The rattling stopped, and an instant later a sharp blow at the back of Seeley's knees sent him crashing to the pavement. A second blow stung a shoulder, and his chin struck the asphalt. A burst of high-pitched chatter like a quarrelsome flock of birds flew up from his assailants, and at once pointed sticks expertly dug and prodded at his body. The voices were harsh and nasal, and the words-it sounded like an Asian language-were as sharp as the probing sticks. His attackers were rebuking him for some offense.
In English, one cried, “DO NOT ENTER! DO NOT ENTER!”
Seeley turned in the direction of the screeching demand and raised himself, crooking an arm to protect his eyes from the continuing blows. He was looking at a boy, no older than seventeen or eighteen, his long dark hair streaked with blond, frantically shaking a bamboo rod in the direction of a street sign where the alley began. Seeley was stunned that the blows had already driven him this far from the intersection.
“DO NOT ENTER! DO NOT ENTER!”
The traffic sign at which the boy was pointing displayed a red circle with a slash through it, warning drivers not to enter the one-way alley. The boy's cries turned to shrieks of hysteria as he gestured with the bamboo to his companions. All three were in T-shirts and baggy chinos cut off above the ankle, rubber flip-flops on their feet. At a whoop from the leader, there was a flurry of lashings, several striking Seeley across the ribs, others pummeling his sides. The pain of each blow was excruciating, but Seeley forced himself not to cry out; he would not give them that satisfaction.
“DO NOT ENTER!” the leader jeered, his laughter pure idiot hatred.
The alley was empty, as was the crossing where the sticks first brought him down. Seeley could make out figures moving along Clay Street at the other end of the alley, but they were too distant to hear him even if he did call out. Street grit scraped at his jaw; the stench of garbage rotting at the curb sickened him. From his dog's-eye view the long brick wall of a building stretched across from him. Behind him, he remembered, was an empty parking lot surrounded by a torn chain-link fence. Even if anyone was watching from the dark tenements, no one would call for help. He had to get up; lying on the street like this, he could not possibly maneuver. But when he moved to rise, the beatings quickened.
Seeley felt a tug of nausea, the taste of copper at the back of his throat. These are kids, he told himself. If they were going to rob or seriously injure him, they would have done so by now. Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself up, forced his body into a crouch, waited for his strength to gather, then lunged at the youth closest to him, the leader. He caught the boy's wrist and, twisting it against his back so that the bamboo dropped, Seeley lifted and hurled him against the chain fence. The surprise of the boy's weightlessness threw Seeley off balance. When the dazed youth came back at him-a rebound, not an act of will-Seeley circled one arm around a thin neck and with the other again pulled the boy's arm up behind his back.
While his captive gasped and whimpered, the two other youths froze, staring at Seeley, uncertain of what the rules now were. Panic replaced the empty looks and one, then the other, dropped their bamboo rods and ran off in the direction of Clay Street. So much for loyalty, Seeley thought. The leader was shivering in Seeley's grip, his entire body exhaling a spoiled, meaty smell. Breathless, Seeley said, “What's this about?”
The panting youth didn't answer.
Through the cheap T-shirt, Seeley felt the boy's heart beating frantically, like a small bird's. He said, “Your friends aren't coming back to help you.” Against his will, Seeley felt sympathy for the terrified boy-why did he take pity on his tormentors? — and thrust him away. “Get out of here!”
Staggering, the boy went down the alley where the others had gone. Pain seeped into Seeley's bones as he bent down, lifted the bamboo rods, and threw them over the chain-link fence. Then he walked to the corner and retrieved his briefcase.
The traffic on Sacramento was light and none of the few pedestrians noticed as Seeley made his slow, unsteady way up the hill. He thought about the strangeness of the encounter. The boys had demanded nothing from him. Not a word they said, in English at least, indicated racism. He would have expected a street thug to be strong, a scrapper, yet the leader was a weakling and his companions were cowards; had he restrained the boy any more strenuously, Seeley was certain that he would have snapped his bones. The oddest part was how dispassionately, almost casually, the attack unfolded, even the leader's rant about the do not enter sign. It was as if the boys were amateurs reading a script for the first time. Their panic, when Seeley struck back, was as much from ignorance as fear.
When Seeley came into the Huntington lobby, the clerk at the reception desk greeted him gaily, then stopped short. “Are you all right, Mr. Seeley?” The worried look showed more than professional concern. “Would you like us to call a doctor?”
Seeley realized that he had no idea how torn-up he looked. “No, I'm fine. Thanks.”
The man's look lingered for another moment as if he were making a decision. Then he gestured for Seeley to wait as he retrieved an envelope from beneath the counter.
The cheap feel of the unmarked envelope as Seeley opened it reminded him of his attacker's thin T-shirt. Inside the envelope was a folded square of newsprint, no larger than a cocktail napkin, advertising an expensive brand of wristwatch. He turned the scrap over and at once recognized the typeface of the San Francisco Chronicle. The story had the terse rhythm of the police blotter and was about gangs of three to five Vietnamese youths attacking lone pedestrians, evidently without discrimination, usually at night in deserted areas, but occasionally even on crowded sidewalks during the day. Sometimes wallets, purses, and watches were taken, other times not; always the attacks were conducted with bamboo sticks the length of a fishing rod or longer.
“Who delivered this?”
“An Asian boy, a couple of hours ago.”
“Have you seen him before?”
The clerk shook his head. “I remembered because none of our usual messengers are Asian. It was the first time I've seen him.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“He wasn't here for more than a second or two.” The man was still studying Seeley's injuries. “Are you sure there's no way we can be of assistance to you?”
Sure, Seeley thought, tell me who set me up to be attacked and then sent this clipping so that I'd know it was a warning, not a random act. He rubbed the flimsy newsprint between his fingers as if it were the wrapping of some absent magic lantern whose genie might yet appear.
Seeley went to his room and dialed Lily's number. There was no answer, so he left a message on her machine for her to call him when she returned.
TWENTY
Seeley was dressing slowly and painfully when the telephone rang. He felt as if last night's beating hadn't missed a square inch of his body.
“Mike?”
He started to speak, but his jaw stiffened.
“Are you okay? I got your message. Gail Odum said you were in some kind of trouble.”
A newspaper reporter sees you follow a judge into chambers alone and she concludes, correctly, that you have a problem. Seeley massaged his jaw, but to no effect.
“The trial's gone off the rails. I need your help.” The word left his lips with surprising ease.
“This is about Alan's notebooks?”
Of course Lily wouldn't know about the collusion between Vaxtek and St. Gall. It was a week since Seeley last saw her, when he hadn't even known of Steinhardt's double bookkeeping. “You knew he kept two sets of books, didn't you?”
“Gail didn't say anything about it coming out in court.”
Seeley stretched one shoulder, then the other. A boiling shower had done nothing to ease the soreness. “Lily, in this country you can't play around with the judicial system like that. People go to jail. Lawyers get disbarred.”
“But nothing happened, so no one's hurt.”
