John Dobbyn - Neon Dragon

A sound that made my skin crawl came from the sofa with its back to me. I looked over the back and saw a meatball sandwich.

The Harry I knew had a yellow-cream complexion with smooth, regular features. The face of the man on the couch looked like a Mr. Potato Head in the hands of a warped child. The colors ranged from raging purple to sallow. The stitches under the eyes looked vicious. It was the second identification that morning I couldn’t make with certainty.

I gagged out, “Harry?”

One hand came up in a limp wave.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He mumbled a few syllables, but I wasn’t getting information.

“Harry, let me guess. Those three goons from the coffee shop caught up with you. Dear Lord, what did they hit you with?”

Something came out that sounded like “steel pipe” or “sledgehammer.” I’d have believed either.

“Who sewed you up? Did someone get you to Mass. General?”

He nodded slightly. What came out sounded like “cab driver.”

I came around and dropped into the chair beside him.

“I’m not cut out for this line of work, Harry. So far I got one girl killed…” His eyes came up. “The little waitress from the Ming Tree. I just saw her at the morgue.”

The eyelids came back down in internal pain.

“And now you.”

When I said, “I’m sorry,” it reached a record level of inadequacy.

“Can I get you something? Water, Scotch, hemlock?”

The cracked lips barely parted in a smile, and I had a feeling he might live.

He started to move, and I could tell from the contorted features that they had given equal attention to the ribs. In spite of the pain, he sat up against the pillows.

“I’m sorry I sucked you into this thing, Harry. I guess you were right about this white skin being insurance. The only ones who are getting it are Chinese.”

“Don’t count on it, Mike.”

He was still mumbling, but I was learning to pull the words through.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re pushing them.” He waved vaguely at his face. “This is a warning to you. The girl had to go. She was your contact. Keep pushing, and they’re going to run out of Chinese. Then it’s your turn.”

I leaned back against the folds of my overcoat.

“That’s the problem, Harry. I don’t know where to push next. So far all the points have gone to Yale.”

Harry knew that was shorthand for the bad guys.

“I’ve got one more witness to see in Chinatown. Maybe I can do it without getting anyone killed.”

Harry rolled slowly upright. I admired the effort.

“Who?”

“What’s the difference? You’re out of the game, buddy. You played well, but I’m putting you on the DL. It’s not your fight.”

He looked at me with what started as a scowl, but relaxed when it pulled the stitches.

“It’s more my fight than it is yours.”

The words were stronger, and as I looked at him, he had a point.

“The other witness runs a Chinese herbal medicine shop on Tyler Street.”

Harry shook his head. “Not good.”

“Why not? I’ve got to do it sooner or later.”

“Later. Give it a couple of days. They’ll be expecting you now. You’ll be playing into their hands. You won’t get anything now, except maybe hurt.”

“Really. Any other reason?”

“Yeah. In a couple of days I’ll go with you. You’d be as lost in Chinatown as I would in Puerto Rico. When’s the trial?”

“Hasn’t been set yet. The DA’d have it marked up tomorrow if she could. We’ve got a few weeks. I don’t know about you going with me. They don’t seem to value Chinese life. I don’t want to lose you. Thanks-giving’d never be the same.”

“I’m serious, Mike. It’s my fight. I’ve seen a lot of my friends bend under their power. I’ve always told myself I’m a different kind of Chinese. I’m an MIT Chinese. Different world. It’s the same world, Mike. No more hiding places.”

I caught a look at the clock. I could just make the Marliave by noon.

“Gotta run, Harry. Whatever you need, let me know.”

The last words I heard on the way out the door were, “Call me, Mike. You need me.”

No argument.

The Marliave is a tiny but authentic chunk of Rome, ripped out of the eternal city and dropped unspoiled onto a corner of the block between School and Bromfield Streets. The stone steps leading up to the entrance once led to the Royal Gardens when King George’s royal governors were housed a block away.

Noon was a memory, but a recent memory, by the time I climbed those steps to the entrance.

The line of customers at the door suffered not gladly my weaving and squeezing my way close to the front of the line. I had a nodding acquaintance with the maitre d’ from past occasions, which was usually good for a smile, a handshake, and a prediction of twenty minutes to the next table.

I caught his eye and mouthed the words, “Is Mr. Devlin here yet?”

I think he misunderstood and thought I said the pope was awaiting my arrival. He moved the head-of-the-liners out of my way and led me like the returning son to a small upstairs chamber in the back.

The room had the same Romanesque charm that pervaded the Marliave. It held one single table at which were gathered Lex Devlin, a dapper little dude of about the same vintage, whom I assumed to be Conrad Munsey, and a third, gaping chair.

Lex acknowledged my arrival with an eyebrow and a nod toward the chair, which I took as an invitation to join the fun. When he introduced me as “the late Mr. Knight,” I realized that “noon” did not mean “or so, at your convenience.” I was gratified, however, that though he may never use it to my face, he still remembered my name.

Conrad Munsey, our dinner companion, was another piece of work. Judging from his sitting position, I estimated that he’d come about up to my chin. He had bright eyes and a sharp little moustache. In fact, everything about him, from his salt-and-pepper hair, which looked as if it were trimmed hourly, to his diminutive but perfectly formed body, which he had tucked into a tidy, dark three-piece suit with the correct, conservative tie, bespoke nobody’s fool.

I sensed comfort and probably more than mutual respect between Mr. Devlin and Mr. Munsey. I remembered Mr. Devlin saying they “go back.”

I shook hands with Mr. Munsey and received a menu from the waiter. I was about to open it, when a red-haired man of about fifty years swept in from the kitchen and snatched the menus out of the hands of the three of us. Judging from the fine Italian wool of his suit, I figured he was not the busboy.

“Mr. Devlin, you never need a menu. What do you feel like? A little veal? A little pasta first, maybe a white sauce? You like my antipasto. I’ll fix it myself. What do you think? You leave it to me?”

I saw the softest side of Lex Devlin I’d ever seen when he smiled and touched our host on the arm.

“We couldn’t be in better hands, Vincenzo.”

That widened the smile. Vincenzo gestured to the waiter and mentioned a particularly good vino bianco.

“Whoa, Vincenzo. No wine for this gentleman and myself. Connie, you suit yourself.”

I didn’t remember being consulted on the wine refusal, but apparently I was riding shotgun on Mr. Devlin’s wagon. No sweat. If the boss was suggesting that I had two days’ clear-headed work to do that afternoon, he was reading my mind.

When the room cleared and Vincenzo delicately closed the door to the outside room, Lex leaned across the table.

“Let’s talk, Connie. There’s a rumbling in the hills. I don’t like it. I wanted to see if you’re picking anything up.”

Mr. Munsey’s eyes were crackling, and his lips did something that put his moustache at a tilt, but nothing came out.