"Not the Punster Again!"
Feb. 27th, 2023 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Not the Punster Again!"
3/23-3/25/2012
I.
Sheng honestly could not tell what Uncle Pao had simmering in the battered old saucepan which sat on the hot plate in a corner of the office. The stuff looked like brown and red mush to him, with a few separate strands of what might have been snow peas hours ago. Taking the ladle from beside the pan, Sheng stirred the mixture and found a definite fish head at the bottom. The clouded white eye stared up accusingly at him.
"Ha HAH! The aroma of genuine food is tempting, is it not?" came the high excited voice. At his desk, set at a right angle from Sheng's own, Uncle Pao was rustling copies of the Chinese-language WORLD JOURNAL more loudly than seemed necessary. "We will drive the vile Mr Reuben from your guts tonight!"
Well over seventy, Uncle Pao was thin to the point of seeming fragile. As usual, he was wearing black slacks and a seriously wrinkled white dress shirt but his concession to the chill of a late March night was a red cardigan twice as large as would have fit him. Pao's eyes could not be seen behind eyeglass lenses thick enough to have started a fire if held up to sunlight at the right angle. His pure white hair stuck up at various angles as if he had washed it and let it dry without ever considering a comb.
"Nothing wrong with eating a Reuben once in a while," Sheng answered patiently. "One great thing about this city is that you can get food from any culture on Earth here."
Heading back to his own desk, Sheng settled into his chair and thumbed through the disappointing collection of mail from the past few days. In contrast to Uncle Pao, Sheng dressed well. Tonight he was wearing a tailored dark blue suit complete with vest, yellow shirt and narrow black tie.
Only five feet five but athletic and muscular in build, Sheng Mo-Yuan seemed Chinese to most people. He had the skin tones, the double eyelid fold, the coarse black hair. But something about his high sharp cheekbones and beaked nose hinted at his real origins. It was no use explaining to Uncle Pao about Chujir, the realm from which the ancestors of the Han people had come thirty thousand year ago. Pao's mind clamped down on conclusions and never budged once he had decided on something. To him, Sheng WAS both Chinese and his nephew, and nothing would convince him otherwise. The coincidence of their family names being the same was all old Sheng Pao-Wang needed.
"Uncle, the landlord has warned us again about cooking in the office...." Sheng began but he was cut off.
"Ah. I knew it," cackled the old man. "Here, in this story on page six about the potholes causing accidents on Mulberry Street. Read between the lines, nephew. Grow wise. The hint is here that the Winter Snow is active again."
"Winter Snow? I thought they moved to California years ago," Sheng said.
"Not so. Not so. There are clues hidden in these mundane items about City water bills and rising school taxes. I can tell." Uncle Pao made a horrendous racket straightening out of the newspaper and folding it up. "And one MORE thing. If Winter Snow is making its presence known, the Black Mantis will challenge them as they did before. There is bad blood between their sifus."
Before Sheng could come out with his intended remark of how caring about feuds between martial arts schools didn't pay his bills, there was a knock on the office door. He jumped up, but to his dismay Uncle Pao was much closer and had already greeted their visitor.
"It is middle of night, young lady," barked Pao with a complete lack of welcome. "Your need must be urgent to drive you out into the dark streets!"
Their visitor appeared to be no more than twenty, and the outfit of snug jeans, black print blouse and maroon warm-up jacket added to that impression. In white letters across the back of the jacket was written SWATHMORE. The girl was tall at five feet ten, slim and rangy in the way of someone who has not completely finished growing yet. She had long curly black hair and huge dark eyes, with a cleft round chin that gave her face an individual look.
"Sorry?" she said, confused by Uncle Pao's greeting. "Ummm, isn't this a detective agency? The FIST FOR HIRE that I've read about in the papers?"
Sheng hurried to interpose himself between the girl and Uncle Pao. "Hello. Come right in, please. Yes, you've come to the right place. I'm Sheng Mo-Yuan, licensed PI and this is my uncle who helps out around the place."
"Oh, good," she breathed in relief and allowed herself to be escorted to a plain wooden chair in front of Sheng's desk. To her right and slightly behind her sat Uncle Pao at his own cluttered desk. This arrangement allowed Pao to watch visitors and to give Sheng his reactions by making various disgusted faces. The clients in turn had to swivel their heads to see Pao, which gave Sheng an instant to hide things or think things over.
"It feels funny coming here at two in the morning," she said. "But your listing said you're open from Midnight to Nine AM and I could see you moving around in the window when I got out of the taxi, so...."
Putting on a slightly deeper professional voice, Sheng told her, "We found that most of our clients are in the must urgent trouble overnight, so we set up a nocturnal agency. How about telling me who you are and what brings you here?"
"Okay. I'm Agita, Agita DeLeonibus. Well, my real name is Sophie but my family calls me Agita and that's how everyone knows me. I am not in trouble myself. It's my brother Carmine, he's three year older and lately he's been doing odd jobs that he won't explain...."
From behind Agita, Uncle Pao made a remark in Cantonese to the effect that you can tell women are lying because sound comes out of their mouths. The girl gave him a confused look, and Sheng intervened.
"Never mind him, he's a little cranky tonight. Please, go on," he said.
"Carmine is not a bad boy, but he IS easily tempted by quick money. He's had a few close calls with the law. Lately, he has been coming and going at all hours. And he started buying new games cartridges. Whenever my brother flaunts lots of cash, I know he's heading for trouble." She dug in her coat pocket and handed Sheng a scrap of paper. "I err found this when I was trying against all odds to straighten out his room. Here."
As Uncle Pao scuttled over to look over his shoulder, Sheng examined the note with a sinking feeling. Not again. It was a simple yellow Post-It slip, with words printed in simple block letters: DROPS ON BLADES and under that, THE PUNSTER.
II.
"Oh, this clown!" grumbled Uncle Pao. "He should be breaking rocks with a chain on his ankle...." Making a disgusted noise, he stomped back to his own desk. "Even your limited skills should be able to deal with such a buffoon, nephew."
Meanwhile, Agita was blinking long natural eyelashes and looking quite appealing in her confusion. "So, it seems as if this note means something to you fellows?"
"Yeah," Sheng answered, then realized that the single reply was not much of an explanation. "He's a sort of criminal mastermind. Only one of his kind, as far as I know. His real name is Walter W Walters, genuine genius with an IQ off the charts. He tore through high school and college before he was fourteen and he made millions on the stock market and by investing in real estate. TIME magazine did a cover story on this boy whiz in the early 1990s. Walters was a national phenomenon for a while."
"He is also as crazy as a wild goose eating hashish," snorted Uncle Pao from behind his own desk.
"Thank you, Uncle," said Sheng patiently. "You're right. There is definitely something wrong going on in Walters' head. He went off the grid, so to speak, living on the run in a series of luxurious vans that kept moving across the country. Walters ran his dozens of companies through lieutenants that he gave orders to over the phone. He had developed a number of morbid phobias. Fear of germs, fear of assassination, fear of being abducted by demonic entities he called 'the Solvers.' It was then that he started his career as the Punster. He began a series of high-level robberies while leaving enigmatic clues to the next one. Clues exactly like the one you found in your brother's room."
Listening to all this, Agita shrugged out of her jacket to reveal a surprising bust ledge in a thin black blouse with gold thread decorations. "Wait, what? Carmine is working for some insane master thief?"
"That's it, exactly," Sheng admitted. "As these things go, the Punster isn't the worst gang boss to be involved with. He has never killed anyone. Reportedly, he treats his men well, gives them a fair percentage of the loot and protects them. It's a lot better than working for maniacs like Sepulcher or the Spinner of Webs."
"THEY tend to murder any employees who fail them," Uncle Pao added gleefully. "This makes it hard for them to recruit, heh heh."
"Right. Anyway, Miss DeLeonibus, I'm afraid your brother has gotten mixed up with the Punster. It may be in a minor capacity, sitting in a car in case a getaway is needed or picking up a package left under a Central Park bench, that sort of thing. Still, he's possibly involved with grand larceny and other related felonies that carry heavy penalties."
"Please, call me Agita," the young woman said. "I don't understand. Why isn't this Walters person in jail?"
"Oh, he did serve a twelve year sentence. My friend Jeremy Bane captured him. Walters was in a minimum security prison upstate by Buffalo, apparently he started giving business advice to the guards and administrators and ended up running the place. As I understand it, Walters helped the warden earn enough investing in natural gas distributors that the man retired!"
Starting to live up to her name, Agita jumped to her feet and started wringing her hands together. "This is terrible! I don't want Carmine to go to prison! We had a good job lined up for him at an insurance company. You have to help him." She placed her hands on Sheng's desk, arms braced and leaned forward imploringly. Doing this offered an hypnotic view down her blouse.
Sheng quickly looked past her to catch Uncle Pao shaking his head in disapproval. In Cantonese, the old man said something about waving cheese in front of a mouse. Sheng got the hint. He stood up himself and placed a hand on Agita's shoulder. Despite the warmth and yielding appeal of that contact, he said, "Calm down. Have a seat. Luckily, the Punster himself has given us the clue we need."
"He... has?" asked Agita. She blinked and sat down again. Turning to give Uncle Pao a stern glance, she said, "Please stop saying things I can't understand. It's not polite."
"I was reminding my nephew that the Dim Cho Nook is ready," laughed Uncle Pao. He got up and started ladling the steaming contents into a slow cooker that sat plugged into a corner outlet. "Sticky rice is the source of human life," he added to himself.
"Never mind that now," Sheng said. He rose himself and picked up his topcoat from where it had been draped over the back of his chair. "Uncle, Agita... we need to solve this clue and get to the planned robbery before it happens. To keep your brother out of jail, we had better beat the Punster at his own game."
Agita frowned as she got her jacket on again. "But what does that note mean. 'Drops On Blades...?" I don't get it."
III.
"Uncle! Using the turn signals is not 'giving information to the enemy!" Sheng snapped as he looked up to see why someone's horn was blaring at them.
"I wish to keep them alert," Pao laughed. He was hunched over the wheel of Sheng's treasured Ferrari 458 Italia as if trying to press his face against the inside of the windshield.
From the backseat came a terrified squeal. "Mr Sheng! Please! Let ME drive, I don't even have a speeding ticket!" Agita begged.
"All right, if we make it to New Jersey," Sheng agreed. In the front passenger seat, he clipped his Link back on his belt and glanced up just as they sailed blithely past a STOP sign. "Uncle Pao! Pull into that gas station if you will."
The old man cackled and swerved hard to the right, missing a parked Dodge Ram by less than an inch and thumped up against the concrete bar set on the ground to mark a parking spot. "To hear is to obey, Oh Great Detective."
Sheng turned to the back seat and saw Agita staring at him with bulging eyes. "I'll take over the driving, miss. I had to make some phone calls and Uncle Pao was good enough to help."
"Is my hair white?" she asked.
"No, you're fine," Sheng said. "Listen, both of you. I couldn't reach Lt Montez but I did talk to a sergeant who knows about us and the KDF. They're aware that the Punster is active in the Metro area. I mentioned the clue that I obtained from ahem 'a confidential source.'"
"Policemen have difficulty tying their own shoes without getting their fingers caught in the laces," Uncle Pao grumbled.
"Yes, thank you, uncle. A few of the officers mulled it over. They figure 'Drops On Blades' refers to ice skaters, which makes sense. Some cops are going around the various rinks in town to see if any have something worth stealing."
From the back, Agita spoke in a more assured tone now that the car had stopped plunging madly down streets. "Something in your voice, Mr Sheng... I think you don't agree with the solution the cops came up with."
The Chujiran did not answer immediately. "I only tangled with the Punster once, more than a year ago. I managed to solve the third riddle and ruin his heist but he escaped capture."
"As I recall, he placed his thumb to his nose and made rude noises at you," Pao offered. "Then he drove away."
"Yes. Thank you, Uncle," said Sheng. "You understand that the Punster follows a rigid pattern. He commits three robberies on three consecutive nights. At each of them, he leaves one of these Post-It notes with a clue to the next crime."
"But.. I don't follow you. This note was in my brother's jeans. It wasn't left at any crime scene?"
"That's why I think we have a bit of an edge this time." Sheng made sure both Agita and Pao were listening closely. "Walters follows a strict pattern to his crimes. He pulls off a heist on three consecutive nights. At the first two, he leaves one of these clues about the next crime. The third has a pun that teases the cops. But he hasn't struck yet, so the note you found can only mean one thing."
Uncle Pao snapped bony fingers with a noise like a firecracker. "Hah. His own Obsessive Compulsive Disease is working against him. He made that note to satisfy himself even if he never would use it. Nephew, even you should discern the meaning of this pitiful attempt at misdirection. 'Drops On Blades.' Fui."
"I think so. 'Drops' is not a verb but a noun. And 'Blades' does not mean knife or sword blades but something more natural. Dew drops on blades of grass!"
"Hey, I should have figured that out," offered Agita DeLeonibus from the darkness in the back of the car. "I like wordplay. I qualified for JEOPARDY once."
"Everything seems obvious once it's explained," said Sheng. He opened his door and started to get out. "I'd better take over the driving from here on."
Getting out from behind the wheel, Pao said, "You? You take forever to get anywhere. Speed limits. Red lights. One-way streets. You let inconsquential details hold you back."
After he adjusted the seat and the mirrors for himself, Sheng Mo-Yuan swung around to look at the girl in the back. "Google makes detective work a lot quicker. I did some searches and settled on a likely target for Walters. There's a bistro outside Camden called the 'Dew Drop Inn.' And its owner proudly displays some memorabilia from early Rock and Roll. For a hundred dollars, he'll take Buddy Holly's last guitar out of its case and let you strum it."
"Buddy Holly, he was one of the Beatles, wasn't he?" asked Agita in all seriousness.
"I'm not sure," Sheng admitted. "Sable did introduce me to some 1930s music she loves. Jazz, blues, big band. I like it, I guess, but I haven't really learned much about American music."
"He certainly has studied their vile food. Cheeseburgers, pizza, Red Bull, jelly donuts..." grumbled Pao.
"Thank you, Uncle." Sheng had figured out that the old man interpreted that phrase as sincere gratitude for good advice and it seemed to quiet Pao for a minute or so. They rode along for nearly an hour, searching for the address that the Dew Drop Inn had listed.
Out of nowhere, Agita DeLeonibus asked, "Weren't you a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation? You know, that bunch of ghostbreakers and monster hunters? Every New Yorker has heard wild tales about them."
"Oh yes," Sheng replied absently. "I still am. I stepped down to reserve duty to open my agency but I still spend two days a week at KDF headquarters and they call me in whenever there's some major crisis."
"A cat stuck in a tree, someone locked out of his car, that sort of thing," Uncle Pao said.
Agita gave a deep-throated laugh. "Oh, you! You torment Sheng but I can hear how much you love him in between the words."
"He is family..." Pao muttered. "One puts up with many shortcomings in our own blood."
The side street they were entering had gone black. No lights showed in any houses. The streetlights were dark. On the porch of one house, a man with a flashlight peered up and down the street.
"Even you must be suspicious by now," Uncle Pao said, winding his window half way down to stare near-sightedly out. "There is no coincidence when dealing with criminals."
"Yes," Sheng agreed. He pulled up into a gravel parking lot at the end of the unlit street in front of a long slate-covered building with a sign on a post DEW DROP INN - GOOD DINING, BETTER MUSIC. "Some one blew a specific transformer. I think it was intended to disable alarms systems.." He opened his door and cocked his head, listening.
"At least have the courtesy to leave the keys in case we wish to listen to the radio," said Uncle Pao.
"Sure. No robbery seems to be underway here. We're either too late or too early." Sheng loped off into the gloom and vanished around the corner of the bistro.
"Is he at least armed?" asked Agita. "I mean, he could be facing who-knows how many professional criminals out there?"
For once, Uncle Pao softened his tone. "Child, that is Sheng Mo-Yuan, known to some as Argent. He has a Chi gift like the ancient Shaolin priests. He can reinforce his body to be much stronger or faster or more resistant to harm than any normal Human. A gun would only get in his way."
"Now I hear the pride I was listening for," Agita said.
Offended, Uncle Pao did not speak further. He had his head sticking partly out of the window, tilted to listen. Catching only the faintest rustle of shoes on gravel, he knew too late this whole set-up was a trap. The cold muzzle of a small .32 automatic pressed up against the side of his face.
"Quiet," whispered a tall thin man in a dark purple suit. In his other gloved hand, he twirled a Homburg. "Allow my man Alex to get behind the wheel. Carlton will sit in the back with the young lady. Be silent. Unlike me, they have killed many times and would not lose a minute's sleep shooting both of you."
Two big men in dark clothing slid into Sheng's car and the one in the driver's seat started the powerful engine. As Uncle Pao took a deep breath to yell a warning, the barrel of that gun jabbed hard into his cheek.
"Uh-uh," warned the man in purple. "Now is no time for dramatic gestures." He stepped back and watched the red Ferrari back off and speed back up the darkened street. At that very moment, two frighteningly loud explosions cracked on the other side of the DEW DROP INN and sharp white light flared up for an instant. The Punster smiled to himself and put away his gun. "We say we idly kill time when it really is time that kills us!"
III.
Stalking around to the rear of the building, Sheng froze in position to listen and allow his eyes to adjust to the murk. Despite his best efforts, he had never been able to channel gralic force to his senses. That would have been useful. Still, being able to switch between being stronger or faster or more resilient than any normal flesh and blood creature was a gift he appreciated.
Eventually, walking silently even on gravel, Sheng examined the rear door. It stood next to a propane tank and a battered dumpster overflowing with garbage bags and cardboard boxes. Even in the dim light, the bright yellow of a Post-It note caught his eye. Sheng took a pencil flashlight from his jacket pocket and played a thin beam on the note. 'HOLIDAY MUSIC,' it read above the signature 'THE PUNSTER.'
Damn it. He remembered now how mnuch he hated dealing with this lunatic. Maybe for someone who had grown up surrounded by American culture, these stupid clues would make sense. But Sheng had been born in feudal-level Chujir, where electrical devices would not function, where people rode horses and spent most of their lives toiling in the fields. He had not come to this real world until he was eighteen. 'Holiday Music'... well, that should not be too obscure, he hoped.
As he turned off his flashlight, he heard the faintest of clicks nearby. In an instant, through long practice, he shifted his Argent power into durability. The transcendental force flowed through every cell just as two blinding detonations burst on either side. They were the flash-bang grenades used by SWAT teams to blind and deafen people.
Despite his enhanced state, the light and the noise stunned him. He knew he had walked into a trap. Sheng swung around and started to run without being able to see where he was going. He felt hands grabbing at him, someone tackling him around the legs. With years of Kumundu training at Tel Shai, he was the wrong man to grapple with. He had fought many sparring partners while blindfolded.
Sheng kept his focus on invulnerability in case one of these men tried to stab or club him. The one holding his arms first. Sheng seized a wrist, yanked the man's arm out straight and drove his elbow up into that armpit. The thug yelled in pain as that shoulder was dislocated. He let go and reeled back, leaving Sheng free to reach down and figure out where the gangster around his legs was. A fist literally dense and hard as a block of steel smacked down on the top of the man's head with a sharp cracking noise.
That man fell away. Sheng's eyesight was beginning to clear, but since it was so dark that night, it didn't help much. He saw the first thug staggering by, trying to pop his arm back in the socket. Sheng lunged in and smacked a tight backfist that caught the man high on the temple. That gangster dropped in a senseless heap.
His ears were still ringing, but his vision had mostly come back. Sheng took out his flashlight again and swung its beam in a circle. No one else was in sight. The acrid tang of the grenades stung his nose. Not feeling any kindness toward the men who had attacked him when they thought he was blind and helpless, Sheng examined them. They were in serious condition, dazed and groggy but not completely unconscious.
When normal, Sheng still punched with damaging force. In his enhanced state, his blows were the equivalent of being struck by a ball-peen hammer. Although he had not hit with anything like full focus, even his taps while in the invulnerable condition inflicted real punishment.
What shocked him was that the man with the dislocated arm had been holding a combat knife with a seven-inch serrated blade. A deadly weapon? Since when had the Punster resorted to violence and when had he ever tried to have someone killed? Something had changed in that lunatic.
Even with prompt medical care, the odds of them recovering fully weren't the best. Sheng stood up, decided he was obligated to call an ambulance and the police because the complications would be sticky if he didn't. He unclipped his Link and got 911, then reached the local police. He didn't identify himself and the Link's signal could not be traced.
Heading around the front of the bistro, his heart sank as he saw his Ferrari was gone. What? Even at Uncle Pao's most erratic, the old man would not have taken off like that. Especially since Pao must have heard the explosions and been concerned for Sheng.
IV.
Someone had forced the old Chinese man to leave. More of these thugs? The Punster himself? Or maybe this girl Agita was in the gang and had pulled a gun on Pao? It wouldn't be the first time a client had turned out to be criminal they were allegedly seeking.
Furious that anyone would dare to abduct someone under his protection, let alone his uncle, Sheng ran back to where he had left the dazed thugs behind the Dew Drop Inn. Racing to the back of the parking lot, he found the black Silverado they had left partially concealed beneath some trees. The keys were in the ignition.
For one second, Sheng wondered about the way the Punster operated. The mastermind had robbed this bistro, undoubtedly making off with valuable musical instruments that some collectors craved. But then he had set up those flash-bang grenades on some proximity trigger and had left his men here. That was betting a lot on the slim chance that Sheng would figure out the clue and show up here without the police being here first.
But wait... There was only one way that Walter W Walters could expect Sheng to be involved. If Agita was working for the gang. As he started up the Silverado and peeled out up the side street back toward the highway, the Chujiran warrior felt more disappointed with human nature than ever. No wonder Bane had warned him that PIs ended up completely cynical.
Driving a few miles up the highway, Sheng passed a police car with its light bar flashing. That hadn't taken long. He knew it would be prudent to have stayed and given a report to the cops, but at the moment he didn't care. Finding Uncle Pao and Agita was all that mattered. Pulling over to the side of the road, he took out his Link and started working on it.
These Trom-designed devices were hideously complex. Sheng realized he never used a fraction of the functions they were capable of but at least he remembered the tracer mode. In a few minutes, the screen lit up with a street map of the immediate area. He made a few more adjustments. There. A green blip was moving north on Central Avenue, passing Langford Street. They were about twenty miles ahead of him.
Inside the rear wheel well of his Lamborghini and also clamped to the inside of his hood were two of the Trom signal beacons. They had an effective range of three hundred miles. Whenever a KDF member started a case, it was standard practice to plant one or two on an enemy if possible. Sheng had hidden two on his car in case it was ever stolen.
Sheng stuck his Link in a the cup holder and followed the signal. The more he thought about it, the less this whole night seemed like the usual Punster method of working. Walters had a deep-seated compulsion to leave clues and to stick to his schedule. He may have been a genius but he was a deeply neurotic one. In the dozen crime sprees he had undertaken, the Punster had always avoided taking prisoners or ordering violence from his henchmen. To him, this was all an intellectual game.
What had happened? Was Walters degenerating into a more common crook? Or did he have something bigger in mind planned than his usual heists? Sheng checked the signal, saw that his car had swung into a residential area and he followed. He didn't think Walters was likely to harm Uncle Pao, but suddenly he was less certain about that erratic mastermind than he had been before. Everything felt wrong.
It was four-twenty AM when he saw that the blip representng his car had stopped moving. Dawn was still hours away this time of year. Sheng pulled into the dead-end Houghton Street, a rather posh neighborhood with nicely maintained lawns and well-kept houses. He figured his car was half a mile ahead. Sheng swung the gang's vehicle up to rest behind a gleaming SUV and got out, taking the keys with him. Not for the first time in the past hour, he prayed that Uncle Pao-- and the girl, of course-- were okay.
There was only one street lamp at every other corner. Trotting through the darkness, the Chujiran made no discernible noise. His dress shoes looked like normal office wear but there were steel caps inside the toes and heels, and a layer of soft rubber along the soles. As he drew closer, Sheng ducked behind an elm and calculated that his target had to be the big three-story house at the end of the street. It had extensive grounds on either side and the street curved to form a turnaround.
Lights burned only on the ground floor. Sheng accelerated his pace, swinging far over to approach from behind the nearest neighboring house. There was his Lamborghini! Parked on a paved area next to a midnight blue van with tinted windows. Sheng admitted to himself that he had been more than a little worried about the flamboyant car as well as the two people who were prisoners.
Moving in the shadows, Sheng saw the rear door open from within and a big man in a dark suit took one step out onto the back steps. A lighter flared and the red spot of the burning cigarette moved up to mouth level. Sheng grinmed unseen. He could never expect a better moment. Focussing his gralic charge into greater speed, he hurtled out of the gloom at the moment that the thug took a final drag and flicked the cigarette away.
Leaping up from behind, Sheng clamped one hand to keep the man's jaw shut so no alarm could be shouted. He wrapped his other arm around the man's middle, pinning his arms down and saw with a jolt that the guard had managed to get a flat automatic from his waistband. A gun?! When had the Punster ever allowed his gang to carry guns? Alarmed as well as angry, Sheng shifted his Argent power to enhanced strength and squeezed. He could feel ribs moving under his arms as he compressed. The guards could neither wriggle free nor take a breath and in a minute he passed out.
Sheng had done this many times before. He hauled the unconscious man off away from the porch light and used the thug's shoelaces and belt to secure his hands and feet. As his breathing reflex began again, the man got in a single panicky gasp before one of his own ripped-off coat sleeves was jammed into his mouth and tied behind his head.
Leaving the man to emit furious strangled noises under the bushes, Sheng leaped up to the still open back door. What the hell had happened to Walters? All of tonight's activity was so unlike him, except for the annoying pun clues.
Moving through a darkened kitchen where a coffee pot gave off its aroma, Sheng had never been more alert. He paused at the inner door to shift his gralic reinforcement to durability. As his bones and muscles and skin became denser, the floor creaked slightly beneath his increased mass. He looked the same but he now weighed three hundred pounds. Sheng opened the door a crack and peeked out into a darkened hallway. From the front of the house came angry voices and then a single demand "Quiet! We will follow the plan as before."
Following his instincts, Sheng did not head toward the front room but instead swung around to creep up a staircase to his left. He knew to place his feet on the outer edges of each step to be as silent as possible. This house was well-furnished, with an oil painting on the wall beside him and thick carpeting on the second floor landing. Well, Walters was a millionaire many times over. There was no way to tell how many houses and apartments and even office buildings he owned through his lieutenants.
Bright light shone from under one door. Sheng suddenly thought he understood why this whole situation felt so contradictory. There was a simple answer as to why the Punster was breaking all his rules. He went along checking the other doors, satisfying himself none of the gang was up on this floor. There couldn't be much time before someone wondered what had happened to the thug who had stepped out for a cigarette.
Returning to the occupied room, Sheng shifted his gralic energy into elevated strength and casually opened the door by breaking the lock. Inside was a brilliantly lit room without furniture except a toilet and sink in one corner. A few pillows were piled together. Everything from walls to bare floor was pure white and the air was warm and more than a little stuffy.
Sitting in one corner with his back pressed against the wall was an emaciated man, barefoot, wearing white pajamas. His tangled longish hair and beard had not been tended in some time. As the door swung inward with a sharp snapping sound, he gave a violent start and weakly tried to get up.
"Well, you've looked better," Sheng whispered. "Shhh, quiet. I'm going to carry you."
V.
Twenty minutes later, he was striding quickly back toward a house that now apparently had every lamp turned on. Men with flashlights were going through the bushes and they swung around as they spotted Sheng approaching. One of them said, "That's him! That's the guy that mandhandled me."
Seeing a few guns being pulled, Sheng Mo-Yuan stopped and placed his fists on his hips in a pose of confidence. "Oh, be serious. Start shooting and the cops'll be here even quicker than they will now. Your neighbors will be reporting gunfire in a wink."
"WHAT? No way. Get over here, get in the house!" said one of them, careful not to yell because of the neighbors nearby.
"Yeah, right. That's not going to happen." Sheng pointed at the tall man in the deep purple suit. "You. You're in charge, I guess. Bring the prisoners out and we can arrange an exchange."
"You're gonna die slow..." one of the gangsters said, but the man in purple waved his derby at him.
"Come on," Sheng told them calmly. "You guys can't function without the real Punster helping to plan. Get the girl and the old man out where I can see them and I'll tell you where the big genius is."
After some grumbling, two of the thugs went into the house and emerged a minute later with Uncle Pao and Agita DeLeonibus at gunpoint. Both had their hands tied behind them with clothesline.
In Cantonese, Sheng asked Pao if he was unharmed and received a lengthy recital of all the indignities these Gwei-Lo had inflicted. Sheng cut him off in mid-sentence. He turned his attention to Agita, "Your brother made sure you weren't mistreated, right?"
A short Italian youth spoke up. "Yeah. I got to promise she wouldn't be hurt if I left that note for her to find. I know she puts my clothes away alla time and snoops through everything."
"You're Carmine, right? I can see the family resemblance," Sheng said. "All right, let's get this over with. Untie the old man and give him the keys to my Lamborghini. That's right. Agita, you get in the back. You're coming along so these goons don't perforate my beautiful car with bullet holes. Uncle, you get in the passenger seat and start the engine."
As the prisoners obeyed with Pao muttering under his breath, Sheng faced down a half dozen armed men without showing the slightest trace of the anxiety he was feeling. Keeping a poker face was one of his most useful skills. Seeing the gang start to spread out in an attempt to encircle him, the Chujiran held up an open hand in dismissal. "Knock it off. This is going so smoothly, let's not ruin it with a massacre."
The man in purple had stepped closer. "Time to tell us where Walters is, son."
"Fine. First, I want to announce something for my own satisfaction. 'Holiday music' has nothing to do with Christmas carols. It refers to Billie Holiday and means the Blues, right? And here's the trick. The clue was a lie. You thought I'd be out trying to find a heist involving a Blues singer or some company named Blue Sky or something, and I'd be out of the way while you commited your robbery somewhere unrelated. And hopefully the police would be distracted too."
"Not bad," said the ringleader. "Since everyone knows the Punster always plays fair with his insane habit of leaving clues."
"Except you're not the Punster," Sheng replied. "Not even close. I'd guess you were a lieutenant working for Walters who saw a chance to seize control of part of the gang. As long as you kept Walters alive, you could force him to sign notes and checks and to make a few phone calls to keep his organization running."
Backing up toward the smoothly running sports car, Sheng said, "You boys hold back. I want your leader to come with me while I get behind the wheel. Then I promise I will explain where you can find the real Punster."
The seven thugs grudgingly stayed where they were. It was partly because their ringleader waved at them not to move but it was also because the underworld had been shown many times that Sheng Mo-Yuan could be become absolutely bulletproof and was an unstoppable fighter in that state. The prospect of being pounded by a master arts master with a body harder than steel did not appeal to them.
Winding down his window, Sheng crooked a finger to make the man in the purple suit lean closer. "Now I'm keeping my end of the deal. Honestly, you guys need to clear out of here as fast as you can. I swiped the Silverado your buddies had at the Dew Drop Inn, okay? And I left Walter W Walters in it with the keys. I'm sure by now he's miles away and heading for one of his strongholds."
"Damn it, you said you'd return him to us..."
"No, I did not," Sheng said. "I said I'd tell you where he is. Oh, and on the way back here I called the police and filled them in on the situation. There will be about twenty tough Jersey cops pulling up any second with their tempers raw and their guns drawn. Good luck." Without warning, Sheng shoved the fake Punster so hard that the man did a nearly perfect backflip and landed face down in the dirt.
Gunning the powerful motor, Sheng peeled out and roared up the side street. He had to resist laughing in glee. As he swung right at the intersection, approaching from his left could be seen the familiar flashing red and blue lights. Those cruisers would be cutting off the entrance to the dead end street where the gang was.
Agita DeLeonibus swung around in the back seat to gaze behind them. "Poor Carmine. I hope he gets away. Maybe he'll run into the woods. He did make sure none of those awful men put a hand on me. But what am I going to tell our parents?"
Driving well over the speed limit, Sheng made two right hand turns and headed back east toward Manhattan. The faintest hint of sunrise showed in the sky ahead of them. "That worked out okay. No one got killed and I expect most of the gang will be caught and the loot recovered." He sighed unexpectedly. "It's too bad that Walters got away but I wanted to make sure the usurper didn't catch him. Now that I think of it, there are worse masterminds to have running around than the Punster."
"I think you did a simply amazing job," gushed Agita. "You're incredible. How did you even find us? How did you snatch that Walters guy right out from under their noses? And why were they all so intimidated by you?"
"Aaaahhhh," grumbled Uncle Pao. "He's finally picking up a few tricks. About time."
4/21/2018
3/23-3/25/2012
I.
Sheng honestly could not tell what Uncle Pao had simmering in the battered old saucepan which sat on the hot plate in a corner of the office. The stuff looked like brown and red mush to him, with a few separate strands of what might have been snow peas hours ago. Taking the ladle from beside the pan, Sheng stirred the mixture and found a definite fish head at the bottom. The clouded white eye stared up accusingly at him.
"Ha HAH! The aroma of genuine food is tempting, is it not?" came the high excited voice. At his desk, set at a right angle from Sheng's own, Uncle Pao was rustling copies of the Chinese-language WORLD JOURNAL more loudly than seemed necessary. "We will drive the vile Mr Reuben from your guts tonight!"
Well over seventy, Uncle Pao was thin to the point of seeming fragile. As usual, he was wearing black slacks and a seriously wrinkled white dress shirt but his concession to the chill of a late March night was a red cardigan twice as large as would have fit him. Pao's eyes could not be seen behind eyeglass lenses thick enough to have started a fire if held up to sunlight at the right angle. His pure white hair stuck up at various angles as if he had washed it and let it dry without ever considering a comb.
"Nothing wrong with eating a Reuben once in a while," Sheng answered patiently. "One great thing about this city is that you can get food from any culture on Earth here."
Heading back to his own desk, Sheng settled into his chair and thumbed through the disappointing collection of mail from the past few days. In contrast to Uncle Pao, Sheng dressed well. Tonight he was wearing a tailored dark blue suit complete with vest, yellow shirt and narrow black tie.
Only five feet five but athletic and muscular in build, Sheng Mo-Yuan seemed Chinese to most people. He had the skin tones, the double eyelid fold, the coarse black hair. But something about his high sharp cheekbones and beaked nose hinted at his real origins. It was no use explaining to Uncle Pao about Chujir, the realm from which the ancestors of the Han people had come thirty thousand year ago. Pao's mind clamped down on conclusions and never budged once he had decided on something. To him, Sheng WAS both Chinese and his nephew, and nothing would convince him otherwise. The coincidence of their family names being the same was all old Sheng Pao-Wang needed.
"Uncle, the landlord has warned us again about cooking in the office...." Sheng began but he was cut off.
"Ah. I knew it," cackled the old man. "Here, in this story on page six about the potholes causing accidents on Mulberry Street. Read between the lines, nephew. Grow wise. The hint is here that the Winter Snow is active again."
"Winter Snow? I thought they moved to California years ago," Sheng said.
"Not so. Not so. There are clues hidden in these mundane items about City water bills and rising school taxes. I can tell." Uncle Pao made a horrendous racket straightening out of the newspaper and folding it up. "And one MORE thing. If Winter Snow is making its presence known, the Black Mantis will challenge them as they did before. There is bad blood between their sifus."
Before Sheng could come out with his intended remark of how caring about feuds between martial arts schools didn't pay his bills, there was a knock on the office door. He jumped up, but to his dismay Uncle Pao was much closer and had already greeted their visitor.
"It is middle of night, young lady," barked Pao with a complete lack of welcome. "Your need must be urgent to drive you out into the dark streets!"
Their visitor appeared to be no more than twenty, and the outfit of snug jeans, black print blouse and maroon warm-up jacket added to that impression. In white letters across the back of the jacket was written SWATHMORE. The girl was tall at five feet ten, slim and rangy in the way of someone who has not completely finished growing yet. She had long curly black hair and huge dark eyes, with a cleft round chin that gave her face an individual look.
"Sorry?" she said, confused by Uncle Pao's greeting. "Ummm, isn't this a detective agency? The FIST FOR HIRE that I've read about in the papers?"
Sheng hurried to interpose himself between the girl and Uncle Pao. "Hello. Come right in, please. Yes, you've come to the right place. I'm Sheng Mo-Yuan, licensed PI and this is my uncle who helps out around the place."
"Oh, good," she breathed in relief and allowed herself to be escorted to a plain wooden chair in front of Sheng's desk. To her right and slightly behind her sat Uncle Pao at his own cluttered desk. This arrangement allowed Pao to watch visitors and to give Sheng his reactions by making various disgusted faces. The clients in turn had to swivel their heads to see Pao, which gave Sheng an instant to hide things or think things over.
"It feels funny coming here at two in the morning," she said. "But your listing said you're open from Midnight to Nine AM and I could see you moving around in the window when I got out of the taxi, so...."
Putting on a slightly deeper professional voice, Sheng told her, "We found that most of our clients are in the must urgent trouble overnight, so we set up a nocturnal agency. How about telling me who you are and what brings you here?"
"Okay. I'm Agita, Agita DeLeonibus. Well, my real name is Sophie but my family calls me Agita and that's how everyone knows me. I am not in trouble myself. It's my brother Carmine, he's three year older and lately he's been doing odd jobs that he won't explain...."
From behind Agita, Uncle Pao made a remark in Cantonese to the effect that you can tell women are lying because sound comes out of their mouths. The girl gave him a confused look, and Sheng intervened.
"Never mind him, he's a little cranky tonight. Please, go on," he said.
"Carmine is not a bad boy, but he IS easily tempted by quick money. He's had a few close calls with the law. Lately, he has been coming and going at all hours. And he started buying new games cartridges. Whenever my brother flaunts lots of cash, I know he's heading for trouble." She dug in her coat pocket and handed Sheng a scrap of paper. "I err found this when I was trying against all odds to straighten out his room. Here."
As Uncle Pao scuttled over to look over his shoulder, Sheng examined the note with a sinking feeling. Not again. It was a simple yellow Post-It slip, with words printed in simple block letters: DROPS ON BLADES and under that, THE PUNSTER.
II.
"Oh, this clown!" grumbled Uncle Pao. "He should be breaking rocks with a chain on his ankle...." Making a disgusted noise, he stomped back to his own desk. "Even your limited skills should be able to deal with such a buffoon, nephew."
Meanwhile, Agita was blinking long natural eyelashes and looking quite appealing in her confusion. "So, it seems as if this note means something to you fellows?"
"Yeah," Sheng answered, then realized that the single reply was not much of an explanation. "He's a sort of criminal mastermind. Only one of his kind, as far as I know. His real name is Walter W Walters, genuine genius with an IQ off the charts. He tore through high school and college before he was fourteen and he made millions on the stock market and by investing in real estate. TIME magazine did a cover story on this boy whiz in the early 1990s. Walters was a national phenomenon for a while."
"He is also as crazy as a wild goose eating hashish," snorted Uncle Pao from behind his own desk.
"Thank you, Uncle," said Sheng patiently. "You're right. There is definitely something wrong going on in Walters' head. He went off the grid, so to speak, living on the run in a series of luxurious vans that kept moving across the country. Walters ran his dozens of companies through lieutenants that he gave orders to over the phone. He had developed a number of morbid phobias. Fear of germs, fear of assassination, fear of being abducted by demonic entities he called 'the Solvers.' It was then that he started his career as the Punster. He began a series of high-level robberies while leaving enigmatic clues to the next one. Clues exactly like the one you found in your brother's room."
Listening to all this, Agita shrugged out of her jacket to reveal a surprising bust ledge in a thin black blouse with gold thread decorations. "Wait, what? Carmine is working for some insane master thief?"
"That's it, exactly," Sheng admitted. "As these things go, the Punster isn't the worst gang boss to be involved with. He has never killed anyone. Reportedly, he treats his men well, gives them a fair percentage of the loot and protects them. It's a lot better than working for maniacs like Sepulcher or the Spinner of Webs."
"THEY tend to murder any employees who fail them," Uncle Pao added gleefully. "This makes it hard for them to recruit, heh heh."
"Right. Anyway, Miss DeLeonibus, I'm afraid your brother has gotten mixed up with the Punster. It may be in a minor capacity, sitting in a car in case a getaway is needed or picking up a package left under a Central Park bench, that sort of thing. Still, he's possibly involved with grand larceny and other related felonies that carry heavy penalties."
"Please, call me Agita," the young woman said. "I don't understand. Why isn't this Walters person in jail?"
"Oh, he did serve a twelve year sentence. My friend Jeremy Bane captured him. Walters was in a minimum security prison upstate by Buffalo, apparently he started giving business advice to the guards and administrators and ended up running the place. As I understand it, Walters helped the warden earn enough investing in natural gas distributors that the man retired!"
Starting to live up to her name, Agita jumped to her feet and started wringing her hands together. "This is terrible! I don't want Carmine to go to prison! We had a good job lined up for him at an insurance company. You have to help him." She placed her hands on Sheng's desk, arms braced and leaned forward imploringly. Doing this offered an hypnotic view down her blouse.
Sheng quickly looked past her to catch Uncle Pao shaking his head in disapproval. In Cantonese, the old man said something about waving cheese in front of a mouse. Sheng got the hint. He stood up himself and placed a hand on Agita's shoulder. Despite the warmth and yielding appeal of that contact, he said, "Calm down. Have a seat. Luckily, the Punster himself has given us the clue we need."
"He... has?" asked Agita. She blinked and sat down again. Turning to give Uncle Pao a stern glance, she said, "Please stop saying things I can't understand. It's not polite."
"I was reminding my nephew that the Dim Cho Nook is ready," laughed Uncle Pao. He got up and started ladling the steaming contents into a slow cooker that sat plugged into a corner outlet. "Sticky rice is the source of human life," he added to himself.
"Never mind that now," Sheng said. He rose himself and picked up his topcoat from where it had been draped over the back of his chair. "Uncle, Agita... we need to solve this clue and get to the planned robbery before it happens. To keep your brother out of jail, we had better beat the Punster at his own game."
Agita frowned as she got her jacket on again. "But what does that note mean. 'Drops On Blades...?" I don't get it."
III.
"Uncle! Using the turn signals is not 'giving information to the enemy!" Sheng snapped as he looked up to see why someone's horn was blaring at them.
"I wish to keep them alert," Pao laughed. He was hunched over the wheel of Sheng's treasured Ferrari 458 Italia as if trying to press his face against the inside of the windshield.
From the backseat came a terrified squeal. "Mr Sheng! Please! Let ME drive, I don't even have a speeding ticket!" Agita begged.
"All right, if we make it to New Jersey," Sheng agreed. In the front passenger seat, he clipped his Link back on his belt and glanced up just as they sailed blithely past a STOP sign. "Uncle Pao! Pull into that gas station if you will."
The old man cackled and swerved hard to the right, missing a parked Dodge Ram by less than an inch and thumped up against the concrete bar set on the ground to mark a parking spot. "To hear is to obey, Oh Great Detective."
Sheng turned to the back seat and saw Agita staring at him with bulging eyes. "I'll take over the driving, miss. I had to make some phone calls and Uncle Pao was good enough to help."
"Is my hair white?" she asked.
"No, you're fine," Sheng said. "Listen, both of you. I couldn't reach Lt Montez but I did talk to a sergeant who knows about us and the KDF. They're aware that the Punster is active in the Metro area. I mentioned the clue that I obtained from ahem 'a confidential source.'"
"Policemen have difficulty tying their own shoes without getting their fingers caught in the laces," Uncle Pao grumbled.
"Yes, thank you, uncle. A few of the officers mulled it over. They figure 'Drops On Blades' refers to ice skaters, which makes sense. Some cops are going around the various rinks in town to see if any have something worth stealing."
From the back, Agita spoke in a more assured tone now that the car had stopped plunging madly down streets. "Something in your voice, Mr Sheng... I think you don't agree with the solution the cops came up with."
The Chujiran did not answer immediately. "I only tangled with the Punster once, more than a year ago. I managed to solve the third riddle and ruin his heist but he escaped capture."
"As I recall, he placed his thumb to his nose and made rude noises at you," Pao offered. "Then he drove away."
"Yes. Thank you, Uncle," said Sheng. "You understand that the Punster follows a rigid pattern. He commits three robberies on three consecutive nights. At each of them, he leaves one of these Post-It notes with a clue to the next crime."
"But.. I don't follow you. This note was in my brother's jeans. It wasn't left at any crime scene?"
"That's why I think we have a bit of an edge this time." Sheng made sure both Agita and Pao were listening closely. "Walters follows a strict pattern to his crimes. He pulls off a heist on three consecutive nights. At the first two, he leaves one of these clues about the next crime. The third has a pun that teases the cops. But he hasn't struck yet, so the note you found can only mean one thing."
Uncle Pao snapped bony fingers with a noise like a firecracker. "Hah. His own Obsessive Compulsive Disease is working against him. He made that note to satisfy himself even if he never would use it. Nephew, even you should discern the meaning of this pitiful attempt at misdirection. 'Drops On Blades.' Fui."
"I think so. 'Drops' is not a verb but a noun. And 'Blades' does not mean knife or sword blades but something more natural. Dew drops on blades of grass!"
"Hey, I should have figured that out," offered Agita DeLeonibus from the darkness in the back of the car. "I like wordplay. I qualified for JEOPARDY once."
"Everything seems obvious once it's explained," said Sheng. He opened his door and started to get out. "I'd better take over the driving from here on."
Getting out from behind the wheel, Pao said, "You? You take forever to get anywhere. Speed limits. Red lights. One-way streets. You let inconsquential details hold you back."
After he adjusted the seat and the mirrors for himself, Sheng Mo-Yuan swung around to look at the girl in the back. "Google makes detective work a lot quicker. I did some searches and settled on a likely target for Walters. There's a bistro outside Camden called the 'Dew Drop Inn.' And its owner proudly displays some memorabilia from early Rock and Roll. For a hundred dollars, he'll take Buddy Holly's last guitar out of its case and let you strum it."
"Buddy Holly, he was one of the Beatles, wasn't he?" asked Agita in all seriousness.
"I'm not sure," Sheng admitted. "Sable did introduce me to some 1930s music she loves. Jazz, blues, big band. I like it, I guess, but I haven't really learned much about American music."
"He certainly has studied their vile food. Cheeseburgers, pizza, Red Bull, jelly donuts..." grumbled Pao.
"Thank you, Uncle." Sheng had figured out that the old man interpreted that phrase as sincere gratitude for good advice and it seemed to quiet Pao for a minute or so. They rode along for nearly an hour, searching for the address that the Dew Drop Inn had listed.
Out of nowhere, Agita DeLeonibus asked, "Weren't you a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation? You know, that bunch of ghostbreakers and monster hunters? Every New Yorker has heard wild tales about them."
"Oh yes," Sheng replied absently. "I still am. I stepped down to reserve duty to open my agency but I still spend two days a week at KDF headquarters and they call me in whenever there's some major crisis."
"A cat stuck in a tree, someone locked out of his car, that sort of thing," Uncle Pao said.
Agita gave a deep-throated laugh. "Oh, you! You torment Sheng but I can hear how much you love him in between the words."
"He is family..." Pao muttered. "One puts up with many shortcomings in our own blood."
The side street they were entering had gone black. No lights showed in any houses. The streetlights were dark. On the porch of one house, a man with a flashlight peered up and down the street.
"Even you must be suspicious by now," Uncle Pao said, winding his window half way down to stare near-sightedly out. "There is no coincidence when dealing with criminals."
"Yes," Sheng agreed. He pulled up into a gravel parking lot at the end of the unlit street in front of a long slate-covered building with a sign on a post DEW DROP INN - GOOD DINING, BETTER MUSIC. "Some one blew a specific transformer. I think it was intended to disable alarms systems.." He opened his door and cocked his head, listening.
"At least have the courtesy to leave the keys in case we wish to listen to the radio," said Uncle Pao.
"Sure. No robbery seems to be underway here. We're either too late or too early." Sheng loped off into the gloom and vanished around the corner of the bistro.
"Is he at least armed?" asked Agita. "I mean, he could be facing who-knows how many professional criminals out there?"
For once, Uncle Pao softened his tone. "Child, that is Sheng Mo-Yuan, known to some as Argent. He has a Chi gift like the ancient Shaolin priests. He can reinforce his body to be much stronger or faster or more resistant to harm than any normal Human. A gun would only get in his way."
"Now I hear the pride I was listening for," Agita said.
Offended, Uncle Pao did not speak further. He had his head sticking partly out of the window, tilted to listen. Catching only the faintest rustle of shoes on gravel, he knew too late this whole set-up was a trap. The cold muzzle of a small .32 automatic pressed up against the side of his face.
"Quiet," whispered a tall thin man in a dark purple suit. In his other gloved hand, he twirled a Homburg. "Allow my man Alex to get behind the wheel. Carlton will sit in the back with the young lady. Be silent. Unlike me, they have killed many times and would not lose a minute's sleep shooting both of you."
Two big men in dark clothing slid into Sheng's car and the one in the driver's seat started the powerful engine. As Uncle Pao took a deep breath to yell a warning, the barrel of that gun jabbed hard into his cheek.
"Uh-uh," warned the man in purple. "Now is no time for dramatic gestures." He stepped back and watched the red Ferrari back off and speed back up the darkened street. At that very moment, two frighteningly loud explosions cracked on the other side of the DEW DROP INN and sharp white light flared up for an instant. The Punster smiled to himself and put away his gun. "We say we idly kill time when it really is time that kills us!"
III.
Stalking around to the rear of the building, Sheng froze in position to listen and allow his eyes to adjust to the murk. Despite his best efforts, he had never been able to channel gralic force to his senses. That would have been useful. Still, being able to switch between being stronger or faster or more resilient than any normal flesh and blood creature was a gift he appreciated.
Eventually, walking silently even on gravel, Sheng examined the rear door. It stood next to a propane tank and a battered dumpster overflowing with garbage bags and cardboard boxes. Even in the dim light, the bright yellow of a Post-It note caught his eye. Sheng took a pencil flashlight from his jacket pocket and played a thin beam on the note. 'HOLIDAY MUSIC,' it read above the signature 'THE PUNSTER.'
Damn it. He remembered now how mnuch he hated dealing with this lunatic. Maybe for someone who had grown up surrounded by American culture, these stupid clues would make sense. But Sheng had been born in feudal-level Chujir, where electrical devices would not function, where people rode horses and spent most of their lives toiling in the fields. He had not come to this real world until he was eighteen. 'Holiday Music'... well, that should not be too obscure, he hoped.
As he turned off his flashlight, he heard the faintest of clicks nearby. In an instant, through long practice, he shifted his Argent power into durability. The transcendental force flowed through every cell just as two blinding detonations burst on either side. They were the flash-bang grenades used by SWAT teams to blind and deafen people.
Despite his enhanced state, the light and the noise stunned him. He knew he had walked into a trap. Sheng swung around and started to run without being able to see where he was going. He felt hands grabbing at him, someone tackling him around the legs. With years of Kumundu training at Tel Shai, he was the wrong man to grapple with. He had fought many sparring partners while blindfolded.
Sheng kept his focus on invulnerability in case one of these men tried to stab or club him. The one holding his arms first. Sheng seized a wrist, yanked the man's arm out straight and drove his elbow up into that armpit. The thug yelled in pain as that shoulder was dislocated. He let go and reeled back, leaving Sheng free to reach down and figure out where the gangster around his legs was. A fist literally dense and hard as a block of steel smacked down on the top of the man's head with a sharp cracking noise.
That man fell away. Sheng's eyesight was beginning to clear, but since it was so dark that night, it didn't help much. He saw the first thug staggering by, trying to pop his arm back in the socket. Sheng lunged in and smacked a tight backfist that caught the man high on the temple. That gangster dropped in a senseless heap.
His ears were still ringing, but his vision had mostly come back. Sheng took out his flashlight again and swung its beam in a circle. No one else was in sight. The acrid tang of the grenades stung his nose. Not feeling any kindness toward the men who had attacked him when they thought he was blind and helpless, Sheng examined them. They were in serious condition, dazed and groggy but not completely unconscious.
When normal, Sheng still punched with damaging force. In his enhanced state, his blows were the equivalent of being struck by a ball-peen hammer. Although he had not hit with anything like full focus, even his taps while in the invulnerable condition inflicted real punishment.
What shocked him was that the man with the dislocated arm had been holding a combat knife with a seven-inch serrated blade. A deadly weapon? Since when had the Punster resorted to violence and when had he ever tried to have someone killed? Something had changed in that lunatic.
Even with prompt medical care, the odds of them recovering fully weren't the best. Sheng stood up, decided he was obligated to call an ambulance and the police because the complications would be sticky if he didn't. He unclipped his Link and got 911, then reached the local police. He didn't identify himself and the Link's signal could not be traced.
Heading around the front of the bistro, his heart sank as he saw his Ferrari was gone. What? Even at Uncle Pao's most erratic, the old man would not have taken off like that. Especially since Pao must have heard the explosions and been concerned for Sheng.
IV.
Someone had forced the old Chinese man to leave. More of these thugs? The Punster himself? Or maybe this girl Agita was in the gang and had pulled a gun on Pao? It wouldn't be the first time a client had turned out to be criminal they were allegedly seeking.
Furious that anyone would dare to abduct someone under his protection, let alone his uncle, Sheng ran back to where he had left the dazed thugs behind the Dew Drop Inn. Racing to the back of the parking lot, he found the black Silverado they had left partially concealed beneath some trees. The keys were in the ignition.
For one second, Sheng wondered about the way the Punster operated. The mastermind had robbed this bistro, undoubtedly making off with valuable musical instruments that some collectors craved. But then he had set up those flash-bang grenades on some proximity trigger and had left his men here. That was betting a lot on the slim chance that Sheng would figure out the clue and show up here without the police being here first.
But wait... There was only one way that Walter W Walters could expect Sheng to be involved. If Agita was working for the gang. As he started up the Silverado and peeled out up the side street back toward the highway, the Chujiran warrior felt more disappointed with human nature than ever. No wonder Bane had warned him that PIs ended up completely cynical.
Driving a few miles up the highway, Sheng passed a police car with its light bar flashing. That hadn't taken long. He knew it would be prudent to have stayed and given a report to the cops, but at the moment he didn't care. Finding Uncle Pao and Agita was all that mattered. Pulling over to the side of the road, he took out his Link and started working on it.
These Trom-designed devices were hideously complex. Sheng realized he never used a fraction of the functions they were capable of but at least he remembered the tracer mode. In a few minutes, the screen lit up with a street map of the immediate area. He made a few more adjustments. There. A green blip was moving north on Central Avenue, passing Langford Street. They were about twenty miles ahead of him.
Inside the rear wheel well of his Lamborghini and also clamped to the inside of his hood were two of the Trom signal beacons. They had an effective range of three hundred miles. Whenever a KDF member started a case, it was standard practice to plant one or two on an enemy if possible. Sheng had hidden two on his car in case it was ever stolen.
Sheng stuck his Link in a the cup holder and followed the signal. The more he thought about it, the less this whole night seemed like the usual Punster method of working. Walters had a deep-seated compulsion to leave clues and to stick to his schedule. He may have been a genius but he was a deeply neurotic one. In the dozen crime sprees he had undertaken, the Punster had always avoided taking prisoners or ordering violence from his henchmen. To him, this was all an intellectual game.
What had happened? Was Walters degenerating into a more common crook? Or did he have something bigger in mind planned than his usual heists? Sheng checked the signal, saw that his car had swung into a residential area and he followed. He didn't think Walters was likely to harm Uncle Pao, but suddenly he was less certain about that erratic mastermind than he had been before. Everything felt wrong.
It was four-twenty AM when he saw that the blip representng his car had stopped moving. Dawn was still hours away this time of year. Sheng pulled into the dead-end Houghton Street, a rather posh neighborhood with nicely maintained lawns and well-kept houses. He figured his car was half a mile ahead. Sheng swung the gang's vehicle up to rest behind a gleaming SUV and got out, taking the keys with him. Not for the first time in the past hour, he prayed that Uncle Pao-- and the girl, of course-- were okay.
There was only one street lamp at every other corner. Trotting through the darkness, the Chujiran made no discernible noise. His dress shoes looked like normal office wear but there were steel caps inside the toes and heels, and a layer of soft rubber along the soles. As he drew closer, Sheng ducked behind an elm and calculated that his target had to be the big three-story house at the end of the street. It had extensive grounds on either side and the street curved to form a turnaround.
Lights burned only on the ground floor. Sheng accelerated his pace, swinging far over to approach from behind the nearest neighboring house. There was his Lamborghini! Parked on a paved area next to a midnight blue van with tinted windows. Sheng admitted to himself that he had been more than a little worried about the flamboyant car as well as the two people who were prisoners.
Moving in the shadows, Sheng saw the rear door open from within and a big man in a dark suit took one step out onto the back steps. A lighter flared and the red spot of the burning cigarette moved up to mouth level. Sheng grinmed unseen. He could never expect a better moment. Focussing his gralic charge into greater speed, he hurtled out of the gloom at the moment that the thug took a final drag and flicked the cigarette away.
Leaping up from behind, Sheng clamped one hand to keep the man's jaw shut so no alarm could be shouted. He wrapped his other arm around the man's middle, pinning his arms down and saw with a jolt that the guard had managed to get a flat automatic from his waistband. A gun?! When had the Punster ever allowed his gang to carry guns? Alarmed as well as angry, Sheng shifted his Argent power to enhanced strength and squeezed. He could feel ribs moving under his arms as he compressed. The guards could neither wriggle free nor take a breath and in a minute he passed out.
Sheng had done this many times before. He hauled the unconscious man off away from the porch light and used the thug's shoelaces and belt to secure his hands and feet. As his breathing reflex began again, the man got in a single panicky gasp before one of his own ripped-off coat sleeves was jammed into his mouth and tied behind his head.
Leaving the man to emit furious strangled noises under the bushes, Sheng leaped up to the still open back door. What the hell had happened to Walters? All of tonight's activity was so unlike him, except for the annoying pun clues.
Moving through a darkened kitchen where a coffee pot gave off its aroma, Sheng had never been more alert. He paused at the inner door to shift his gralic reinforcement to durability. As his bones and muscles and skin became denser, the floor creaked slightly beneath his increased mass. He looked the same but he now weighed three hundred pounds. Sheng opened the door a crack and peeked out into a darkened hallway. From the front of the house came angry voices and then a single demand "Quiet! We will follow the plan as before."
Following his instincts, Sheng did not head toward the front room but instead swung around to creep up a staircase to his left. He knew to place his feet on the outer edges of each step to be as silent as possible. This house was well-furnished, with an oil painting on the wall beside him and thick carpeting on the second floor landing. Well, Walters was a millionaire many times over. There was no way to tell how many houses and apartments and even office buildings he owned through his lieutenants.
Bright light shone from under one door. Sheng suddenly thought he understood why this whole situation felt so contradictory. There was a simple answer as to why the Punster was breaking all his rules. He went along checking the other doors, satisfying himself none of the gang was up on this floor. There couldn't be much time before someone wondered what had happened to the thug who had stepped out for a cigarette.
Returning to the occupied room, Sheng shifted his gralic energy into elevated strength and casually opened the door by breaking the lock. Inside was a brilliantly lit room without furniture except a toilet and sink in one corner. A few pillows were piled together. Everything from walls to bare floor was pure white and the air was warm and more than a little stuffy.
Sitting in one corner with his back pressed against the wall was an emaciated man, barefoot, wearing white pajamas. His tangled longish hair and beard had not been tended in some time. As the door swung inward with a sharp snapping sound, he gave a violent start and weakly tried to get up.
"Well, you've looked better," Sheng whispered. "Shhh, quiet. I'm going to carry you."
V.
Twenty minutes later, he was striding quickly back toward a house that now apparently had every lamp turned on. Men with flashlights were going through the bushes and they swung around as they spotted Sheng approaching. One of them said, "That's him! That's the guy that mandhandled me."
Seeing a few guns being pulled, Sheng Mo-Yuan stopped and placed his fists on his hips in a pose of confidence. "Oh, be serious. Start shooting and the cops'll be here even quicker than they will now. Your neighbors will be reporting gunfire in a wink."
"WHAT? No way. Get over here, get in the house!" said one of them, careful not to yell because of the neighbors nearby.
"Yeah, right. That's not going to happen." Sheng pointed at the tall man in the deep purple suit. "You. You're in charge, I guess. Bring the prisoners out and we can arrange an exchange."
"You're gonna die slow..." one of the gangsters said, but the man in purple waved his derby at him.
"Come on," Sheng told them calmly. "You guys can't function without the real Punster helping to plan. Get the girl and the old man out where I can see them and I'll tell you where the big genius is."
After some grumbling, two of the thugs went into the house and emerged a minute later with Uncle Pao and Agita DeLeonibus at gunpoint. Both had their hands tied behind them with clothesline.
In Cantonese, Sheng asked Pao if he was unharmed and received a lengthy recital of all the indignities these Gwei-Lo had inflicted. Sheng cut him off in mid-sentence. He turned his attention to Agita, "Your brother made sure you weren't mistreated, right?"
A short Italian youth spoke up. "Yeah. I got to promise she wouldn't be hurt if I left that note for her to find. I know she puts my clothes away alla time and snoops through everything."
"You're Carmine, right? I can see the family resemblance," Sheng said. "All right, let's get this over with. Untie the old man and give him the keys to my Lamborghini. That's right. Agita, you get in the back. You're coming along so these goons don't perforate my beautiful car with bullet holes. Uncle, you get in the passenger seat and start the engine."
As the prisoners obeyed with Pao muttering under his breath, Sheng faced down a half dozen armed men without showing the slightest trace of the anxiety he was feeling. Keeping a poker face was one of his most useful skills. Seeing the gang start to spread out in an attempt to encircle him, the Chujiran held up an open hand in dismissal. "Knock it off. This is going so smoothly, let's not ruin it with a massacre."
The man in purple had stepped closer. "Time to tell us where Walters is, son."
"Fine. First, I want to announce something for my own satisfaction. 'Holiday music' has nothing to do with Christmas carols. It refers to Billie Holiday and means the Blues, right? And here's the trick. The clue was a lie. You thought I'd be out trying to find a heist involving a Blues singer or some company named Blue Sky or something, and I'd be out of the way while you commited your robbery somewhere unrelated. And hopefully the police would be distracted too."
"Not bad," said the ringleader. "Since everyone knows the Punster always plays fair with his insane habit of leaving clues."
"Except you're not the Punster," Sheng replied. "Not even close. I'd guess you were a lieutenant working for Walters who saw a chance to seize control of part of the gang. As long as you kept Walters alive, you could force him to sign notes and checks and to make a few phone calls to keep his organization running."
Backing up toward the smoothly running sports car, Sheng said, "You boys hold back. I want your leader to come with me while I get behind the wheel. Then I promise I will explain where you can find the real Punster."
The seven thugs grudgingly stayed where they were. It was partly because their ringleader waved at them not to move but it was also because the underworld had been shown many times that Sheng Mo-Yuan could be become absolutely bulletproof and was an unstoppable fighter in that state. The prospect of being pounded by a master arts master with a body harder than steel did not appeal to them.
Winding down his window, Sheng crooked a finger to make the man in the purple suit lean closer. "Now I'm keeping my end of the deal. Honestly, you guys need to clear out of here as fast as you can. I swiped the Silverado your buddies had at the Dew Drop Inn, okay? And I left Walter W Walters in it with the keys. I'm sure by now he's miles away and heading for one of his strongholds."
"Damn it, you said you'd return him to us..."
"No, I did not," Sheng said. "I said I'd tell you where he is. Oh, and on the way back here I called the police and filled them in on the situation. There will be about twenty tough Jersey cops pulling up any second with their tempers raw and their guns drawn. Good luck." Without warning, Sheng shoved the fake Punster so hard that the man did a nearly perfect backflip and landed face down in the dirt.
Gunning the powerful motor, Sheng peeled out and roared up the side street. He had to resist laughing in glee. As he swung right at the intersection, approaching from his left could be seen the familiar flashing red and blue lights. Those cruisers would be cutting off the entrance to the dead end street where the gang was.
Agita DeLeonibus swung around in the back seat to gaze behind them. "Poor Carmine. I hope he gets away. Maybe he'll run into the woods. He did make sure none of those awful men put a hand on me. But what am I going to tell our parents?"
Driving well over the speed limit, Sheng made two right hand turns and headed back east toward Manhattan. The faintest hint of sunrise showed in the sky ahead of them. "That worked out okay. No one got killed and I expect most of the gang will be caught and the loot recovered." He sighed unexpectedly. "It's too bad that Walters got away but I wanted to make sure the usurper didn't catch him. Now that I think of it, there are worse masterminds to have running around than the Punster."
"I think you did a simply amazing job," gushed Agita. "You're incredible. How did you even find us? How did you snatch that Walters guy right out from under their noses? And why were they all so intimidated by you?"
"Aaaahhhh," grumbled Uncle Pao. "He's finally picking up a few tricks. About time."
4/21/2018
