Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

Then get ye a dozen stout fellows,

And let them all stagger and go,

And dig a great hole in the meadow,

And in it put rosin the bow.

The incident was reported in the local press as an accidental fire. Even in those days, the mayor feared civil unrest if the truth was widely reported. But the mayor needn’t have worried, for the true story was know by all in Chinatown. The tale terrified even the bravest members of the teaming populace. The word riot was not spoken, was not even thought.

This pleased Professor Hearthstone. He immediately launched the second phase of his operation, flooding the community with money and gifts to demonstrate the largess of the new regime.

In the shabby apartments and cellars of Chinatown, people began to speak happily of the collapse of the Wong Ching Benevolent Society.

In a lavish suite overlooking Grant Avenue, Professor Hearthstone set about learning the Chinese language.

And in the gutted ruins of Sun Lim’s Restaurant, a dark thing laughed.

“You should not have let him pass, Mr. Machii.”

The yakuza lieutenant, his shaved head lowered, stared at the kitchen floor. Hearthstone knew that the man would not comment until instructed to do so.

Another bumbler, Hearthstone thought. Not like in the old days, when the yakuza were the world’s best. No, those days were long gone. Today, too many yakuza were simple punks drawn from the bosozoku gangs. And they didn’t leave their bosozoku past behind, still caring more about motorcycles and hotrods and dirty magazines than matters of economics or honor.

“Dr. Taoka made the mistake of allowing his loyalties to fall into question,” Hearthstone continued. “I’m afraid that such questions must be dealt with in a harsh manner. We must act swiftly, even if our suspicions are tenuous at best. As we say in America, we must shoot first and ask questions later.” Hearthstone suppressed a smile. “ Bang bang bang . Understand?”

An almost imperceptible nod from the yakuza; even a bosozoku could understand such a simple message. Hearthstone watched the man’s bristly eyebrows shift as he studied the floor — Hearthstone’s shoes, his own shoes, the elegant dish that lay on the floor between them, the raw, teriyaki-drenched filet mignon that filled the dish.

Was he afraid? Or was he thinking, measuring the distance, weighing the time that it would take to strike?

No. That was imagination.

“You will not make this mistake again, will you, Mr. Machii?”

The yakuza lieutenant bowed.

Hearthstone brightened, his mind focusing. Of course. A test. That was the sane man’s measure of loyalty. “And you will do something to restore my faith in your abilities, will you not?”

Machii did not hesitate. Still avoiding Hearthstone’s eyes, he turned to the kitchen counter and positioned a marble cutting stone. He placed his left hand on the stone, fingers splayed, and slipped a neatly folded handkerchief under the smallest finger.

The yakuza’s fingernails were stained with engine oil. The professor allowed himself a slight frown. No demon, this one. Only bosozoku trash.

A slim knife appeared in Machii’s right hand. A swift slash — no sound of blade meeting marble — and the yakuza’s left pinky was severed at the juncture of the proximal and middle phalanges.

Beads of sweat erupted on Machii’s forehead. Carefully, he folded the handkerchief over the severed finger. Once. Twice.

Hearthstone nearly laughed at the scene. A clean white shroud for a dirty little finger.

A shroud…

Machii peered into Hearthstone’s eyes. The professor backed away, fighting the memories that came flooding back.

Hearthstone held out a hand.

The yakuza snorted against the pain. His lower lip quivered. (Hearthstone watching.) Tightened into an agonized grin. (Hearthstone reaching inside his coat.) Parted as he took a very small breath.

His last breath.

His last grin.

A single slug exploded from the barrel of Hearthstone’s automatic, and the yakuza slumped forward. His severed digit slipped from the handkerchief and dropped into the elegant dish. A thick line of blood oozed over the filet mignon and puddled beneath the thin teriyaki sauce.

Hearthstone watched the yakuza’s face, stiffened when the man sank to the floor.

It wasn’t that the man’s death disturbed the professor.

Behind him, something had begun to growl.

She came each day to Hearthstone’s Grant Avenue suite, though she preferred to call the street Dupont Gai, or old Dupont Street, in the manner of the local population. She came with books tucked under one arm, ready to teach the Chinese language to Jacob Hearthstone.

Her name was Anastasia White, and she had grown up in Shanghai. Her father was a diplomat — of what nation she would not say. Her mother was not a topic for conversation, either. But Hearthstone judged that Anastasia’s mother must have been a true beauty, for the young woman’s complexion was a stunning creamy gold and her amber eyes were as delectable as spiced almonds.

Needless to say, Hearthstone played at being a poor student, ever eager to keep the beauteous Miss White in his employ. Soon they were working their way through the extensive menu at Madame Liu’s, Anastasia’s favorite restaurant, under the pretense that chatting with the waitresses was good practice for the professor; but before long there was no need of pretense. There were evenings at the opera and excursions to the cinema, though Hearthstone attempted to avoid the latter, especially when the night’s program included features starring Bela Lugosi or Boris Karloff. No sense, he thought, in rekindling unpleasant memories when romance was on his mind.

And then, on a rare, warm afternoon, Anastasia came to him in tears. “Professor, I’m afraid that I will be leaving San Francisco immediately. I’ve come to refund the balance of this month’s lesson payment, as I shan’t be able to instruct you further.”

“My dear, whatever can the matter be?” Hearthstone asked, strong concern evident in his voice. “And why so formal? This isn’t like you at all.”

“Please, Jacob. Don’t make this difficult.”

“But I must insist — ”

“Very well. A man has been visiting my apartment. A very disagreeable man. He has related several stories concerning his association with you, stories which I refused to believe until very recently. And then, just last night, he threatened to reveal our relationship to the most sordid members of the press. He demanded blackmail payments. When I refused, he… he forced himself… ”

Anastasia broke down, and Hearthstone moved to comfort her. “This… this man,” he said, his voice trembling as he remembered The Shroud. “You must tell me his name.”

Anastasia managed to collect herself enough to whisper, “His name is Thomas Clancy.”

A relieved smile twisted the corners of Hearthstone’s lips. Clancy. The busted policeman who had headed up the takeover of Chinatown. ‘You mustn’t worry, my dear,” he said. “I will handle this matter. Personally.”

Within the hour, the professor was standing outside a dingy saloon which, while located in the same city, was a world away from his Chinatown home. A blood-red scarf was draped around his neck. A target pistol was secreted beneath his camelhair coat. Four masters of wing chun gung fu stood at his side.

“I’m going in,” he said, his Chinese impeccable. “Alone.” His subordinates knew better than to argue.

Hearthstone entered the saloon. Yellow light swimming with smoke. The smell of whiskey and beer and the unwashed. A song ringing over loud conversation — the same song he’d heard during the destruction of Sun Lim’s Restaurant many months before.