Luck and Death at the Edge of the World, the Official Pirate Edition (12 page)

“Pastor Hearn?”

I hear a shifting sound, then a door opening. At the end of the hall I see the silhouette of a head emerge from a doorway.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Gat Burroughs, Cal,” I say. He emerges from the doorway and walks down the hall toward me, his face becoming recognizable as he advances from the gloomy interior. He’s a tall man and his body is still as slim as I remember it, his face narrow. His curly hair has grown out from its Forces buzz cut and, at the same time, receded a little.

What shocks me are his eyes, still huge, but now serene. His face is lined, but Cal Hearn still looks better than I’ve ever seen him. He wears jeans and a black T-shirt. There are sneakers on his feet and a smaller version of the aluminum cross on a chain around his neck. My gaze returns to his eyes. In the Forces he looked perpetually around him, as though he might be attacked from any angle at any time. Even when his head was still his eyes constantly tracked imaginary threats in his surroundings. Now his gaze stays fixed calmly on me. There may even be a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Gat Burroughs,” he says, ruminating. His voice is as soft as ever, but it lacks the edge of nervousness it used to have. “It’s been a long time. Come to find salvation?” He smiles as he said it, obviously certain that I haven’t come to meet Jesus.

“’Fraid not Cal. I’m just not wired that way.”

He leans against the wall in a relaxed pose and shrugs a small shrug.

“Well, I have plenty of souls to tend to as it is, though I’d have welcomed you of course.”

“I’m sure you would Cal. I’ve heard you’re very dedicated to your calling.”

He nods, waiting for me to go on.

“I’m actually hoping you can help me out.”

“What line are you in these days?” he asks, looking pointedly at my military clothing.

“Personal security, saving lives.”

“Private cop. Police aren’t popular here, I’m afraid, P.D. or private.”

“Listen Cal, I’m not looking to do harm to anyone here, okay? I heard about Dave coming here and trying to push you around and get you to snitch on your flock. This isn’t the same thing.”

He eyes me with a level gaze.

“Felon,” he says. “I don’t suppose he’s changed at all.”

“That would be a lot to hope for.”

He grins and actually rolls his eyes. Once again I’m taken aback by the ease in his manner.

“Yes, I suppose so. Maybe one day. So tell me what brings you here.”

“I’m not looking to bust any homeless, Cal. I have a client. Someone wants him dead. Whoever that someone is, they’ve decided to add me to their list. When I left my home the other day, over on Jung Jing Road, they were waiting for me. They were dressed up like homeless, but it’s clear that they weren’t. For one thing they had guns and motorcycles. They tried to kill me.”

“If they’re not genuine homeless then how can I help you? The real poor are the only ones I know.”

“They may have been posing as homeless for a day or so, waiting for the right moment to put me down. I thought that maybe some of the real homeless might have noticed them, might be able to tell me something about them so I can catch them.”

“And you’d like me to convince my people to talk to you.”

“Basically, yeah.”

He looks down at the floor, then back up at me.

“You’ve come to the wrong place.” 
 

“Cal, they didn’t manage to kill me, obviously, but they killed a lot of innocent people trying. Why won’t you help me?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t, I just said you’d come to the wrong place. Chinatown is too far away from here. I don’t know anyone there.”

“Can you put me in touch with anyone?”

He grimaces slightly.

“I can try, but I can’t guarantee they’ll know anything, or tell you if they do.”

“When it was over I saw at least ten, fifteen bodies in the road, Cal, and I could be next. This lead is all I’ve got.”

“You need to talk to Chen. I can try to set up a meeting, if he’ll allow it.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Wait here.”

Cal disappears down the hallway. I hear his voice, muffled by the distance, and assume he’s calling Chen, whoever that is. He returns a few minutes later, carrying a battered kaikki several years old.

“Did you talk to Chen?”

“Chen?” He looks confused for a moment, then smiles and shakes his head. “No, no. Chen’s homeless, he doesn’t have a kaikki Gat. I talked to Father Wen. He’s a Catholic priest who runs a mission on New High Street in Chinatown. Chen comes in there pretty regularly.”

“If you don’t know the population in Chinatown how do you know about Chen?”

Cal fixes me with those big eyes.

“You really have no idea how this world works, do you?” he says mildly. “The homeless world, I mean.”

Despite his soft tone I feel like I’m being accused of something. Maybe I just feel guilty because I’ve ignored the homeless as much as anyone else, until now, until I need something from them.

“No,” I say, “I guess I don’t.”

“Every community has a few well-known people. Some of them are natural leaders who can organize people to help themselves. Some are particularly dangerous, people to watch out for. Others have done something at one time or another that made them stand out, something they’re remembered for, and they become part of the local history.”

“So which one is Chen?”

Cal looks more serious suddenly.

“A little of each, I think. I don’t know much about him, but from what I hear he’s charismatic and something of a leader at times. At the same time, he’s no saint. The thing he’s known for is killing three L.A.P.D.”

“Self-defense?” I ask hopefully.

“No. Protection of his people. L.A.P.D. can get pretty rough with the homeless at times, sometimes for a reason and sometimes not. Chen may have been protecting innocent people. On the other hand he could have been protecting some racket he had going. I have no idea.”

“And he’ll talk to me?”

Cal shrugs.

“
Father Wen
 will talk to you,” he says, emphasizing the difference. “He’ll try to set something up with Chen, but Chen might just ignore him. There’s no way to know.”

I nod silently, taking in the unfamiliar situation.

“So where on New High Street?”

Cal takes a business card out of his back pocket and writes the address on the back. He speaks as he’s writing, still looking down at what he’s doing.

“Gat, I never really said thank you.”

“For what Cal?”

“For helping me out when we were in the Forces. For talking to me.” Now he looks up. “There really wasn’t anyone else I could talk to. It made a big difference and I should have told you so.”

“It’s okay, Cal.”

“Thanks. The bitch of it is that I should really thank Felon too, for getting me out of there, saving my life, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve prayed on it, but I still can’t get myself to call him and do what I should.”

“You hate him, that makes it hard.”

“I try not to hate him, you know. Hate the sin but not the sinner and all that, but…” he trails off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

“Felon doesn’t make it easy, Cal. I wouldn’t worry about it. First of all as far as he’s concerned, he didn’t save you, he saved a fellow soldier. Secondly, your thanks wouldn’t mean anything to him. He wouldn’t value it.”

Cal looks thoughtful.

“Maybe not now, but you know there’s hope for everyone. Maybe when he’s old, or when he’s dying, it would be nice for him to look back and say ‘I did something good.”’

“Cal, I hate to disappoint you, but that moment’s not going to come. Most likely Felon will get shot on duty and die in a split second. If he doesn’t, he’ll die still thinking Tijuana was right, that the Forces are all that matter, and that firing off a round is the best feeling in the world.”

Cal grins.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re still trying to make me feel better, trying to say the right thing, even after all this time.” I realize he’s right and don’t know what to say after that. I thank him and walk back out into the sunshine, blinding after the gauzy haze of Cal’s world.

Father Wen being Catholic, I suppose I expected a cathedral, or something more imposing than another storefront anyway, but that’s what I find. New High Street is just around the corner from my home and office. I once bought cleaning supplies from a discount store there, but I’ve never given it much attention.

The building is painted an odd shade of taupe. It’s flanked on the left by the entrance to a small Asian mall called Gold Stream Village and on the right by a sliding garage-style door of corrugated metal. The sign above the door still proclaims that it’s something called Actual Size, but a small, hand-lettered sign on the door announces that this is the St. Christopher Mission. I enter and a small set of chimes ring above my head, betraying my presence. The interior is much like Cal’s mission, although the decor is distinctly Chinese. There are several banners with 
hànzì
 characters stretching across them, red being the predominant color, and there are even gold accents on the framed pictures of Jesus and Mary, although I’m sure they’re just paint rather than real gold leaf.

Nothing happens for a moment, then an old man emerges from a back room. He is wizened and dressed in a black one-piece frock-like outfit that puts me in mind of monks.

“Father Wen?” I ask.

“Yes. You are Gat Burroughs?”

His English is like that of many people in Chinatown. It’s unaccented, but still slightly awkward, as though speaking it is a kind of concession to me. Given China’s isolation Wen was undoubtedly born here, but many people in Chinatown grow up speaking Chinese almost exclusively, so their English is still odd to a native-speaker’s ear.

“Yes. I believe Pastor Hearn was in touch with you.”

He nods.

“Yes, yes. I sent word to Chen through one of the others, but I don’t know if he’ll come. He doesn’t like police, especially 
gwai lo
.”

Gwai lo
, the foreign devil, the white man. Once upon a time it was a real curse, although lately people use it in a friendlier manner. In this case I suspect it isn’t friendly. “I may be 
gwai lo
, but I’m not the police,” I say, trying to clarify, but Father Wen waves a hand as if this is of no importance. “To Chen you are the same. Police, not police. You are an authority, you are housed. To him you are the enemy.”

“I try not to be anyone’s enemy,” I say, somewhat lamely.

“Your intentions aren’t very important, we will see if he comes. I welcome you though. Please, come and have tea with me.”

I follow him into his small, windowless office, where a pot of tea has already been prepared. He sits behind an oak desk and pours for me first, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the desk, then pours his own cup. Beside us is a bookcase that reaches to the ceiling, full of theological works and, oddly, many scientific ones as well. Behind him are rows of scuffed grey institutional filing cabinets, the kind that wouldn’t look out of place in a school office, or for that matter a military base. The room doesn’t have enough space for everything in it, and I have a vaguely confined feeling—Forces training has short-circuited any possible claustrophobia. At one end of the desk a small holo plays a recording of a recent papal Mass. The holo unit is antiquated and the image is a little blurred, so that each figure seems to trail a ghost of itself. I’m reminded of an ancient painting by Francis Bacon, the so-called “screaming pope.”

“You were attacked, Pastor Hearn says,” Wen comments mildly.

“Yes, by men pretending to be homeless. I have no desire to bother the real homeless, Father. I’m just trying to find these men. They killed a number of innocent people while they were trying to kill me.”

He sips his tea, makes a face, then puts the cup down. I think the California-grown tea disappoints him. He looks old enough to remember when one could buy tea from China or Japan. Or get tea grown in India or Sri Lanka without paying a year’s wages for a 500 gram packet.

“Yes, I know the incident, though I didn’t know you were involved or what it was about. Just near here. Very sad. Very violent. Jesus cries.”

“Jesus wept,” I correct him, but he shakes his head slightly.

“I am aware of the idiom, Mr. Burroughs, but I don’t put Jesus in the past tense.”

I feel a little foolish and try to get past the moment.

“It was, as you say, very violent and terribly sad. I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“And serve your client.”

“And serve my client, but they amount to the same thing at the moment.”

We drink some more second-rate tea, but are interrupted by the sound of the chimes. Wen looks a little surprised.

“Perhaps Chen has come after all. I will see. You remain here.”

I wait, drinking my tea, while Wen goes to the front room to see who has arrived. A moment later he returns accompanied by another Chinese man. The visitor appears to be about forty and very fit, with long grey-streaked hair combed back over his shoulders. In one ear he wears an earring made from a Chinese coin, old by the looks of it, with a hole in the center. He has on a battered brown leather jacket with a hard, bare chest underneath it and, to my surprise, Forces-issue khaki pants. I stand up to greet him.

“Mister Burroughs, this is Chen.”

“Mr. Chen,” I say, holding out my hand.

“Chen will do,” he answers abruptly, ignoring my offer to shake. I drop my hand.

“Okay, Chen then. I’m glad you agreed to meet with me.”

He answers by spitting on the floor, although his expression remains benign, or perhaps just intentionally opaque.

“I am here only because Pastor Hearn asked for me. He is a good man, very thoughtful. You? I just see you around the neighborhood. Who knows what you are?”

“Pastor Hearn is a friend of mine, or he was some time ago.”

“In the Forces.”

“Yes, in the Forces.”

“I was once in the Forces too, you know. These pants,” he looks down and gestures at them with his hand, “I hate them, but they’re durable so I keep them.”