Dragonfire

Thirteen

Twenty-eight sixty Vallejo-Street turned out to be an old brick apartment building at the foot of Russian Hill, just above the Broadway tunnel. The bank of mailboxes on the porch confirmed that Jeanne Emerson lived in 4B, but there was no answer when I pushed the doorbell next to her nameplate. It figured she had a job somewhere, being divorced, which meant she probably wouldn’t be home until later in the day. I could have canvassed her neighbors to find out where she worked, but it seemed a better idea to wait. I wanted to talk to her in private; people are much more apt to be candid in their own homes than in their places of business, particularly when you were trying to get them to discuss their personal lives.

I drove through the tunnel to Montgomery and then swung around to Portsmouth Square. By the time I got into the garage and parked the car, it was almost eleven-thirty. From a phone booth I called Leo Vail at Waller & Company, identified myself as Andrew James, and asked him what else he’d been able to find out about Mid-Pacific Electronics.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said. “As I indicated to you yesterday, they’re quite a successful firm already and promise to be even more successful once they expand. Of course, a lot depends on their methods of expansion; they could be too ambitious, get in over their heads. But on the face of it, I think I can recommend purchase once their stock goes on sale.”

“What about Carl Emerson?” I asked. “I’ve done some checking on my own and I understand he’s something of a reckless sort.”

“If that’s the case,” Vail said, “your sources are better than mine. As far as I’ve been able to determine, Emerson and his partners have built Mid-Pacific on sound, shrewd business acumen.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve pretty much made up my mind to go ahead in any case.” I thanked him again, told him I would be in touch when Mid-Pacific made their official announcement, and hung up before he could ask me for an address and a telephone number.

There were fewer people in Portsmouth Square today, because of the fog and the raw wind off the bay. I cut through there to Grant Avenue. It gave me an odd feeling to be back in Chinatown, after what had happened yesterday and last night; I kept thinking this or that Chinese was looking at me as I passed, as if I wore some sort of brand that marked me as an enemy. Paranoia again, But the .38 on my belt was a reassuring weight just the same.

On Jackson, I walked down the narrow alley and into the passageway to Kam Fong’s door. But he wasn’t home today either; the same old woman stuck her head out of the same second-floor window and told me that in her broken English. Which left another visit to the Mandarin Café. If that was Fong’s regular noonday haunt, it was a good bet I’d find him there; my watch said that it was almost twelve.

Because it was still early, the Mandarin was only three-quarters full. I scanned the patrons from just inside the door; Fong wasn’t among them. There was an empty table along the near side wall, and I went over there and sat down to wait. I had nowhere else to go. If he didn’t show up by one o’clock, I would have to go back and camp on his doorstep; but that was something to worry about if and when the time came.

When one of the waiters came around I ordered a pot of tea and a bowl of soup. It was too warm in there again; I shrugged out of my overcoat. That made the arm sling even more prominent, and once more I had the feeling that some of the Chinese customers were giving me covert looks. Cut it out, I told myself. They’re just people. There’s no sinister alliance among the Chinese population; that’s a lot of racial crap and you know it. The only Chinese you’ve got to worry about are Jimmy Quon and his pals in Hui Sip.

The waiter brought my order. I managed to get most of the soup down, and I was working on the tea, watching the door, when Kam Fong blew in.

He took half a dozen steps toward the rear, saw me, did an almost comic double take, and reversed direction like a soldier doing an about-face on a parade ground. I got to him just as he was reaching for the doorknob. I caught hold of his arm and wedged him against the door with the right side of my body.

“You’re not going anywhere, Fong,” I said in an undertone. “We’ve got things to talk about.”

His eyes slid away from my face, rolled in a furtive glance over my shoulder. “Not here. Not talking here.”

“Where, then?”

It took him a couple of seconds to think of a place. “Cultural Center. You know it?”

“I know it.”

“Fifteen minutes. You come there, yes?”

He made a move for the doorknob again, but I held onto him. “If you don’t show up, Fong, I’ll come looking for you.”

He bobbed his head up and down. I let him go, and he was through the door and away in two seconds. When I turned around one of the waiters and two or three patrons were looking at me; but their faces showed nothing more than curiosity. As soon as I returned to my table, they went back to minding their own business. End of incident.

I finished the rest of my tea, paid the bill, and made my way back to Portsmouth Square. On the east side of it, above the garage, an elevated pedestrian causeway spanned Kearny Street and led to the Financial District branch of the Holiday Inn; the Chinese Cultural Center was at the end of the causeway, on an upper floor of the hotel building. I crossed over and went inside.

It was a big place, museumlike, with several large sculptures, glass cases displaying other forms of Chinese art, an information counter, and an open shop area dispensing books and jade and ivory craftwork. There weren’t many visitors, and I didn’t see Fong among the few who were present. I moved toward the back. And there he was, looking nervous and frightened, half-hidden behind a massive stone sculpture of a dragon.

He let me prod him over near one of the windows; there was nobody else in the vicinity. But when he spoke it was in a stagey whisper, like a character in a bad play. “Why you come to Mandarin again?”

“Why not? What’s the matter?”

“You know,” he said accusingly. “You talking to Lee Chuck. Telling him you know about Mau Yee.”

“All right, that was a mistake; I admit it. But I didn’t use your name.”

“Hui Sip finding out, they eat my pie.”

“Does Chuck suspect you?”

“No. Not yet, maybe.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

“I worry,” he said. “Worry plenty. Calling you this morning, but nobody home.”

“Why did you call?”

“Warning you, don’t come back Chinatown.”

“Because Mau Yee is looking for me?”

“Yes.”

“I already know that. He tried to blow me away last night, outside my flat. He’s not going to get a second chance.”

Fong grimaced and muttered something in Chinese.

I said, “Is Jimmy Quon the only one after me? Or is it all of Hui Sip?”

“Not knowing. Maybe just Mau Yee.”

“What does he look like?”

“Mau Yee? You not seeing him last night?”

“Not up close. Describe him.”

“Big,” Fong said.

“How big?”

“Like you. Same size.”

“What about his features?”

“Pretty. Woman face.”

“What else?”

“Cat eyes. Yellow. Look funny.”

“Funny how?”

“Only stare, not blinking. Ah pin yin eyes.”

“What’s ah pin yin?”

“Opium,” he said.

“You mean Quon uses opium?”

“No. Other dope, yes; cocaine, pills. But eyes like ah pin yin eater.”

“How does he wear his hair?”

“Long. Like woman.”

“What about his clothes? Anything distinctive?”

“Western clothes. Leather jacket, all time — brown, with belt. To hide his puppy.”

“Uh-huh. Now—”

I paused because a Caucasian woman had wandered back where we were. She gave us a disinterested glance, peered at the dragon sculpture, and wandered away again. When I looked back at Fong he had a small plastic vial in his hand and was popping one of the pills it contained. He had a squirmy look about him, as if he needed to go to the toilet.

Fear does that to some people — swells the bladder, builds up an urge to urinate.

“I go now?” he said. “Somebody belong Hui Sip maybe see us—”

“In here? The Hui Sip isn’t interested in Chinese culture.”

“Please. Knowing nothing else about Mau Yee.”

“There’s still Lee Chuck,” I said.

“Already telling you about Lee Chuck—”

“I want more information. Does he allow Caucasians in his gambling parlor?”

“Caucasians?”

“You heard me. High-rolling whites. The poker game, for instance.”

He shook his head. “Never asking him. Never gambling there.”

“But it is possible? There’s no tong rule against Caucasian players?”

“No,” Fong said. “Lee Chuck not like fan quai, but... maybe. If man is known.”

“How do you mean ‘known’? Connected with Hui Sip somehow?”

“Yes. Or friend of somebody playing all time.”

“Does the name Carl Emerson mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“You sure you’ve never heard it before?”

Another head shake. There was blank puzzlement in his eyes; I didn’t think he was lying.

“How about the name Philip Bexley?”

“No.”

“Orin Tedescu?”

“No.”

“Mid-Pacific Electronics?”

“No. What’s that?”

“A computer outfit, offices down on Pine Street. Emerson and Bexley and Tedescu are joint partners.”

Still another head shake. And the same blank puzzlement.

I leaned toward him, so that my face was just a few inches from his. He started to back up, thought better of it, and stayed where he was; I could smell the sweet-sour odor of his breath, the raw effluvium of his fear.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” I said. “Check around, find out if any of those three names means anything in Chinatown. Particularly Emerson. You understand?”

“Yes.” Then, plaintively, “But you not coming here again? We meet someplace else next time, yes?”

“If you cooperate. If you stay where I can find you when I want you. I’ll call your apartment at seven tonight; you be there, whether or not you find out anything.”

“Yes. Okay.”

“You just hang in there, Fong,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you or me. The only people who’ll get hurt from now on are Jimmy Quon and the man who hired him.”

He nodded, but his eyes said he didn’t believe it; he had his money down on Mau Yee, fatalistically. But that was all right. He would stay on my side because he had got in over his head and it was his only choice. And I had enough determination for both of us.

“Go on, get out of here,” I said. “I’ll give you five minutes before I leave.”

He sidestepped away from me, let me have a look over his shoulder as if he thought I might be crazy, and scurried off between the displays. He was almost running by the time he reached the front entrance.

I picked up my car and drove it over to Potrero and out to S.F. General to keep my appointment with Doctor Abrams. There was no change in Eberhardt’s condition; I asked him about that first thing. “His life signs are stable,” Abrams said. “That’s the only encouraging news I can give you.”

He spent an hour examining me, with not a little displeasure. What had I been doing to inflame the wound that way? Why wasn’t I taking care of myself? Didn’t I understand that complications could still set in: infection, pneumonia? I told him. had been taking care of myself, that I’d tripped and fallen on my shoulder and that was how the stitch got ripped loose. He made disapproving noises. But then he removed the rest of the stitches, rebandaged the shoulder, and let me go on my way.

It was a quarter of four when I got to my flat. I circled the block a couple of times, looking at the parked cars and the pedestrians; there was no one around who answered Mau Yee’s description. When I let myself into the building I had the .38 in my hand, hidden inside my overcoat pocket. Nobody was lurking in the foyer. The apartment was as empty as I had left it, with all the doors and windows still secure.

I brewed some coffee and then called Ben Klein at the Hall of Justice. He had nothing to tell me. He said they were “getting close to a breakthrough,” but that was just crap; he sounded frustrated. The police were no closer to Mau Yee than they had been days ago. And they didn’t know that I was. If word was out in Chinatown that Jimmy Quon was after me, it had not filtered back to the Department yet; Klein would have said something if they had any inkling of what was going down. The Chinese community was being as closemouthed as usual.

I rang up Ben Chadwick’s office in Hollywood. He had nothing to tell me, either. “I’ve got a request in for information at a couple of places,” he said, “but so far, nothing new. Your three boys from Mid-Pacific just aren’t known down here.”

“Okay. Don’t push it. I’m making headway on my own.”

“So you are working,” he said. “You big dumb bastard.”

“I’ve got my reasons.”

“What happened to you and your cop friend, is that it?”

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s it.”

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me too.”

I lay down on the bed for half an hour, to rest and do some thinking. Carl Emerson seemed like the best bet so far to be the man behind Jimmy Quon; but I still could not link him up to Eberhardt. Emerson was a gambler, and gambling was illegal, but the police didn’t hassle high rollers, just the parlor operators like Lee Chuck. What could a man like Emerson have done to put Eberhardt on his case? That had to be it, and it had to be something heavily illegal; there was no other possible reason why anyone would try to bribe a police lieutenant. And yet from all I’d learned so far, Emerson was a supposedly reputable businessman.

Well, maybe his ex-wife had some answers for me. She was the only other lead I had at the moment. Except for Emerson himself, and I was not ready yet to confront him.

I got up a little before five, bundled into my overcoat, and went downstairs. I checked the street again before I left the building; still no sign of Quon. And there was nobody on my tail when I drove over to Vallejo Street.

There were no parking spaces near 2860; I had to leave my car three blocks away in a bus zone. This time when I climbed up onto the porch and rang the bell next to Jeanne Emerson’s name, the speaker box crackled after ten seconds and a woman’s voice said, “Yes, who is it?”

“Mrs. Emerson?”

“Jeanne Emerson, yes?”

“My name is Lloyd Rable,” I said. “I’m an investigator for North Coast Insurance. I’d like to talk to you about your ex-husband, if I may.”

Silence for a couple of seconds. Then, “What about him?”

“Mr. Emerson has applied for a large policy with my company. I’m making a standard procedure check into his background.”

“You’re investigating him?”

“Yes, that’s right — a routine investigation. I thought you might be willing to give me a few minutes of your time.”

“I’d be happy to. Just a second.”

The front door lock began to buzz; I went over and pushed inside. A lobby elevator took me up to the fourth floor. I found 4B, down to the left, and knocked on the door, and it opened on a chain and a woman peered out.

I blinked at her, startled. “Mrs. Emerson?”

“Ms. Emerson, if you don’t mind,” she said.

I gawked a little; I couldn’t help it. She was not what I had expected — and yet she was already more than I’d hoped for.

Jeanne Emerson was Chinese.