a houseboy always wears a black suit when he accompanies his ladies on a voyage. Everybody knows that!"
With that Cousin Tommy got into his car and drove away, leaving a befuddled and still questioning Eddy Tsang to stare after him.