Bounty Hunter

Chapter 36

Whiskey glass in hand, Sergeant Thomas Langford stood back and admired his new mattress. “Beauty, isn’t it?” he asked Tone. “Genuine goose down. Look as hard as you like, you won’t find a corn shuck in that bed.”

“I reckon it’s comfortable.”

“Sure is, and the salesman said it’s good for the rheumatisms. He said Queen Vic sleeps on that very same mattress and she hasn’t had an ache or pain in her poor old bones this twenty year.” As though he felt remiss, Langford turned to the younger man, flustered. “Of course, I plan on getting one for your bed, just as soon as I have the extra cash.”

“No hurry,” Tone said. “I’ve spread my blankets on granite ten thousand feet above the flat, so I don’t mind the floor.”

Langford sipped his whiskey, then said what he’d been planning to say: “Bad business, Tone. First Sprague blows up his house, killing two dozen innocent people in the process, and now the Tong are moving in all over the waterfront.”

A week had passed since Tone had talked with Weimin, and the gang leader was now making good on his threat.

Sprague was being pushed hard. All but one of his late rivals’ businesses had been taken over by the Chinese, and they had begun to corner the opium and slave trade. So far there had been only two casualties. The owner of a gin mill on Pacific Street who had objected to paying the Tong protection money was gunned down behind the bar of his saloon. One of Sprague’s whores, a woman named Ella Alden, was murdered on Washington Street in broad daylight. It was suspected that it had been a Tong revenge killing, but there were rumors that Sprague himself had ordered the woman’s death. Ella’s sister had died in the explosion at Sprague’s house, and she may have tried to shake down the man by threatening to tell the coppers what she knew.

But the day Langford bought his mattress, the war had come right to Sprague’s doorstep.

“The way I heard it,” Langford said as he led the way to the kitchen, “Sprague was at the docks, speaking to Wilson Tyler, that captain of his, a man who’s sailed under the black flag a time or two, the damned villain.”

He watched Tone light a cigar, then said, “The two were deep in conversation when six or seven rifles opened up on them from the top floor of a rooming house. If my sources are correct, a couple of Sprague’s men were killed in the first volley and”—Langford sipped his whiskey, smiling, savoring the moment—“Sprague got a bullet burn in the shoulder.”

Tone slapped the table in front of him. “Damn, I thought the man was indestructible, bulletproof!”

“So did he, apparently,” Langford said. “I’m told he’s back in hiding, nursing his wound, and that the Chastity Christian woman is caring for him.”

“You reckon he’s running scared?”

“I’d bet the farm on it. I believe he was talking with Tyler about making a fast getaway back to his ship if things suddenly go bad. And they are.”

Tone poured whiskey for them both. Outside the day was shading into evening and a mist was creeping like a thief into the garden. Somewhere a bird greeted the arrival of the night and among the flowers small creatures scurried.

Langford raised his glass, stopped it halfway to his mouth and said, “Sprague is learning the hard way that you can scare white men into backing off for a spell, or for good, but the Tong keep coming at you. The Chinese Exclusion Act of ’82 made the Celestials mad as hell when it took away what little rights they had. Now they want their slice of the pie and the Tong will give it to them, for a price.”

“Weimin told me the Tong plans on taking over the entire waterfront,” Tone said.

Langford smiled. “Here in San Francisco your friend Weimin is the Tong.”

“I’m in his debt. He saved my life.”

“Yes, I know.” Langford looked out the window, staring into the gathering darkness. When he’d collected his thoughts, he turned to Tone again. “We let the Tong get rid of Sprague, then we get rid of the Tong. It’s a simple solution to a complex problem.”

“No matter what, you’re in for a long war.”

Langford smiled. “Nothing in this city ever comes easy.” He set his glass on the table. “Look at me, Tone. What do you see?”

“Huh?”

“Describe me.”

Tone smiled. “I see a tough-looking man wearing a stained old shirt, baggy pants, and”—he bent over in his chair and glanced under the table—“a smelly pair of slippers that should have been thrown out years ago.”

“No police uniform in sight?”

“No. Just the rags I described.”

“Good. Then talking as Mr. Langford, I think I might know where Sprague is holed up.”

Now Tone was interested. “Where?”

“According to my source, and she’s reliable maybe half the time, he’s taken rooms at the Victory Hotel on Steiner Street. My source says her best friend works at the hotel as a chambermaid and she recognized Sprague and his fancy woman. He’s got no more than half a dozen men with him.”

Tone nodded. “You want me to go get him . . . Mr. Langford?”

“No. I want you to keep your hands clean on this one. Find your Chinese friend and tell him what I’ve just told you. Tell him the odds on my information being correct are about fifty-fifty.”

“You want me to do it tonight?”

“Is there a better time? Sprague is out of it for now and what men he has left are with him.”

Langford pushed his glass away from him. “Damn this rotgut. It makes a man forget things. What the hell were we just talking about?”

Tone smiled and rose to his feet. “The weather, Sergeant.”

“Ah yes, the weather. My night off and it’s raining hard. Still, I’m glad I’m not out on the street. On rainy nights the wind coming off the bay chills a man to the marrow.”

After he was dressed, his guns in place, Tone said, “Langford, I think I’ll take a stroll before bed.”

“Be careful. The streets can be dangerous at this time of night.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“One other thing, Tone: be careful around Weimin. He’s a mighty dangerous man. There’s an old Chinese proverb that says you can hardly make a friend in a year, but you can easily offend one in an hour.” Langford smiled. “For pity’s sake don’t offend him. For now at least, we need him.”

Tone picked up his glass from the table and drained it, then looked at the big sergeant. “I’ll step carefully, but Weimin is all growed up and he doesn’t offend worth a damn.”

Langford nodded. “I’d say he doesn’t scare worth a damn either. That’s good for us, bad for Sprague. Get it done, John.”

But when Tone left the house and walked into the rain-lashed street, destiny was about to take him in another direction—one that would force him to follow in the footsteps of a monster.