Eliot Pattison - Mandarin Gate

“I take that to mean the Armed Police told you I was at the convent,” Shan replied. He remembered now, with new worry, that Liang has sent one of the olive-coated men to stand at the gate. Shan had been seen while he had been examining the bodies.

Lung Tso flipped the dagger in the air, catching it by the handle without taking his eyes from Shan.

“I have a certificate of appointment signed by the county governor. Colonel Tan. Surely you are acquainted with him.” Shan could not imagine Tan allowing such immigrants into his county without a personal introduction, to gauge his new inhabitants and demonstrate the tight reins he kept on his county.

Lung winced. “Ironfist Tan they used to call him. The prick came to town and ordered us to stand before him in the square like we were new recruits. He looked old. More like Rusty Fist now.”

“He could still pound you into the ground without even blinking.”

Lung’s nod was so subtle Shan barely saw it. He did not see the stick that slammed into his cheek from over his shoulder. He gasped, unprepared for the stinging pain, and turned to see the youth who had escorted him from town holding a thin length of bamboo. As Shan watched, he reached to a wall hook and pulled down a leather-bound baton that ended in a cluster of wires bent into jagged angles at their ends. Pioneers were not allowed much baggage, but the Kunming settlers had managed to bring their tools with them.

“You met Genghis,” Lung said with a thin smile, gesturing to the youth.

Shan struggled to keep his voice level. “He doesn’t strike me as Mongolian.”

“He just likes the name. A bloodthirsty bastard who made sure everyone in the known world respected his clan.”

As if on cue Genghis slammed the end of the baton against the back of a chair. It splintered the wood. Shan did not bother to wipe away the blood that dripped down his cheek. He watched the wires of the baton. If they hit his face they could take out an eye.

Lung muttered a curt syllable and suddenly hands were all over Shan, pulling him up, searching his pockets, turning down his socks, then dumping the contents of his pockets on the table. His truck keys. His pocketknife. A blue stone he had rubbed smooth during his years of imprisonment. Short sticks of incense. The remaining clay deity he had bought in Baiyun. Lung Tso picked up the figurine, then the stone, studying each for a moment before setting it down. It was as if, Shan realized, the gang leader didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. “Perhaps if you told me what you seek,” he offered.

Lung slapped him. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded. He slammed his fist down on the little deity, smashing it into dust, then hooked a finger toward the men behind him and strong arms slammed Shan back into his chair. Genghis pulled open Shan’s shirt then paused, lifting out the small gau Shan wore around his neck. It quieted the gang for a moment. A spirit box, many Chinese called such amulets. The people of Yunnan were known to be superstitious.

“There were three bodies in the refrigerator,” Shan stated. He tried to appear unconcerned about his gau. The only thing he had taken from Lung Ma’s body was inside the amulet box.

“I know of only two. I want what is ours returned,” Lung repeated.

He knew of only two. Meng had been attacked and the constables had come running to her, leaving the bodies unguarded. If he sought something belonging to a murder victim the first place to look would be with the body but Lung knew it was not with the body.

“I don’t care what kind of arrangement you have with the Armed Police. Those bodies are the concern of a special Public Security squad. They will declare war on the Jade Crows if they think you have their bodies.”

Lung stared in silence.

“And there were three,” Shan repeated. “Your brother. A nun. And a foreigner. Find out what they had in common and we will find their killer.”

“We?” Lung spat.

“I told you. My friend also died that day. He is dead because of those murders. He died unsettled. I told him I would find a way to resolve things.”

The men holding Shan released him and backed away. Lung shot a nervous glance toward them. The dark, thick forests of Yunnan were famous for their ghosts. “You told him?” he asked uneasily. “He’s dead.”

“In Tibet the spirits of those who die violent deaths wander forlornly until there is resolution.” His captors did not object as he began to return the items on the table to his pockets. “They are called jungpo. Hungry ghosts. They like the night. They like to hound those who owe them something.”

The words brought another long silence. Genghis cursed under his breath and retreated another step.

Only Lung seemed unaffected. “A Chinese helping some dead Tibetan? I don’t think so. More like a goddamned informant scavenging for loot.”

“My friend Jamyang. The abbess. Your brother. They’re all jungpo now. The old convent isn’t so far from here. Lung Ma will probably wander back this way looking for you. What will you tell him when he asks why he had to die? What will be your promise when he demands his killer be found?”

Lung glanced again at his men. Shan’s words had clearly unsettled them. The dagger in his hand shot forward again, embedding in the table against Shan’s hand, raising a trickle of blood. “It’s you my brother will come after if you keep interfering,” he growled, lifting the blade. Shan went very still as the point touched his wrist and pushed up his sleeve as though searching for a blood vessel. It stopped at the tattooed number on Shan’s forearm. A cruel grin split Lung’s face. “Lao gai?” he asked, using the term for hard-labor punishment, the worst of Lhadrung’s prisons.

Shan silently nodded.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Where?”

“The Four hundred and fourth People’s Construction Brigade. Thirty miles south of here.”

Lung grinned. “Perfect. Good as an admission that you are a killer and a thief.”

Shan watched in surprise as Lung withdrew the blade then produced a pencil and scrap of paper and wrote down the number. “If you had something to do with my brother’s death I will see that you take days to die,” he growled.

Lung tucked the paper into his pocket, then tilted his knife and sliced a long, wide splinter off the edge of the tabletop, and then methodically cut it into five smaller, flat splinters that he lay in front of him. As he did so one of the men behind him gripped Shan’s wrist and forced it open, spreading his fingers on the table. “This is what I will tell my brother we are doing if he comes asking. This is how Jade Crows deal with informers.” He looked back to Genghis. “Vodka,” he barked, as if settling in for the evening’s entertainment.

The gang leader stared at Shan until the youth brought him the bottle and poured him a glass. He downed half of it in one swallow before speaking again. “The sun has gone down. We have all night. First,” Lung said in a matter-of-fact tone, “you will tell me where it is, what that damned lama gave my brother.” He opened the drawer in the table, extracted a small hammer and lifted one of the long splints, then paused, looking up in confusion. One of the hangings with the dragons was pulsing with red light.

Genghis pulled the hanging back to expose a window. He cursed. “The knob bitch!”

Lieutenant Meng was leaning against her car when they brought Shan out, a police radio in her hand, held like a weapon. Over her shoulder a portable police strobe was flashing. Another car, with two constables, waited down the lane. Genghis shoved him toward Meng and retreated.

“Follow me,” was all she said.