Warren Murphy: Skull Duggery

"So you're going to hold my phone hostage until I do what you say, is that it?"

"I have an assignment for you," Smith said, his voice like lemons being tortured of their inmost juices.

"Stuff it!" Remo said, pulling the phone cord from the wallboard.

"Auugh!" cried the Master of Sinanju. "My reward!"

"Damn!" said Remo, suddenly remembering why he had gone to the telephone in the first place.

"For that," Chiun cried, flouncing toward the door, "you will suffer from a lousy sex life to the end of your miserable days!"

"Where are you going?" Remo called after him.

"To see Emperor Smith. I will have him place the telephone call. I should have considered this in the first place."

"Don't forget my ten percent," Remo called over the sound of the slamming door.

Chapter 3

Zhang Zingzong was holding a pair of queens.

He took a drag on a Panda, expelling smoke out of the side of his mouth. He had lost all his pocket money to the corpulent dealer in the first ten minutes of the poker game. His traveler's checks had gone next. The last one lay in the pot.

Zhang Zingzong eyed it narrowly, his heart racing. The checks had gotten him as far as New York's noisy Chinatown, where he blended in with these alien Chinese who spoke Mandarin in Hong Kong accents or no Chinese at all.

A waiter at the Golden Pagoda restaurant told him where to find the poker game when Zhang Zingzong doubled his tip. It proved to be in the back of the very same Division Street restaurant. Zhang had only to flash his travelerr's checks to be admitted.

Now, scarcely an hour later, his throat burning with a combination of anxiety-produced heartburn and pepper chicken, Zhang looked from his two queens to the last traveler's check, without which he would starve, even in Chinatown.

Zhang gave up three cards, hoping for a full house.

He got a jack, a deuce, and a four back.

Spitting out a harsh curse, he slapped his hand down on the table.

The dealer eyed it with humor. The others broke into amused laughter, displaying gold-filled teeth. It made Zhang wonder if Chinese-Americans had been born with ivory teeth that wore away, revealing their gold hearts.

"You fold?" the corpulent dealer said gruffly.

"I have no more money," Zhang admitted.

"What in sack?"

Zhang's eyes went to the knapsack hanging off the back of his chair so fast the others exchanged glances, taking note of his expression.

"All I have in world," Zhang said quietly, attempting to keep his face stiff.

"Then you fold?"

A drop of hot ash fell from the Panda dangling from Zhang's loose mouth as he considered his answer. With a hoarse cry, he brushed the ash aside before it burned through his jeans.

The cigarette dropped from his mouth. Reflexively, Zhang reached for the pack in his shirt pocket.

The bicycling panda on the package front caught his eye as he fished a cigarette out.

"I have these," Zhang said suddenly. "Genuine Chinese cigarettes. Brought from Beijing." Which was a lie. He'd got them in Hong Kong.

"You are Beijing man?" the dealer asked intently.

"Yes," Zhang admitted.

"You were in Tiananmen?"

"I was."

"You very brave man. These cigarettes not worth squat. But we let you play one more hand."

"Thank you," Zhang said in his formal English. He had found it easier to communicate with the men in English, not their odd Chinese. It was an irony not lost on Zhang Zingzong.

The dealer shuffled the cards. Zhang cut the deck. The cards started whispering around the table, forming four silent piles.

When the remaining deck was laid down, Zhang picked up his cards. They had fallen in order, by suit, which Zhang took to mean good fortune. The king and queen of clubs nestled in his hand.

He got rid of two, picking up a pair of kings. That gave him three of a kind.

"I call," Zhang said.

The dealer folded. So did the man to his right. Zhang grinned. Then the man on the left laid down a royal flush.

Zhang quietly placed his cards on the table. His face was a mask of old tallow.

"You fold now?" he was asked.

"I fold," Zhang said sadly.

"Too bad, Tiananmen man. But you live. Consider that the gods have smiled upon you. You survive Tiananmen and are in US now. Very good fortune."

Smiling woodenly, Zhang reached for his knapsack. He stood up, and noticing the fallen Panda, stooped to pick it up.

The winner reached out to claim the pot. He grabbed up the pack of Pandas with one hand. The soft pack crushed too easily, and his winning smile fell apart.

"Hey, you! Tiananmen man! Only two cigarettes here."

"Sorry. All I have left." "No good! No good! You cheat!"

"I do not cheat," Zhang snapped back. "Those all I had."

"Maybe sack have something I like," the winner said, getting to his feet. He was tall and reedy, his muscles hard from physical labor.

Zhang backed away, clutching his knapsack. "I go now."

"No!"

Zhang bolted for the beaded curtain that led back into the restaurant dining area.

Behind him, chair legs scraped. Feet made whetting sounds on the tile floor. High singsong shouts followed him.

Zhang Zingzong raced into the restaurant, nearly colliding with a busboy. A waiter reached out for him. Zhang swerved just in time, but a dangling knapsack strap snagged a chair. The chair tripped Zhang. He went down.

Fiercely he jerked at the strap. It tore. He bounced to his feet, looking everywhere, seeking the quickest escape. Fear disoriented him long enough for a thick-bodied Chinese behind the cash register to grab him by the shirt collar.

Zhang tried to punch him back, but he kept Zhang before him.

The others caught up and surrounded Zhang Zingzong, hurling abuse at him.

"Cheat!"

"Robber!"

"Chark!"

Zhang Zingzong hung his head and said nothing. Tears started to flow.

The knapsack was pulled from his fingers. He did not resist. What was the use of resisting? He had no money. Where could he go?

The dealer snapped open the flap and rummaged through the knapsack, pulling out and dropping to the floor odd bits of Zhang's clothing.

Then his eyes went wide with interest.

"Ah," he breathed. He pulled out the ornate teakwood box.

The others stepped closer, their faces trembling with excitement. They recognized that this was no tourist-shop knickknack. The workmanship was exquisite, the carvings fine, delicate.

"Where you get this?" the dealer demanded.

Zhang said nothing. He brushed a tear from one downcast eye.

"It is very fine," the dealer said quietly.

"It belongs to China," said Zhang Zingzong.

"It is mine now," the winner said, grinning.

"This is not fair!" Zhang burst out. "It is worth much more than pack of cigarettes!" As soon as he had said it, Zhang regretted his hasty words.

The dealer nodded to one of the others. He went into the back room and returned with the crumpled pack of Pandas. He stuffed them into Zhang's shirt pocket.

Zhang paid no heed. He was watching the dealer fiddle with the lid of the teakwood box. His blunt fingers pressing and worrying at different carvings, coming close to the secret catch, but never quite engaging it.

"How does this box open?" the dealer demanded, looking up in frustration.

"It does not open. It is solid," Zhang told him flatly.

The dealer looked back to the box. He shook it. It felt solid. Still, he refused to accept Zhang's word and resumed fingering the designs, seeking for the box's secret.

The catch click was like a knife in Zhang Zingzong's stomach. The lid popped up unexpectedly.

The dealer almost dropped the box, he was taken so much by surprise.

He peered into the box, his black eyes like oblique knife wounds in his waxy face.