Black Dove (27 page)

Let me repeat that.

A fist came through the door behind me
.

Remember: This is a
closed
door I’m talking about. One crafted, as one might expect, from solid wood. Yet someone had punched his hand clean through it like it was made of paper.

The fist unclenched into waggling fingers that groped around for the beam holding the door shut.

“Y’all get!
Now!
” I hollered at Old Red and Diana. Then I grabbed that hand and yanked as hard as I could.

There was a thud from the other side of the door, followed by a grunt
and a groan. Whoever’d managed to get his fist through, he’d had less luck repeating the feat with his face.

I turned and dashed to the edge of the roof, where my brother was hunched over holding the plank steady for Diana. She was already halfway to the next building, her skirts aswirl in the wind as she scampered across with small but quick steps. I spared a glance down at the trash-strewn alley below her, then quickly brought my eyes up again, vowing not to repeat the mistake when my turn came.

Looking back when you’re being chased might give you a little extra speed, but looking down when you’re over a forty-foot drop gives you nothing but the collywobbles.

The second Diana reached the other side, she crouched down and grabbed hold of the other end of the plank.

“Next!” she shouted.

“You go,” Old Red said to me.

I shook my head. “You.”

“You’d do better protectin’ the lady.”

“Probably. But that worm-eaten ol’ wood might not even hold my weight.”

“There’s no time to draw straws, dammit!” Diana yelled at us. “One of you just
go
!”

There was a splintering sound from behind us.

A slipper-covered
foot
was now sticking through the door.

Gustav clapped me on the shoulder—then hopped up onto the plank. “I hate to admit it, but you got yourself a point about this here wood.” He took a deep breath. “See ya on the other side. And . . . be careful.”

“If I was careful, I wouldn’t even be here, would I?”

“Heh,” Old Red grunted. “I reckon not.”

Then he charged across the plank so fast I couldn’t bear to watch. By the time he was three steps into his dash my eyes were squeezed tight.

The clatter of wood hitting the rooftop popped my eyes back open and jerked me around toward the door.

Our little barricade had been tipped over. The door was swinging open.

“Otto!” Gustav hollered. “Come on!”

“
Come on, come on, come on
!” Diana added in case I didn’t get the point.

I stepped onto the end of the board. It was less than a foot across, and the other rooftop was more than a dozen feet away. There’d be little room for error and a
lot
of room for death.

My blood ran cold—and I mean that literally. You ever try a high-wire act, I suggest you do it with some pants on, because it gets mighty cold up there with the breeze blowing over your BVDs.

I managed to get my feet moving just as I heard someone else’s hurrying up behind me.

Step one, all was well.

Step two, ditto.

Step three, I noticed a little more play in the plank than I would’ve liked.

Step four, “play” turned into a definite “sag.”

Step five, “sag” turned into “Damn my fat ass—this bastard’s gonna snap like a twig!”

Step six, I was halfway home.

Steps seven and eight, the wood seemed to firm up under me, and I felt myself begin a grin I never quite finished.

Step nine, I noticed Diana and Otto staring past me, wide-eyed, horrified.

Step ten, I looked back.

There was no step eleven.

Behind me, at the other end of the plank, stood a short, wiry
boo how doy
with a bloody nose. He was bringing his foot up high while his compadres crowded in around him, leering and laughing.

When the little hatchet man knew for sure I’d seen him, he smiled, nodded—and brought his heel down hard.

The last foot of the plank snapped off clean. The rest of the plank fell.

And me, I did the only thing a man could do at such a moment. I fell, too.

Now, there’s a certain skill you pick up when you’ve been thrown from enough horses. It’s the Not-My-Head Twist. Because when you
come off the back of a bucking bronc, you want to land on your butt, your back, your feet, even your shoulder or your knees—anything but the top of your skull.

So doing a little midair curl is nothing new to me. I can wriggle like a fish on the line if need be. And need
was
when I felt that plank give out from under.

With the last bit of purchase I had, I sent myself twirling around toward Gustav and Diana, arms outstretched. They both leaned out to make a grab at me—and they both missed.

Cold air rushed over me. The alley below grew larger. Someone screamed. Me, most likely.

Then my palms slapped down on something solid, and my fingers instinctively curled into hooks.

I swung down and slammed face-first into the side of the building. It was like being smacked by a whale’s tail—a stunning slap to the entire front-side of my body.

I lost my grip.

Fortunately, other grips quickly came into play. Hands wrapped around my wrists, locking on tight before I could slip over the rooftop lip I’d been clawing at.

I looked up and saw Diana and my brother peering down at me, one to each arm. They were gritting their teeth, gasping and flushed from the strain of the battle: the two of them versus the earth’s gravity (and my girth).

I wanted to say, “Drop me! The highbinders’ll be on you in no time ’less you run for it
now
!” Truth to tell, though, I’m not that selfless. In fact, I’ve got plenty of self—enough that I desperately wanted onto that roof even if the
boo how doy
were just going to chuck me right off again.

I kicked at the bricks, trying to find a foothold. But there was no extra leverage to be had, and Old Red finally hissed at me, “For chrissakes, stop it! This is hard enough without you down there doin’ the goddamn Texas two-step!”

I forced myself to go limp, and a moment later Gustav and Diana hauled me up onto the roof. We ended up collapsed side by side by side, panting for breath.

“You know, I . . . ain’t never said this . . . to you before,” Old Red wheezed at me. “But I reckon . . . now’s the time.”

“Yeah?”

He put a hand on my shoulder.

“You could stand to lose a little weight.”

“A joke? At a time like this?” I said—and I laughed with what little breath I had in me. “Brother, I do believe I’m finally startin’ to have a good influence on you.”

Then I heard the creak of an opening door and the clomp of footsteps, and the laughter stopped.

A man was stepping out onto the roof—the runty, bloody-beaked highbinder with the iron fists and feet. A half dozen hatchet men spread out behind him.

“You,” he said to us, shaking his head.

He brought up one finger and waggled it back and forth.

Tsk-tsk
.

“Such big trouble.”

I was inclined to agree.

Or, Chinatown’s Number One Crook Gives Us the Third Degree

“We’re in big trouble?
”

I pushed myself to my feet and laughed my best booming nothing-scares-me laugh (which I only use, of course, when I’m scared shitless).

“There’s only seven of you up against one Big Red Amlingmeyer! Please!
You’re
the ones in big trouble.”

A trickle of blood was still flowing from the little hatchet man’s nose, and he flashed me a smile that was smeared dark red.

“No,” he said. “Big mistake.”

“You keep talkin’ big, mister,” I said. “But I’m gonna
show
you big.” Gustav and Diana had stood by now, too, and I took off my jacket and handed it to the lady.

“Get ready to run,” I whispered.

“Run
where
?” Old Red asked. “Case you haven’t noticed, there’s only one door offa this roof, and there’s seven Chinamen between it and us.”

“Maybe we should see what they have to say,” Diana suggested.

“ ‘Die,
fan kwei
!’ seems to be the gist of it,” I said. “Nope—this here’s the only way.”

I turned back to the highbinders and began rolling up my shirtsleeves.
It was awful cold up there with no jacket, no
pants
;, and now nothing over my arms. But I was aiming to make a spectacle of myself—a distraction, to put a finer point on it—and a little showmanship was called for.

“Oh, boy . . . this is gonna be fun.” I brought up my dukes and got to pinwheeling them pugilist-style. “I haven’t whipped seven men at once in
months
.”

The assorted
boo how doy
looked about as intimidated as a cougar in a standoff with a cornered chipmunk.

“No, no,” their little leader said, shaking his head. “Mistake. You not
in
big trouble. You
are
big trouble. Someone wanna talk to you, that all. No need for run. No need for fight.”

“Otto,” my brother said.

“Oh, yeah?” I snarled at the hatchet man, moving toward him fists a-spinning. “Breakin’ that board out from under me—that the kinda innocent little chat you’re talkin’ about?”

The highbinder grinned again, but his eyes were bored, sleepy, scornful.

“I know you make it,” he said.

There was something about his smirky smile that seemed familiar, but I shook the feeling off. How many Chinamen had I seen wearing black hats and baggy black clothes the past day? Of course he’d seem familiar.

“
Otto
,” Old Red said again.

But I was already lunging forward, right arm whipping out to throw my best punch—into empty air.

The hatchet man stepped under the swing, popping up just to my right. He could’ve driven a fist into my belly, broken my jaw, tripped me, knocked off my cap, pulled down my underpants, whatever he wanted. The same with his buddies.

They didn’t touch me, though, which I found damned irritating.

I’d hoped the gang would try rushing me in a bunch, open up a hole Diana and Gustav could dash through to the door. But the other highbinders didn’t budge.

“Last chance,” their boss said. “You come on feet or you come on back. But you come.”

I threw another jab, but I may as well have been the tortoise trying to
cold-clock the hare. The hatchet man pivoted, putting his side to me, and my fist whizzed right past his face.

Then he did something strange, or so it seemed to me for the next quarter-second. He leaned back so far on one foot I thought his head might actually touch the roof.

But it wasn’t his head I should’ve been watching. It was his free foot—the one that came flying up into the side of my skull.

Nothingness came on me as quick as the snuffing of a candle.

Somethingness returned a lot more slowly. First as a dull awareness of light and sound. Then as a much sharper awareness of pain.

I put my hands to my head and was surprised to find it didn’t have the consistency of oatmeal.

“Easy, Otto,” Diana said gently.

I pried my eyelids apart and found her and my brother peering down at me anxiously. The lady placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“You took quite a nasty blow to the head.”

“Good thing, too,” Gustav grumbled. “At least he took that kick where he has the most fat to pad it.”

“That must mean I’m gonna live,” I croaked at Diana. “If it looked like I was gonna die, he wouldn’t be givin’ me guff.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Old Red said. “You deserve guff and plenty of it.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you sit up and see?”

I struggled to push myself up, noticing for the first time that it was soft cushions beneath me, not hard roof. I was properly attired again, too—or I had something over my underwear, at least. Whether the pants I was wearing could be called “proper” would be a matter for debate. They were black trousers of the type the highbinders wear, only this pair fit me so snug it looked like I’d been stuffed into a little boy’s knickerbockers.

“Don’t belly-ache,” Old Red said when he saw my look of vexation. “The feller who had to donate them drawers to you, now
he
had reason to complain.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“One of the
boo how doy
had to give you his pants,” Diana explained. “So the others could bring you here.”

“ ‘Flere’ bein’
where
?” I said, and I finally got myself propped up enough to get my bearings.

I was stretched out on a divan in a room that was equal parts hotel lobby and museum. The floor was plushly carpeted, the ceiling high, and comfy-cozy settees and armchairs were bunched together in little knots here and there. Windows lined one wall, a large bookcase another, while an array of glass cases formed an L around the rest of the room. The dark mahogany shelves behind the glass were empty but for one item: an age-browned folding fan propped up on a little stand. The fan was spread out to full flower, and painted upon the brittle-looking paper was the faded image of a snarling dragon.