"Old Man With a Hatchet"
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dochermes"Old Man With a Hatchet"
8/9/1954
I.
At six o'clock that night, the breeze through the open window was still insultingly hot. Dry infernal Santa Ana winds had been blowing all day, setting everyone's nerves on edge, igniting fires out in the eastern woodlands and making the city more miserable than the norm. In the two-room office over Muneca Street, the slowly rotating ceiling fan only redistributed the stuffy ovenlike air in a half-hearted way.
Only a small reading lamp on the desk was on. In its limited circle of light, Pilgrim's big sinewy hands could be seen pouring a little more bourbon into a shot glass, then raising that glass to be studied in self-reproach before it was gulped down. On the desk was a glass ash tray holding six crumpled butts, conveniently next to a nearly empty sterling silver case holding two thin black cigars and a black Zippo lighter. The phone rested silently in its cradle, the metal IN and OUT trays had been emptied. The office was dark and silent. Pilgrim sat there, thinking about life and death, mulling over what had happened little more than a week ago.
Killing wasn't the frivolous pastime it seemed to be in those tough-guy movies he had devoured as a kid, where the hero shot down a dozen bad guys and then made a snappy remark before moving on with the girl. It wasn't even like it had been during those hellish days on those stinking mud islands in the Pacific ten years ago, where the bullets hummed overhead like hornets annoyed at missing you and where agonized screams echoed from just out of sight. Service in wartime was duty. This week had been personal. He had been close enough to see the expression on the gunman's doughy face when he had glanced up to see Pilgrim looming in the doorway. Both men had fired, but only one had aimed accurately. And Pilgrim was here tonight to remember it all.
There had been no other way. The child had been tied up and drugged in the next room. Once a ransom had been agreed on, the kidnaper would have killed her away and hidden the body before going to snatch up that paper bag of hundred dollar bills. Kidnapers had little to lose, they had already commited a capital crime with a death penalty attached. And certainly there had been no alternative action for Pilgrim to try. Gus Jacob's hand was already rising with that big .46 automatic ready to blast. Definitely, Pilgrim had done the only thing open to him.
It shouldn't bother him. But it did.
At forty, Pilgrim seemed older than his years. There was no grey in the curly black hair, nor in the thick mustache under a rather prominent nose. But the face had deep fissures down each cheek and there was were lines at the outer edges of the watchful dark eyes. What he had survived had marked him. In the dim light of the single lamp, he was almost invisible wearing all black clothing. The well-fitting suit with its black dress shirt had a medium grey necktie as the only break in the monochrome. That jacket had been skillfully tailored so that the holster strapped to his left side not far below the armpit was not noticeable.
In sudden disgust at himself, Pilgrim firmly capped the bottle of bourbon and placed it with the shot glass in the deep lower right drawer of his desk. This brooding was all a waste of time. He should be back in his apartment on Benitez Boulevard, taking a steaming hot shower and then seeking comfort in cool dry satin sheets where he could sleep without dreams. Tomorrow would mean a fresh start. Maybe he would close his office and spend a day at the racetrack or driving up the coastline and breathing in salty ocean air. Have a slow indulgent lunch outdoors at some bistro, perhaps find a used book store...
Out in the hall, he heard the street door close, then the tapping light footsteps up the stairs. He listened with a practiced ear. Not a man stepping stealthily but the clack of heels. A woman, not weighing much. At this time of night, the real estate office and the travel agency which also shared this floor were both closed but the light in his window could have been seen from the street.
Reaching up under his suit jacket, Pilgrim thumbed off the safety and loosened his handcrafted Colt revolver in its holster. He had no active cases at the moment, but there were many in the City of Angels who bore him bitter grudges.
When a soft double tap sounded against the frost glass panel on his door, Pilgrim called out, "It's unlocked, come right in."
As the woman entered and peered uncertainly about, Pilgrim leaned back in his chair and flicked the switch which turned on the two standing lamps, then rose to his feet. In a flash, he added up his impressions. Asian, either Chinese or maybe Korean, not more than twenty years old and possibly still in her late teens. The glossy black hair was cut short in a professional style. She was wearing shoes with short heels, a snug black skirt and a long-sleeved white silk blouse with a double strand of pearls under the collar. Over one shoulder hung a small black handbag which she now swung around to hold defensively in front of her.
The woman was presentable, attractive in a well-kept healthy way but by no means gorgeous. Her make-up was so minimal he only saw it because he was studying her. The large dark eyes had a single fold in the inner corner, and those eyes held the same fear and uneasiness he had seen in so many clients at first meeting.
"Mr Pilgrim?" she asked without any noticeable accent. "It IS Mr Pilgrim, am I right?"
"That's right, please make yourself comfortable." He gestured to the single chair facing his desk and waited for her to be seated before sitting back down himself. "My office hours usually end at five, you realize."
"There was a light in your window. Your agency PILGRIM INVESTIGATIONS is written on the glass. I had to see if you were still here. Mr Pilgrim, you MUST help me. First, I'm trying to find my mother, I don't know where she is in this city, I have come here to locate her. But more urgently than that, I believe I'm being followed. By an old man with a hatchet!"
II.
This final statement took Pilgrim by surprise. He managed to keep his usual poker face but he did remark, "That seems unusual even for one of my potential clients. Your name would be?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I am Cheng-Yuan Chou, but my adoptive family gave me the Western firm name Tina and I have become used to it. I'm from Lunming, a coastal city."
"Okay. So 'Chou,' that's your family name, right? Miss Chou?"
"Yes. You may call me Tina if you prefer. I have only been in America thirty-six hours. The small amount of money I managed to bring with me is used up, I am frantic, Mr Pilgrim..."
He raised a hand and made his voice reassuring. "Whoa, calm down. Tina. Let's learn more about the situation first. You don't have any friends or relatives here in the States?"
"No. Only my mother, I think. Her name is Chou Pieng. I know she escaped from our homeland almost ten years ago. That was a time of confusion, you remember. Japanese troops killing and raping and torturing, the two armies of the Nationalists and the Communists fighting each other more than they fought the Japs. And many areas were controlled by local warlords who were little more than glorified bandits. I remember almost nothing of that time. Maybe it is better that way."
"Yes, I wish I remembered almost nothing about the War," he responded. "So you're alone in this country? What did you tell them when you presented your passport?"
She did not reply. The stained bare wood floor seemed to hold her full attention.
"No passport?" asked the man in black. "Tina, I need to see some form of identification and I need to see it right now."
"I have nothing. I was brought here in a small boat that was lowered off a ship five miles out to sea. A man on your Ventura Highway saw me walking and kindly brought me to this part of the city. It is here that my mother was thought to have come."
Pilgrim buried his face in hands, took a deep breath and lifted his dark eyes to meet her alarmed gaze. "Are you TRYING to get me thrown in jail, lady? The FBI would love this. A private eye alone with a woman who is in the country illegally from Red China. No papers. No ID. Maybe a spy, maybe not, but in any case the G-Men would feel a few years in Federal prison would teach me not to consort with foreign mystery women."
"But... I have done nothing. I was a teaching assistant. My family sold what few belongings they had retained to send me. Mr Pilgrim, I have come to you for help!"
Her voice rang true. She sounded sincere. But he had been deceived many times before. Pilgrim sat up straighter and stared at her as if looking for the flaws in a counterfeit bill. "Forget that for the moment. What's this about the old man with the hatchet?"
"He is called Hsien Sheng, 'the Elder Born.' We whisper tales of his cruelty and violence to give ourselves shudders as one might repeat ghost tales. He is easily recognized. His white hair has not been cut for decades, nor his beard, and his eyebrows are pointed like horns."
"And he lugs around a hatchet for his profession? Forgive my skepticism. Tong Wars and hatchet men are as out of date as mustache wax. They're old-fashioned, extinct."
"If only that were true," she said. "Hsien Sheng has worked his craft in Boston, New York, San Francisco. Now he seems to be here. I have seen him watching me not an hour ago."
"And what would be your connection with this antique?" Pilgrim demanded as he stood up again, starting to get annoyed despite himself. The first rule was not to believe anything a potential client said without corroborating it. "What does the old man with the cleaver want with you?"
"I cannot imagine," she said. "I have never even written a letter to anyone in America. All I can think is that I might seem vulnerable. A young Chinese girl by herself, walking alone at night. There are such things as Tong brothels where abducted women are forced to work. Maybe that is what he plans for me."
"I suppose." Pilgrim swung around toward the window so that he could collect his thoughts for a second. There on the street two stories below, someone grinned up at him from a doorway. An old man with a long white beard and white eyebrows that stuck up like horns.
III.
Stepping back easily as if he had not noticed the walker, Pilgrim returned to the swivel chair behind his desk. "Tina, I want you to come over here. Please stand with your back to the window so you can be seen from the street. Maybe pretend to be looking at the bookcase."
"He's out there, isn't he? I was afraid he followed me here." She complied, leaning over to study the thick volumes in the chest high bookcase.
Pulling his phone closer, Pilgrim began dialing. "I only have a few friends in the local Chinese community, but I think there is one who might able to help."
As his conversation with whoever answered was not enlightening after her mother's name was mentioned at the beginning, Tina Chou really did glance over the well-worn books which were obviously not there for show. A lot of history, some legal reference books, one or two travel guides to the area. These last had several slips of paper sticking out to mark places.
When Pilgrim thanked his friend and hung up, he scowled down at the desk in front of him. Tina straightened up and gave him a quizzical look. "REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST, and in the original French? I'm impressed."
"Reading Proust in translation is like hearing someone try to tell you a joke they only heard once years ago," Pilgrim said. "I think we may be able to surprise this hatchet fiend. Are you game for a little charade?""
"Whatever you say. My nerves are close to fraying."
He stood up, looming up almost a full foot taller than the petite girl. "Here is the address. 1712 Winslet Boulevard. That's a good ten minute walk from here, turning left in front of this building."
"I came past that area on my way here. I hope you will be coming with me, Mr Pilgrim."
"I will be close by. If I am on my game, you will not see me but be assured I will have you in sight. When you get to 1712, go to the rear of the building. The door will be unlocked."
She turned moist eyes up toward him but her voice was steady. "Have you learned anything about my mother?"
"Yes. I think I can say that much."
IV.
The brick annex to the Chinese restaurant GOOD FORTUNE had a single light bulb burning over the rear door. A green metal dumpster for the restaurant stood along the annex wall. Tina Chou reached out to grasp the doorknob and then hesitated. From out of the shadows between the buildings emerged a gaunt figure in dark shirt and loose baggy trousers. In that harsh light, the old man looked even more demonic than before. If he was carrying his notorious hatchet, it was well hidden.
>"How touching when parent reunites with child,"< he said in Cantonese.
>"Not now, you fool,<" she replied and then swung the door open and rushed inside. A bony but still strong hand clenched on the door and kept her from closing it behind her. But then Hsien Sheng wheeled about, reaching to the small of his back and whipped a brightly polished steel hatchet in circles that missed Pilgrim's face by less than an inch with each pass.
The detective backpedaled quickly. He kept in good condition and was an experienced boxer but he couldn't even follow the motions of that finely-honed blade, let alone hope to defend himself against it. "Ease up there, grandfather," he said. "We're getting near the end of this little charade."
Instead of replying with words, the assassin hopped in closer and drew his knee up to his own armpit, then whipped his long leg out to kick Pilgrim square in the chest. Again, the man in black didn't see the attack coming and was driven back a few steps as the air left his lungs with a whoosh.
"You have never heard the word Shaolin, have you?" Hsien Sheng. "Bah. Ignorant barbarian, all of you white devils." He plunged into the open door of the brick annex, ran through a small foyer where jackets and hats hung on a long row of pegs and stopped as he found himself in a high-ceilinged room almost bare except for hard thin mats along with wall.
Twelve young Asian men stood watching him with unfriendly gaze. Some wore street clothes, some wore a uniform of black trousers and loose shirt on which was sewn a patch featuring a clenched fist. Rising from a folding chair against the far wall was an older, stouter Chinese man with greying hair and a bristling mustache. He held out an open hand toward the intruders and both Tina and Hsien Sheng stood confused where they were.
"Greetings," said the man. "I am Sifu Po Yiu-Gan. This is the training hall of our school, where I try to introduce these boys to my style, the Black Mantis. Ah, I see you recognize our way."
Hsien Sheng slowly bent and placed his hatchet on the bare wooden floor and slid it out of reach. "Black Mantis! Oh, yes, the name has earned respect. I am bound by our code, Master Po. Come, let us try our skills."
"Sadly, you know that is not proper. My senior student must act on my behalf. Are you ready, Ling?"
Before the tallest Chinese there, a man about twenty with a square pugnacious face, could respond, the black-clad figure of Pilgrim entered the room. He was rubbing his chest gingerly. "Glad to see you again, Master Po."
"A white man in your Kwoon?" demanded the elderly killer with genuine offence in his voice. "He should know even know gung fu exists."
"Pilgrim has twice done me great service and asked nothing in return," Master Po replied. "Class, move back so that Lee and this ruffian may test their skills."
Both the Black Mantis student and the hatchet killer extended their left hand folded over the right fist as a respectful salutation to each other. Then they lunged at each other in a vicious storm of low kicks and sharp hooking punches. Their timing and precision was astonishing, the sounds of impact almost seemed to perceptibly follow the blows.
Watching, Pilgrim winced in sympathy at the damage both men were taking. He also resolved to spend an additional afternoon in the ring at Mahoney's Gym, three times a week instead of twice. He had considered himself reasonably good with his dukes but these two were blurs of deadly skill.
There was a sharp cracking noise and Ling swerved back as Hsien Sheng dropped to his hands and knees, then stretched out full length on the floor with blood oozing from a torn lip.
V.
The senior student stepped back away from the dazed form sprawled on the hardwood. He turned toward his Sifu, bowed deeply and said, "I do not feel it does me honor to contend with one of his years."
"Ling, you were defending your teacher and preventing this rogue from taking further lives," Master Po replied evenly. "You did what was right. I will now phone the FBI office in this city to come take him. Hsien Sheng is wanted for murder in at least four states."
Unnoticed back by the rear door, Tina Chou slid a delicate hand into her open bag but froze motionless at hearing a click near her ear. Moving only her eyes, not turning her head, she saw the infinite black tunnel of a revolver barrel inches from her head.
"Hold your breath," Pilgrim told her. "Ten seconds, fifteen seconds." He snatched the handbag from where it hung over one narrow shoulder and tucked it under his free arm. "It's heavy, all right. Seems like you brought a little equalizer to the party. Okay, you can breathe now."
As she saw the detective carefully lower the hammer on his pistol, Tina stammered. "I don't understand. What are you doing? What has all this to do with finding my mother?"
"Ah, there's the rough spot," Pilgrim said. "Hsien Sheng kept letting you escape when he could have easily put a new part in your hair with his toy. But why would he spare you? Because you were both working for the Intelligence agency of the Glorious Peoples' Republic. Don't bother pretending outrage. I was being used to locate Mrs Chou for you so that Hatchet Man there could execute her. He sure wasn't having any luck finding her on his own."
As Tina Chou objected, Sifu Po raised a calloused hand to silence her. "Earlier tonight, my old friend Pilgrim called me. I told him to come here and hoped this assassin would follow. As it happens, I do know the lady Chou Pieng well. And her family as well. I know she has never had a daughter."
9/2/2020
8/9/1954
I.
At six o'clock that night, the breeze through the open window was still insultingly hot. Dry infernal Santa Ana winds had been blowing all day, setting everyone's nerves on edge, igniting fires out in the eastern woodlands and making the city more miserable than the norm. In the two-room office over Muneca Street, the slowly rotating ceiling fan only redistributed the stuffy ovenlike air in a half-hearted way.
Only a small reading lamp on the desk was on. In its limited circle of light, Pilgrim's big sinewy hands could be seen pouring a little more bourbon into a shot glass, then raising that glass to be studied in self-reproach before it was gulped down. On the desk was a glass ash tray holding six crumpled butts, conveniently next to a nearly empty sterling silver case holding two thin black cigars and a black Zippo lighter. The phone rested silently in its cradle, the metal IN and OUT trays had been emptied. The office was dark and silent. Pilgrim sat there, thinking about life and death, mulling over what had happened little more than a week ago.
Killing wasn't the frivolous pastime it seemed to be in those tough-guy movies he had devoured as a kid, where the hero shot down a dozen bad guys and then made a snappy remark before moving on with the girl. It wasn't even like it had been during those hellish days on those stinking mud islands in the Pacific ten years ago, where the bullets hummed overhead like hornets annoyed at missing you and where agonized screams echoed from just out of sight. Service in wartime was duty. This week had been personal. He had been close enough to see the expression on the gunman's doughy face when he had glanced up to see Pilgrim looming in the doorway. Both men had fired, but only one had aimed accurately. And Pilgrim was here tonight to remember it all.
There had been no other way. The child had been tied up and drugged in the next room. Once a ransom had been agreed on, the kidnaper would have killed her away and hidden the body before going to snatch up that paper bag of hundred dollar bills. Kidnapers had little to lose, they had already commited a capital crime with a death penalty attached. And certainly there had been no alternative action for Pilgrim to try. Gus Jacob's hand was already rising with that big .46 automatic ready to blast. Definitely, Pilgrim had done the only thing open to him.
It shouldn't bother him. But it did.
At forty, Pilgrim seemed older than his years. There was no grey in the curly black hair, nor in the thick mustache under a rather prominent nose. But the face had deep fissures down each cheek and there was were lines at the outer edges of the watchful dark eyes. What he had survived had marked him. In the dim light of the single lamp, he was almost invisible wearing all black clothing. The well-fitting suit with its black dress shirt had a medium grey necktie as the only break in the monochrome. That jacket had been skillfully tailored so that the holster strapped to his left side not far below the armpit was not noticeable.
In sudden disgust at himself, Pilgrim firmly capped the bottle of bourbon and placed it with the shot glass in the deep lower right drawer of his desk. This brooding was all a waste of time. He should be back in his apartment on Benitez Boulevard, taking a steaming hot shower and then seeking comfort in cool dry satin sheets where he could sleep without dreams. Tomorrow would mean a fresh start. Maybe he would close his office and spend a day at the racetrack or driving up the coastline and breathing in salty ocean air. Have a slow indulgent lunch outdoors at some bistro, perhaps find a used book store...
Out in the hall, he heard the street door close, then the tapping light footsteps up the stairs. He listened with a practiced ear. Not a man stepping stealthily but the clack of heels. A woman, not weighing much. At this time of night, the real estate office and the travel agency which also shared this floor were both closed but the light in his window could have been seen from the street.
Reaching up under his suit jacket, Pilgrim thumbed off the safety and loosened his handcrafted Colt revolver in its holster. He had no active cases at the moment, but there were many in the City of Angels who bore him bitter grudges.
When a soft double tap sounded against the frost glass panel on his door, Pilgrim called out, "It's unlocked, come right in."
As the woman entered and peered uncertainly about, Pilgrim leaned back in his chair and flicked the switch which turned on the two standing lamps, then rose to his feet. In a flash, he added up his impressions. Asian, either Chinese or maybe Korean, not more than twenty years old and possibly still in her late teens. The glossy black hair was cut short in a professional style. She was wearing shoes with short heels, a snug black skirt and a long-sleeved white silk blouse with a double strand of pearls under the collar. Over one shoulder hung a small black handbag which she now swung around to hold defensively in front of her.
The woman was presentable, attractive in a well-kept healthy way but by no means gorgeous. Her make-up was so minimal he only saw it because he was studying her. The large dark eyes had a single fold in the inner corner, and those eyes held the same fear and uneasiness he had seen in so many clients at first meeting.
"Mr Pilgrim?" she asked without any noticeable accent. "It IS Mr Pilgrim, am I right?"
"That's right, please make yourself comfortable." He gestured to the single chair facing his desk and waited for her to be seated before sitting back down himself. "My office hours usually end at five, you realize."
"There was a light in your window. Your agency PILGRIM INVESTIGATIONS is written on the glass. I had to see if you were still here. Mr Pilgrim, you MUST help me. First, I'm trying to find my mother, I don't know where she is in this city, I have come here to locate her. But more urgently than that, I believe I'm being followed. By an old man with a hatchet!"
II.
This final statement took Pilgrim by surprise. He managed to keep his usual poker face but he did remark, "That seems unusual even for one of my potential clients. Your name would be?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I am Cheng-Yuan Chou, but my adoptive family gave me the Western firm name Tina and I have become used to it. I'm from Lunming, a coastal city."
"Okay. So 'Chou,' that's your family name, right? Miss Chou?"
"Yes. You may call me Tina if you prefer. I have only been in America thirty-six hours. The small amount of money I managed to bring with me is used up, I am frantic, Mr Pilgrim..."
He raised a hand and made his voice reassuring. "Whoa, calm down. Tina. Let's learn more about the situation first. You don't have any friends or relatives here in the States?"
"No. Only my mother, I think. Her name is Chou Pieng. I know she escaped from our homeland almost ten years ago. That was a time of confusion, you remember. Japanese troops killing and raping and torturing, the two armies of the Nationalists and the Communists fighting each other more than they fought the Japs. And many areas were controlled by local warlords who were little more than glorified bandits. I remember almost nothing of that time. Maybe it is better that way."
"Yes, I wish I remembered almost nothing about the War," he responded. "So you're alone in this country? What did you tell them when you presented your passport?"
She did not reply. The stained bare wood floor seemed to hold her full attention.
"No passport?" asked the man in black. "Tina, I need to see some form of identification and I need to see it right now."
"I have nothing. I was brought here in a small boat that was lowered off a ship five miles out to sea. A man on your Ventura Highway saw me walking and kindly brought me to this part of the city. It is here that my mother was thought to have come."
Pilgrim buried his face in hands, took a deep breath and lifted his dark eyes to meet her alarmed gaze. "Are you TRYING to get me thrown in jail, lady? The FBI would love this. A private eye alone with a woman who is in the country illegally from Red China. No papers. No ID. Maybe a spy, maybe not, but in any case the G-Men would feel a few years in Federal prison would teach me not to consort with foreign mystery women."
"But... I have done nothing. I was a teaching assistant. My family sold what few belongings they had retained to send me. Mr Pilgrim, I have come to you for help!"
Her voice rang true. She sounded sincere. But he had been deceived many times before. Pilgrim sat up straighter and stared at her as if looking for the flaws in a counterfeit bill. "Forget that for the moment. What's this about the old man with the hatchet?"
"He is called Hsien Sheng, 'the Elder Born.' We whisper tales of his cruelty and violence to give ourselves shudders as one might repeat ghost tales. He is easily recognized. His white hair has not been cut for decades, nor his beard, and his eyebrows are pointed like horns."
"And he lugs around a hatchet for his profession? Forgive my skepticism. Tong Wars and hatchet men are as out of date as mustache wax. They're old-fashioned, extinct."
"If only that were true," she said. "Hsien Sheng has worked his craft in Boston, New York, San Francisco. Now he seems to be here. I have seen him watching me not an hour ago."
"And what would be your connection with this antique?" Pilgrim demanded as he stood up again, starting to get annoyed despite himself. The first rule was not to believe anything a potential client said without corroborating it. "What does the old man with the cleaver want with you?"
"I cannot imagine," she said. "I have never even written a letter to anyone in America. All I can think is that I might seem vulnerable. A young Chinese girl by herself, walking alone at night. There are such things as Tong brothels where abducted women are forced to work. Maybe that is what he plans for me."
"I suppose." Pilgrim swung around toward the window so that he could collect his thoughts for a second. There on the street two stories below, someone grinned up at him from a doorway. An old man with a long white beard and white eyebrows that stuck up like horns.
III.
Stepping back easily as if he had not noticed the walker, Pilgrim returned to the swivel chair behind his desk. "Tina, I want you to come over here. Please stand with your back to the window so you can be seen from the street. Maybe pretend to be looking at the bookcase."
"He's out there, isn't he? I was afraid he followed me here." She complied, leaning over to study the thick volumes in the chest high bookcase.
Pulling his phone closer, Pilgrim began dialing. "I only have a few friends in the local Chinese community, but I think there is one who might able to help."
As his conversation with whoever answered was not enlightening after her mother's name was mentioned at the beginning, Tina Chou really did glance over the well-worn books which were obviously not there for show. A lot of history, some legal reference books, one or two travel guides to the area. These last had several slips of paper sticking out to mark places.
When Pilgrim thanked his friend and hung up, he scowled down at the desk in front of him. Tina straightened up and gave him a quizzical look. "REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST, and in the original French? I'm impressed."
"Reading Proust in translation is like hearing someone try to tell you a joke they only heard once years ago," Pilgrim said. "I think we may be able to surprise this hatchet fiend. Are you game for a little charade?""
"Whatever you say. My nerves are close to fraying."
He stood up, looming up almost a full foot taller than the petite girl. "Here is the address. 1712 Winslet Boulevard. That's a good ten minute walk from here, turning left in front of this building."
"I came past that area on my way here. I hope you will be coming with me, Mr Pilgrim."
"I will be close by. If I am on my game, you will not see me but be assured I will have you in sight. When you get to 1712, go to the rear of the building. The door will be unlocked."
She turned moist eyes up toward him but her voice was steady. "Have you learned anything about my mother?"
"Yes. I think I can say that much."
IV.
The brick annex to the Chinese restaurant GOOD FORTUNE had a single light bulb burning over the rear door. A green metal dumpster for the restaurant stood along the annex wall. Tina Chou reached out to grasp the doorknob and then hesitated. From out of the shadows between the buildings emerged a gaunt figure in dark shirt and loose baggy trousers. In that harsh light, the old man looked even more demonic than before. If he was carrying his notorious hatchet, it was well hidden.
>"How touching when parent reunites with child,"< he said in Cantonese.
>"Not now, you fool,<" she replied and then swung the door open and rushed inside. A bony but still strong hand clenched on the door and kept her from closing it behind her. But then Hsien Sheng wheeled about, reaching to the small of his back and whipped a brightly polished steel hatchet in circles that missed Pilgrim's face by less than an inch with each pass.
The detective backpedaled quickly. He kept in good condition and was an experienced boxer but he couldn't even follow the motions of that finely-honed blade, let alone hope to defend himself against it. "Ease up there, grandfather," he said. "We're getting near the end of this little charade."
Instead of replying with words, the assassin hopped in closer and drew his knee up to his own armpit, then whipped his long leg out to kick Pilgrim square in the chest. Again, the man in black didn't see the attack coming and was driven back a few steps as the air left his lungs with a whoosh.
"You have never heard the word Shaolin, have you?" Hsien Sheng. "Bah. Ignorant barbarian, all of you white devils." He plunged into the open door of the brick annex, ran through a small foyer where jackets and hats hung on a long row of pegs and stopped as he found himself in a high-ceilinged room almost bare except for hard thin mats along with wall.
Twelve young Asian men stood watching him with unfriendly gaze. Some wore street clothes, some wore a uniform of black trousers and loose shirt on which was sewn a patch featuring a clenched fist. Rising from a folding chair against the far wall was an older, stouter Chinese man with greying hair and a bristling mustache. He held out an open hand toward the intruders and both Tina and Hsien Sheng stood confused where they were.
"Greetings," said the man. "I am Sifu Po Yiu-Gan. This is the training hall of our school, where I try to introduce these boys to my style, the Black Mantis. Ah, I see you recognize our way."
Hsien Sheng slowly bent and placed his hatchet on the bare wooden floor and slid it out of reach. "Black Mantis! Oh, yes, the name has earned respect. I am bound by our code, Master Po. Come, let us try our skills."
"Sadly, you know that is not proper. My senior student must act on my behalf. Are you ready, Ling?"
Before the tallest Chinese there, a man about twenty with a square pugnacious face, could respond, the black-clad figure of Pilgrim entered the room. He was rubbing his chest gingerly. "Glad to see you again, Master Po."
"A white man in your Kwoon?" demanded the elderly killer with genuine offence in his voice. "He should know even know gung fu exists."
"Pilgrim has twice done me great service and asked nothing in return," Master Po replied. "Class, move back so that Lee and this ruffian may test their skills."
Both the Black Mantis student and the hatchet killer extended their left hand folded over the right fist as a respectful salutation to each other. Then they lunged at each other in a vicious storm of low kicks and sharp hooking punches. Their timing and precision was astonishing, the sounds of impact almost seemed to perceptibly follow the blows.
Watching, Pilgrim winced in sympathy at the damage both men were taking. He also resolved to spend an additional afternoon in the ring at Mahoney's Gym, three times a week instead of twice. He had considered himself reasonably good with his dukes but these two were blurs of deadly skill.
There was a sharp cracking noise and Ling swerved back as Hsien Sheng dropped to his hands and knees, then stretched out full length on the floor with blood oozing from a torn lip.
V.
The senior student stepped back away from the dazed form sprawled on the hardwood. He turned toward his Sifu, bowed deeply and said, "I do not feel it does me honor to contend with one of his years."
"Ling, you were defending your teacher and preventing this rogue from taking further lives," Master Po replied evenly. "You did what was right. I will now phone the FBI office in this city to come take him. Hsien Sheng is wanted for murder in at least four states."
Unnoticed back by the rear door, Tina Chou slid a delicate hand into her open bag but froze motionless at hearing a click near her ear. Moving only her eyes, not turning her head, she saw the infinite black tunnel of a revolver barrel inches from her head.
"Hold your breath," Pilgrim told her. "Ten seconds, fifteen seconds." He snatched the handbag from where it hung over one narrow shoulder and tucked it under his free arm. "It's heavy, all right. Seems like you brought a little equalizer to the party. Okay, you can breathe now."
As she saw the detective carefully lower the hammer on his pistol, Tina stammered. "I don't understand. What are you doing? What has all this to do with finding my mother?"
"Ah, there's the rough spot," Pilgrim said. "Hsien Sheng kept letting you escape when he could have easily put a new part in your hair with his toy. But why would he spare you? Because you were both working for the Intelligence agency of the Glorious Peoples' Republic. Don't bother pretending outrage. I was being used to locate Mrs Chou for you so that Hatchet Man there could execute her. He sure wasn't having any luck finding her on his own."
As Tina Chou objected, Sifu Po raised a calloused hand to silence her. "Earlier tonight, my old friend Pilgrim called me. I told him to come here and hoped this assassin would follow. As it happens, I do know the lady Chou Pieng well. And her family as well. I know she has never had a daughter."
9/2/2020
