Scalpdancers (5 page)

“An eye for an eye,” Morgan said as Vlad groaned and tried to stanch the blood seeping through his clenched fingers. No one cheered now. Vlad's men hurried to their captain. Abdul, his black features gnarled with anger, reached for the gun he carried. Chiang Lu's purse of gold landed with a resounding “ker-plop” on the ground between Morgan and Vlad.

“Enough,” Chiang Lu called out. “Captain Penmerry is victorious. He entered under my protection. He will leave the same way.”

The Moroccan dropped his hand away from his gun and moved to help his compatriots carry Vlad from the arena.

“Son of a bitch! Jackal!” the Russian shouted. “You'll wish you had killed me. I swear it.”

“He's right.” Morgan retrieved his pouch of gold. He chanced a peek up at the rim of the arena, but the girl and her father had vanished. Too bad, Morgan thought. Still, he had the gold.

“How much?” Temp Rawlins asked. He and the captain climbed the stairs leading out of the arena.

“We'll count it at the warehouse,” Morgan told him, keeping his voice low as Chiang Lu left his dais to block their path. The Chinese warlord smiled and played the part of a gracious loser.

“You have taught me a valuable lesson today, Captain Penmerry.”

“I try my best,” Morgan said. “A man should always be open to new ideas.”

“Yes,” Chiang Lu purred. He folded his hands across his chest. “I hope tomorrow you will allow me to inspect the furs you have stored in Don Rodrigo's warehouse.”

Morgan blanched. “The furs?”

“Why, yes,” Chiang Lu said. “Since I did not win them, I shall have to buy them. I will come at noon.”

“Uh … that might be a little too soon,” Morgan stammered. “I mean—I have to arrange them. Some are still aboard ship.”

Chiang Lu nodded. “Very well. The day after. I merely wish to assist you in a speedy departure from port. Captain Vlad is—Well, I am certain you can foresee what will happen should you overstay your welcome. Until the day after then.” Chiang Lu bowed and returned to his dais. Another two men had entered the cock pit to try their birds.

Temp Rawlins leaned toward Morgan. “Things'll get kind of dull once we leave,” Temp said.

Indeed they would, Captain Morgan Penmerry reflected. But just about the time Chiang Lu arrived at the warehouse and found he'd been tricked into wagering a sack of gold against a shipment of prime pelts that didn't exist—there might just be some more excitement in Macao. More than the captain and crew of the
Hotspur
had bargained for.

2

Tung Wan Pier was nigh deserted in the slate-gray light as the late-afternoon mist became steady rainfall, turning the narrow alleyways to quagmires. Morgan could only be grateful that the main thoroughfare wore a layer of crushed rock and seashell. The wheels of the carriage dug deep into the surface and rolled on, leaving miniature canals in their wake. It had been an uneventful journey from Chiang Lu's hillside villa down to dockside. While Temp counted their winnings, Morgan busied himself in silent observation of the city. He never ceased to marvel at the various nationalities rubbing shoulders in the crowded streets.

Vendors hawked their wares in Chinese, Portuguese, and English. Women unfurled yards of fine silk in every conceivable shade: Bolts of brilliant green and crimson, satin blue, shimmering opal, and royal purple caught Morgan's fancy. They passed wine merchants and meat shops offering everything from pork loins to skinned rabbits and rack of dog. There were tailors and artisans, stalls of fortune-tellers and mah-jong parlors, and enclaves where fishermen hawked fresh-caught fish, squid, sea snails, and sole. As the carriage entered the Rue de Lorchas, the shops gave way to rum houses and gambling casinos and luridly lanterned, centuries-old Portuguese villas that had been turned into brothels in which any fantasy could be arranged for a profit.

“Forty-five hundred dollars in silver coins,” Temp declared, oblivious to the rain that splashed in under the roof of the carriage. The driver, a wizened Spaniard with an ugly pockmarked face, fared even worse. His seat was open to the elements. Still, he was luckier than the ricksha boys afoot. The Spaniard at least had a horse to curse as he whipped the poor beast to a brisk trot.

Morgan had no use for such cruelty, but he held his tongue. It didn't concern him. He made a point of not involving himself in another's problems be they man or beast.

“Why, that cheap bastard,” Temp continued. “Chiang Lu only wagered … hell … not even half what our pelts usually bring. An honest man would have wagered a chest of gold sovereigns.”

“In this case the amount is a handsome profit,” Morgan said. “Damn!” He eased back in the carriage. “She wasn't on any of the streets we passed. Maybe she hadn't left Chiang Lu's?”

“Who?” Temp asked—then realized just exactly who the captain was talking about. He scratched his grizzled chin and sighed. “Tell me, Captain, just when was the last time you had your teeth kicked in by a pretty face? Seems there was that Chinese girl in Canton. And the little Chinook squaw in Astoria.”

“I can handle myself,” Morgan said.

The carriage skidded in the road as the Spaniard hastily applied the kick brake and gave the reins a savage tug. Across the street at dockside the
Hotspur
loomed shadowy and silent as it rode out the downpour tethered to the pier by a pair of thick coiled ropes. The warehouse, a two-story structure, had been built opposite the pier. A pair of heavy oak doors could be thrown wide to accept wagonloads of goods from the boats. Lantern light glimmered in the window of a smaller door near the corner of the building. Here Don Rodrigo kept his office. The Portuguese merchant lived in a loft above his office, all the better to keep watch over his holdings. He considered himself a nobleman and required his associates to refer to him as a don, as would a titled Spaniard.

Tung Wan Pier was located in a deserted stretch of the Rue de Lorchas. The rum pots and brothels were congregated a few blocks away. Still, the criminal elements were known to drift west along the avenue and from time to time spill over into the warehouse district. So none but a fool went unarmed.

Like a forest of starkly limbed trees, other masts from other ships revealed themselves in the slate-gray light. Brigs and barks, junks and schooners lined the piers further along the avenue. But the downpour had chased the dockworkers from the street and provided an excuse for men to drift away in search of fleshly pleasures. As the first droplets of rain slid beneath the collar of his greatcoat, Morgan envied the absent workers. He paid the Spaniard ten patacas and followed Temp as the older man darted for the lamp-lit door.

“Twenty coins of silver is my fare,” the ugly little Spaniard called to Morgan.

“Ten was your price up on the hill,” Morgan reminded him.

“Twenty or I shall have the constable set his guards on you,” the driver insisted.

“You'll summon them with your dying breath,” Morgan cautioned. He thrust a hand into the pocket of his greatcoat as if reaching for a weapon. The Spaniard considered his options and decided against risking his life for a mere ten coins. He spat in the street and lowered his head to the rain, cursed aloud and vented his anger on the hapless mare at the end of the reins. The carriage rolled away as thunder followed the crack of the Spaniard's whip.

Morgan hurried to the warehouse and darted through the open doorway into Rodrigo's sparsely furnished office. The room measured nine by eighteen feet, with a mahogany desk, a rack of files, and several ladder-backed chairs, three of which were occupied by men warming themselves near a Franklin stove.

“Trouble?” Temp asked, stepping aside to permit his captain to enter the room.

“A difference of opinion,” Morgan replied and shucked his coat. Water dripped from the hem and soon formed a puddle on the floor beneath the ornate brass rack in the corner.

The men by the fire exchanged glances and welcomed their captain with halfhearted enthusiasm. The largest of the three, a shipwright by the name of Ansel Arvidson, waved a hand toward an enameled teapot resting on the burner of the cast-iron stove.

“Take some tea, Captain. It'll cut the mud from your gullet.” The big Swede hoisted a steaming mug of the black brew to his lips.

The other two men, Jocko Britchetto and his younger brother, Tim, raised their mugs in salute. The brothers were dark-skinned, strapping lads with windburned features and rock-hard torsos. Life at sea had agreed with them. These were simple men, not given to pretense or deception. Their faces were an open book to Morgan Penmerry, and he could read at a glance something was amiss.

He walked through the office and entered the warehouse through a side door. The interior of the building was a dark, low-ceilinged room running two hundred feet deep and a hundred feet wide. It boasted a loft of similar dimensions. A broad lamp-lit stairway at the far end of the building led to the storage room above. It was an old building, showing its age in the splintered rafters and the roof that leaked in several spots. Morgan could peer up into the loft overhead through any number of holes in its flooring.

Don Rodrigo, the owner of the warehouse, stood amid twin mounds of blackened crates. He held a storm lantern to light his way through the shipment the crew of the
Hotspur
had unloaded under cover of night. The merchant held what once had been a prime otter pelt. But the fur was singed in several places and the skin was no more than a worthless rag.

Except for Don Rodrigo and a pair of water rats scurrying across the rafters, the warehouse was empty. It should have been crowded with the crewmen of the
Hotspur
waiting impatiently for Morgan to return with whatever loot he had managed to con from Chiang Lu.

“These pelts … ruined. Who would buy such as these? They are nothing. And no doubt I am storing them for free. Eh?”

Morgan held out his arms in an attitude of vulnerability. “How can you harbor such terrible thoughts about me? Don Rodrigo, have I ever cheated you?”

“Whenever you get the chance,” Don Rodrigo flatly replied. “I have not forgotten the last time you stayed here. I remember how you promised me an evening in the company of a young virgin from Madrid. Fair as a flower, you said, and skin as smooth to the touch as silk. Only you did not tell me there was so much of this skin. She weighed three hundred pounds!”

“I'd hardly call that cheating. I admit I forgot to mention her size.”

“Forgot? I needed a ladder to climb atop her. And if she was a virgin, I'm a Jesuit.” The diminutive merchant shrugged. “With nothing to sell, you are as destitute as I.” He was resigned to being a poor man.

“Get your money from Rawlins,” Morgan said.

Don Rodrigo glanced up in surprise. “Chiang Lu gave you money for these hides?”

“In a matter of speaking. Now all I need to do is get out of port before he finds out their condition.”

Don Rodrigo blanched. His eyes grew wide as saucers. “Are you mad? Chiang Lu will send the Blue Wing Dragons after your head. Mine too. You must leave. Leave immediately. Dump the hides off the pier and go.” Don Rodrigo began to pace; his thick-bellied frame seemed an ungainly mass upon his spindly legs. “Doomed,” Don Rodrigo moaned.

“Belay that,” Morgan said, sick of such talk. “Come and take the money that's due you. We'll soon be gone, and none the wiser.”

“And sail without a crew?” Don Rodrigo held the oil lamp overhead to better illuminate the empty interior of the warehouse.

“Aye,” Temp Rawlins said, walking into the warehouse. “Ansel Arvidson has taken the wind from my sails with the news, my lad.” Temp held out a bottle of brandy pilfered from Don Rodrigo's private stock. The merchant was too upset to notice.

“Where's my crew?” Morgan asked, suspecting the worst.

“Scattered to the rum houses and down dockside looking to hire on with the first ship that will have them. No one figured you would return with a full purse.” Don Rodrigo rounded Morgan and edged toward his office.

“Let's hope they ride anchor on their tongues,” Morgan replied angrily. “At least until we round them up again.” He brushed Don Rodrigo aside and headed into the warehouseman's office with Temp at his heels. “Ansel, Jocko, Tim, roust yourselves from that stove!”

Arvidson and the Britchetto brothers bolted from their chairs as Morgan Penmerry returned to the office. They grabbed coats and caps. Morgan barked his instructions. He was in no mood to be trifled with.

“You scour every wharf crib and alley if need be, but find our lads and bring them back.” Morgan took the money pouch from Temp and gave it a shake. The coins inside jingled merrily, a sweet silver tune to a seaman's ear. Arvidson wet his lips and his eyes sparkled. The brothers grinned at each other. “Tell the lads we sail tomorrow night. And there's double shares for one and all, but we must make ready come sunup.”

Morgan turned to Temp, who took a swallow of brandy and read his captain's mind. He handed the depleted bottle back to a much dismayed Don Rodrigo, who glared at the bottle's diminished contents.

“Don't ask,” Temp sighed. “I'll join the search. I'd sooner be keelhauled than stand around waiting for Chiang Lu to discover how you tricked him.” He tugged a cap from his belt and covered the wisps of hair on his head. He tucked a brace of pistols in his belt and donned his rain-spattered coat once again.

The other men armed themselves and followed Temp out into the downpour.

Silver coins in payment for my life's blood, Don Rodrigo thought as he watched the men leave. And in his mind he saw the nails being driven into his own coffin, heard the hammer strike with a resounding bang-bang-bang. The diminutive merchant gasped and covered his mouth to stifle a shriek. The hammering came not from his thoughts, it filled the whole office. “No,” he gasped as Morgan started to unlatch the front door.