Ambrose Bierce - San Francisco Noir 2 - The Classics

In that instant she saw Hank. He was under an old metal desk, his hands tied to one of the legs with a length of rope. He’d been crying, but he stopped when he saw Greta.

She ran to Hank and scrabbled at the rope with her fingers. It wasn’t tied very well. If she had enough time, she could get it loose. But did she have enough time?

She turned and shouted at Wally. “What have you done to him?”

Wally laughed, a nasty sound. “Caught me a pair of plump little partridges, that’s what. You and him both.”

“What are you talking about?” Greta demanded.

“Been talking to a man. The kind of man who’ll pay good money for a couple of fat little angels like you. Oh, yes. The kind that likes little boys will have a good time with your little brother. Then there’s the kind that likes sweet little virgins like you.”

Wally shifted the flashlight from his right hand to his left. Greta saw his right hand go into his pocket and pull out a handful of greenbacks. “This is just seed money. I get the rest when I deliver the goods, when the man comes through that fire escape door in a few minutes.”

A few minutes. That’s all the time she had. Wally was between her and the door. Greta squatted and tugged at the rope securing Hank’s hands, her fingers working the knot. There, it was loosening. Just a little bit more, that’s all she needed.

“Look at him,” she cried, making her voice teary. “You got it so tight it’s cutting his hands. That’s why he’s been crying.”

Hank didn’t need to be told twice. He started to wail. Greta joined in, still fumbling with the rope.

“Shut up, both of you,” Wally said, shoving the money back into his pocket. “Shut up, I tell you.”

Wally walked to the desk and knelt, setting the flashlight aside so he could adjust the rope. Quick as lightning, Greta scooped up the flashlight and brought it down hard on Wally’s head. He bellowed and grabbed for her as he tried to get to his feet. She slithered from his grasp, then hit him again, and he went down. She hit him a third time, and he moaned. Then she turned to Hank and helped her little brother pull free of his bonds.

She seized her brother’s arm and tugged him toward the door. When they reached it, she jerked it open and they ran for the stairwell. Hank had just reached the top step when Greta was caught from behind. Wally was cursing in her ear as he lifted her off the floor. She wriggled in his arms, almost gagging at the smell of him, and sank her teeth into one of the hands that held her. He screamed as she tasted blood. He dropped her.

She regained her balance and turned to face him as he came at her again, aiming her fist at the crotch of his baggy pants, at the place Mom said it would hurt if you hit a man. He screamed again when she hit him, falling backward. But he didn’t fall onto the floor. He kept going back, and down, into the open elevator shaft.

“He went splat,” Hank said when she found him at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Good. I hope he broke his damn neck.”

Greta looked dispassionately at the motionless body lying on top of the rusted metal at the bottom of the elevator shaft, about three feet below the first floor of the warehouse. Blood trickled from his mouth. When he didn’t move, she climbed down and reached into his pocket, pulling out the folding money he’d been showing off. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

Greta shoved the money into her own pocket, climbed out of the shaft, and took Hank’s arm. They ran through the warehouse, back to where Jake and Elva were still sleeping it off next to the gray ashes of the fire. Greta scooped up the bag of doughnuts and zipped them inside the brown nylon bag. No sense letting food go to waste.

“Where we going now?” Hank asked.

She slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the street. “Invisible time.”

Outer Mission

The state of war with the Wah Ching mandated that the Sing brothers stay constantly on the move. To find them, Joe loitered in Chinatown Park, searching out one of their minions for instructions. There, dozing behind his pulleddown porkpie hat beneath the checker pavilion’s snapping pennants, the wizened pigtailed dopepeddler known only as Firecracker.

“Barkersan!” Firecracker cackled once Joe roused him from his stupor. Bright beady eyes laughed from a face like a desiccated apricot. “Doggone no see, long time.”

Hastily Joe asked where Joe and Archie Sing were to be found. Firecracker knew the Barker was trusted by the brothers and issued a convoluted set of directions. Thanking him, Joe halfturned to leave, then stopped, flinging back his head and puffing his cheeks disconsolately. Releasing his breath with a curse, he turned back.

“Front me a dime of your gunpowder, Firecracker.”

Surprise further wrinkled Firecracker’s face. He’d never known Barkersan to use coke. But his next knowing cackle guessed Joe had a good reason for wanting it now. With a motion subtle and fluid as the T’ai Chi performed by nearby youths in martial pajamas, Firecracker swept off his porkpie hat, plucked a plastic pane of white powder from its band, and palmed Joe a quarter gram.

The vast import warehouse near the piers at the foot of Telegraph Hill was owned by one of the brothers’ innumerable relatives. A loft that could be reached only through labyrinthine secret passages was on their rotation of hideouts.

“Heard you booked Rooski out of the Troll’s just before the cops nailed him,” said Joe Sing, the elder of the two almost identical Chinese brothers seated on futons facing Joe in the tan speckled light of bamboo blinds. Their tight facial skin was a luminous saffron not unlike the multitude of ceramic Buddhas sold below.

Joe sat crosslegged, facing them. “News travels.”

“Where you got him?” Archie asked.

“Stashed at a chick’s crib in the Tenderloin. She’s out running credit cards, he’s on a nod.”

“You figured what to do with him?” Joe Sing asked.

“Book his skinny red ass as far out of Dodge as I can.” Joe tipped his head. “You know the Fat Man’s porno movie palace on Jones?”

“Yeah, only I thought it shut down with the rest. You know, home videos, new blue laws.”

“The Kama Sutra’s about the last. The Fat Man only keeps it open for the betting bank he runs out of its basement. I’m gonna rip it.”

The elder Sing’s obsidian stare narrowed; the Barker wasn’t known for daring capers. “You taking down the Fat Man?”

Joe nodded. “Had the idea for months.”

“Dangerous dude to fuck with,” Archie observed.

“Not as dangerous as the cops if they get their hands on Rooski. I’m dogmeat then.”

It was Joe Sing’s turn to nod. “What are your drawings?”

The brothers listened with implacable half smiles as Joe outlined his plan. From below arose the sound of the engines and crashing gears of delivery trucks picking up orders. A large ceiling fan stirred the smells of sandalwood and cane, sawdust and varnish, and from somewhere frying fish.

“Right on Front Street,” Joe summed up. “Blast in big as Dallas, have Rooski cover the patrons while I throw down on whatever motherfuckers are in the basement.”

Joe Sing’s brow arched lazily, like a cat stretching. “You’re using Rooski?”

“Got to. Cant do it solo. And I need more firepower. I cant use this...” Joe withdrew the Browning from the back of his pants. “Rooski’s been dropping things lately and I cant risk the cops tracing this through the Troll to us.”

Joe Sing’s eyes vanished when he laughed. “We thought you might bring along the Troll’s piece to barter... You must have heard about... lunch at the Golden Boar yesterday.”