Michael Connelly - 9 Dragons

“Gway lang go,” she said.

“What?”

“Turtle-shell jelly. They make it around here in the mornings. They sell it in the medicine shops.”

“It’s strong.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it. You think the smell’s strong, you should actually taste it sometime. Supposed to be the cure for whatever ails you.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

In another two blocks the clubs got smaller and seedier from the outside. The neon signage was more garish and usually accompanied by lighted posters containing photographs of the beautiful women supposedly waiting inside. Sun double-parked next to the taxi that was first in line at the intersection. Three of the corners were occupied by clubs. The fourth was a noodle shop that was open and already crowded.

Sun released his seat belt and opened his door. Bosch did the same.

“Harry,” Eleanor said.

Sun turned back to look at him.

“You don’t go,” he told Bosch.

Bosch looked at him.

“You sure? I have money.”

“No money,” Sun said. “You wait here.”

He got out and closed the door. Bosch closed his door and stayed in the car.

“What’s going on?”

“Sun Yee’s calling on a friend for the gun. It’s not a transaction involving money.”

“Then, what does it involve”

“Favors.”

“Is Sun Yee in a triad?”

“No. He wouldn’t have gotten the job in the casino. And I wouldn’t be with him.”

Bosch wasn’t so sure about the casino job being off-limits to a triad man. Sometimes the best way to know your enemy is to hire your enemy.

“ Was he in a triad?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. They don’t let you just quit.”

“But he’s getting the gun from a triad guy, right”

“I don’t know that either. Look, Harry, we are getting the gun you told me you had to have. I didn’t think there would be all of these questions. Do you want it or not?”

“Yes, I want it.”

“Then, we are doing what needs to be done to get it. And Sun Yee is risking his job and freedom doing it, I might add. Gun laws are very harsh here.”

“I understand. No more questions. Just thank you for help-ing me.”

In the silence that followed, Bosch could hear muffled but pulsing music coming from one of the shuttered clubs or maybe from all three of them. Through the windshield he saw Sun approach three men in suits who were standing outside a club directly across the intersection. Like with most of the establishments in Wan Chai, the sign out front was in Chinese and English. The place was called the Yellow Door. Sun spoke briefly with the men and then nonchalantly opened his suit jacket so they could see he was not armed. One of the men did a quick but competent pat-down and Sun was then allowed to enter through the signature yellow door.

They waited for nearly ten minutes. During that time Eleanor said almost nothing. Bosch knew she was fearful about their daughter’s situation and angry with his questions, but he needed to know more than he knew.

“Eleanor, don’t get upset with me, okay? Let me just say this. As far as we know, we have the element of surprise here. As far as the people who have Maddie know, I’m still in L.A., deciding whether to kick their guy loose or not. So if Sun Yee is going to the triad here to get me a gun, won’t he have to tell them where the gun is going and what it might be used for? Won’t the guy with the gun then turn around and give the triad guys across the harbor in Kowloon the heads-up? You know, like, look who’s in town and, oh, by the way, he’s coming your way.”

“No, Harry,” she said dismissively. “That’s not how it works.”

“Well, then how does it work?”

“I told you. Sun Yee is calling in a favor. That’s it. He doesn’t have to provide any information because the guy with the gun owes him the favor. That’s how it works. Okay?”

Bosch stared at the club entrance. No sign of Sun.

“Okay.”

Another five minutes went by silently in the car and then Bosch saw Sun step back through the yellow door. But instead of heading back to the car, he crossed the street and went into the noodle shop. Bosch tried to track him through the glass windows but the reflecting neon outside was too strong and Sun disappeared from sight.

“Now what, he’s getting food?” Bosch asked.

“I doubt it,” Eleanor said. “He was probably sent over there.”

Bosch nodded. Precautions. Another five minutes went by and when Sun emerged from the noodle shop he was carrying a Styrofoam to-go carton that was secured closed with two rubber bands. He carried it flat, as if trying not to dishevel the plate of noodles within. He returned to the car and got in. Without a word he handed the carton over the seat to Bosch.

Holding the carton low, Bosch took off the rubber bands and opened it as Sun pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. The carton contained a medium-size pistol made of blue steel. There was nothing else. No backup magazine or extra ammunition. Just the gun and whatever was in it.

Bosch dropped the carton to the floor of the car and held the pistol in his left hand. There was no brand name or marking on the bluing. Just serial and model numbers, but the five-point star stamped into the grip told Bosch the weapon was a Black Star pistol manufactured by the government of China. He had seen them on occasion in L.A. They were made by the tens of thousands for the Chinese military and a growing number ended up being stolen and smuggled across the ocean. Many of them obviously stayed in China and were smuggled into Hong Kong.

Bosch held the pistol down between his knees and ejected the magazine. It was double-stacked with fifteen 9 millimeter Parabellum rounds. He thumbed them out and put them into a cup holder in the armrest. He then ejected a sixteenth round from the chamber and put it in the cup holder with the others.

Bosch looked down the sight to focus his aim. He peered into the chamber, looking for any sign of rust, and then studied the firing pin and extractor. He checked the gun’s action and trigger several times. The weapon seemed to be functioning properly. He then studied each bullet as he reloaded the magazine, looking for corrosion or any other indication that the ammunition was old or suspect. He found nothing.

He firmly pushed the magazine back into place and jacked the first round into the chamber. He then ejected the magazine again, pushed the last bullet into the opening and once more put the gun back together. He had sixteen rounds and that was it.

“Happy?” Eleanor asked from the front seat.

Bosch looked up from the weapon and saw that they were on the down ramp to the Cross Harbour Tunnel. It would take them directly to Kowloon.

“Not quite. I don’t like carrying a gun I’ve never fired before. For all I know, the pin on this thing could have been filed and I’ll be drawing dead when I need it.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that. You just have to trust Sun Yee.”

Sunday morning traffic was light in the two-lane tunnel. Bosch waited until they passed the low point in the middle and had started up the incline toward the Kowloon side. He’d heard several backfires from taxis along the way. He quickly wrapped his daughter’s blanket around the gun and his left hand. He then pulled the pillow over and turned to look out the rear window. There were no cars in sight behind them because the cars back there had not reached the midpoint of the tunnel.

“Whose car is this, anyway?” he asked.

“It belongs to the casino,” Eleanor said. “I borrowed it. Why?”

Bosch lowered the window. He held the pillow up and pressed the muzzle into the padding. He fired twice, the standard double pull he employed to check the mechanism of a gun. The bullets snapped off the tunnel’s tiled walls.