cabbage into my stomach.
“You look fat choy,” the Chinaman said.
Then he left me holding the cabbage.
“That’s it?” I spluttered as he started pushing his cart away. “I look ‘fat choy’?”
The Chinaman nodded. “You look fat choy.”
“Well, you look like a thievin’ bastard to me,” I spat back.
There was no time to demand a refund, though. I just spun on my heel and went diving for cover with the cabbage still clutched against my gut. I landed under the open window between Old Red and Diana.
The cabbage man shambled off grinning like the cat who ate the canary—and then had the goldfish for desert.
“You’re wasting your time up there,” I heard Mahoney say. “You know as well as I do—hatchet men don’t work like this. Not even Scientific. If Little Pete finally had Chan done in, he wouldn’t be
subtle
about it. He’d have him hacked to death in the middle of Dupont.” The cop’s heavy footfalls started up again. “Chan killed himself, and that’s all there is to it.”
“May-be,” someone replied. “May-be not.”
The words were heavily accented, the voice lilting—and familiar. It was Woon.
The thud-squeak-thud of footsteps on the stairs doubled, grew louder, then shifted to quieter shuffles. The two detectives were in the storage room, mere feet away from us.
“Hey,” Diana whispered. “What if they come out this way instead of out the front?”
The back door was so close, it’d smack my brother in the butt if it swung open now.
“Then we’re in a hell of a lot of trouble,” Old Red whispered back.
“Woon,
listen
,” Mahoney said.
His footsteps stopped.
I got set to start up my own—in a hurry.
“I know Chan was a Six Companies man,” Mahoney went on, and Diana, Gustav, and I each let out a quiet sigh of relief. “You’ve got Chun Ti Chu to answer to. Fine. Just spend the next couple days banging your favorite sing-song girl, then tell him you couldn’t dig anything up. Believe me, that’ll be a better use of your time than asking a bunch of stupid questions. Chan wasn’t murdered . . . no matter what Bullshit Bill Cody said.”
I glanced over at the man I assumed was “Bullshit Bill.” He wasn’t just keeping an ear to the window anymore—he’d leaned out far enough to get a peek inside.
I gave his leg an “Are you crazy?” swat.
He replied with a “Go away” flap of the hand.
“You right,” Woon said. “Probably.”
“Pra-bah-ree?” Mahoney sneered, mocking the Chinaman’s accent. “Jesus, Woon—you said yourself there was a suicide note. Speaking of which . . . you
were
gonna give that back to me, right?”
There was a brief silence before Woon answered.
“Of course.”
Then it went quiet again—so quiet I could hear the whisper that slipped from Old Red’s lips even though he didn’t put a puff of wind behind it.
“Hel-lo.”
I tried to poke up for a peep at whatever he’d seen, but Gustav laid his hand flat against the top of my boater and pushed me back down.
“Gee . . . thanks, Woon,” Mahoney said, his snide tone smearing the words like mud he was wiping on the other man’s shoes. “Now why don’t you do us both a favor? Don’t you ever—
ever
—try to slip anything past me again. Cuz the next time I catch you playing one of your little Chink games, I’ll break your fat neck. Sabe?”
Apparently, Woon nodded to show he had indeed sabed (whatever that meant) for Mahoney said, “
Good
. Now come on. I’ve wasted enough time here already.”
I braced again to make a break for it, maybe lob the only weapon I had—my cabbage—at Mahoney’s head. But the sound of footsteps that followed faded away quickly. Woon and Mahoney were headed out through the front of Chan’s shop, not the back.
Old Red finally let me stand up now, and I took a look in through the window. The storeroom was empty but for the boxes, bins, and crates stacked up here and there.
“Well, ‘Bill’—whadaya make of all
“You look fat choy,” the Chinaman said.
Then he left me holding the cabbage.
“That’s it?” I spluttered as he started pushing his cart away. “I look ‘fat choy’?”
The Chinaman nodded. “You look fat choy.”
“Well, you look like a thievin’ bastard to me,” I spat back.
There was no time to demand a refund, though. I just spun on my heel and went diving for cover with the cabbage still clutched against my gut. I landed under the open window between Old Red and Diana.
The cabbage man shambled off grinning like the cat who ate the canary—and then had the goldfish for desert.
“You’re wasting your time up there,” I heard Mahoney say. “You know as well as I do—hatchet men don’t work like this. Not even Scientific. If Little Pete finally had Chan done in, he wouldn’t be
subtle
about it. He’d have him hacked to death in the middle of Dupont.” The cop’s heavy footfalls started up again. “Chan killed himself, and that’s all there is to it.”
“May-be,” someone replied. “May-be not.”
The words were heavily accented, the voice lilting—and familiar. It was Woon.
The thud-squeak-thud of footsteps on the stairs doubled, grew louder, then shifted to quieter shuffles. The two detectives were in the storage room, mere feet away from us.
“Hey,” Diana whispered. “What if they come out this way instead of out the front?”
The back door was so close, it’d smack my brother in the butt if it swung open now.
“Then we’re in a hell of a lot of trouble,” Old Red whispered back.
“Woon,
listen
,” Mahoney said.
His footsteps stopped.
I got set to start up my own—in a hurry.
“I know Chan was a Six Companies man,” Mahoney went on, and Diana, Gustav, and I each let out a quiet sigh of relief. “You’ve got Chun Ti Chu to answer to. Fine. Just spend the next couple days banging your favorite sing-song girl, then tell him you couldn’t dig anything up. Believe me, that’ll be a better use of your time than asking a bunch of stupid questions. Chan wasn’t murdered . . . no matter what Bullshit Bill Cody said.”
I glanced over at the man I assumed was “Bullshit Bill.” He wasn’t just keeping an ear to the window anymore—he’d leaned out far enough to get a peek inside.
I gave his leg an “Are you crazy?” swat.
He replied with a “Go away” flap of the hand.
“You right,” Woon said. “Probably.”
“Pra-bah-ree?” Mahoney sneered, mocking the Chinaman’s accent. “Jesus, Woon—you said yourself there was a suicide note. Speaking of which . . . you
were
gonna give that back to me, right?”
There was a brief silence before Woon answered.
“Of course.”
Then it went quiet again—so quiet I could hear the whisper that slipped from Old Red’s lips even though he didn’t put a puff of wind behind it.
“Hel-lo.”
I tried to poke up for a peep at whatever he’d seen, but Gustav laid his hand flat against the top of my boater and pushed me back down.
“Gee . . . thanks, Woon,” Mahoney said, his snide tone smearing the words like mud he was wiping on the other man’s shoes. “Now why don’t you do us both a favor? Don’t you ever—
ever
—try to slip anything past me again. Cuz the next time I catch you playing one of your little Chink games, I’ll break your fat neck. Sabe?”
Apparently, Woon nodded to show he had indeed sabed (whatever that meant) for Mahoney said, “
Good
. Now come on. I’ve wasted enough time here already.”
I braced again to make a break for it, maybe lob the only weapon I had—my cabbage—at Mahoney’s head. But the sound of footsteps that followed faded away quickly. Woon and Mahoney were headed out through the front of Chan’s shop, not the back.
Old Red finally let me stand up now, and I took a look in through the window. The storeroom was empty but for the boxes, bins, and crates stacked up here and there.
“Well, ‘Bill’—whadaya make of all
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