had told him about were Johnny-come-lately descendants of what had evolved from China centuries before. “What you know about the Bamboo Gang, or the Dragons or whatever—the Hui Dao Meng—these are only one element within a brotherhood that embraces every imaginable religious belief, cultural aspect and code. Some are bad. Some are good. But they are interlocked by history and'—he searched for some way to say it—'attitude, you know?'
“And your brother is part of this?'
“Yes.'
“Can your brother find her for us?'
“Of course.” Lee said. “If he will.'
“Then let's give it a shot.'
“That's what we're doing. He'll talk to me. But he is very orthodox in his beliefs. I think I know what he will say.” Lee stared ahead as they approached the Kowloon peninsula.
When the ferry reached the other side, Lee's brother met them. There was a cold exchange of greetings. They did not embrace. The entire conversation was in Chinese and it became very heated. The whole time he was in his presence Lee's brother never acknowledged that Eichord was there except when Jimmie had first introduced them and Jack heard his name; the brother glanced at him and perhaps gave a slight nod of his head. To Eichord, who would never forget this man, he would never be Lee's brother. He would think of him only as The Man in Kowloon.
Lee and Eichord left, eventually, with the woman's whereabouts. Lee had, he said, blackmailed his brother. “I told him about the crib deaths. That by sheltering her they were protecting the worst kind of human filth—a child killer. That's what did it. He says anything there was between us is gone. We are no longer brothers. I've forced him to compromise his honor. And so forth.'
“I'm sorry, man.” But he wasn't at all. Not yet. That would come later.
“Well'—he said, tilting his head—'if that's the way he wants it, that's all right. He never really thought of me as a brother anyway. I was the American cop to him.” Lee looked at Eichord. He wants us to come before the brotherhood as payment for obtaining the information. I'll have to go. You don't.'
“What do you mean, come before the brotherhood?'
“He wants us to see what giving this information has cost him. He's going to...” And Lee started to choke up.
Eichord didn't understand what the hell was going on but tried to console his friend. “I don't understand. What do you mean, Jimmie? What HAS it cost him? Why does the brotherhood have to find out?'
“They know.” He wiped at his eyes in anger as much as sadness. “They already know. He told them what I wanted. He said,” he tried to say something but started crying again. He stopped himself, “He wanted me to learn the cost of my actions by coming to him for this information. He wanted me to know what price he would pay.'
“What do you mean?'
“He is going to vow his silence tonight.'
“Yeah?'
“The crazy son of a bitch,” Jimmie said, his eyes filling with tears, “he's going to cut off his own tongue.” Some kind of a joke.
“Come on, man.” Eichord wanted to laugh in his face.
“No. He could not live with himself if he didn't. It is his way of preserving his honor. He'll do it.'
Eichord could say nothing. He simply stared at Lee in disbelief while the man told him about the implacable, ritualistic, unswerving code by which his brother lived. His self-discipline, dedication, loyalty to the clan.
“He has no choice. It's either that or suicide.'
“But shit, man, that's nuts.'
“Not to him. Self-mutilation is part of the Shadow Clan culture. It is quite common in secret societies like you'll find throughout Asia and Europe. Even in America you have the penitents.'
“Nobody cuts their tongue off, pard.'
“You've just led a sheltered life, buddy. In the old country,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “they used to cut their fucking BALLS off.'
“Eh?'
“Didn't you ever hear of the castrati? The castrators? The Skoptsi of old Russia? Shit, Jack, they believed if you wanted to worship you had to bear the Seal of God. The lesser seal was when you took a knife or razor and sliced your testicles open and ate your goddamn nuts.'
“JESUS.'
“The greater seal was when you reached down there and took the ole pole itself.” He wiped at his face. “Now
“None of this is happening.'
“It's happening, all right. Welcome to fucking China, baby.'
Eichord and Lee found the woman and made the arrest easily. She was just an old woman. She didn't look like a murderer. So often they don't. The thing he'd always remember about her was when she was interrogated. She admitted the husband had been greased for the insurance money: $75,000 was a fortune back in 1957. But why the baby girl and then, in the later marriage, her own baby boy? She told Eichord, through Lee in part, that she'd grown tired of trying to find baby-sitters. It made as much sense as anything else about the case.
That night, with Mrs. Chan safely under lock and key, Jack Eichord went with James Lee. It was one of the rare occasions when outsiders would be permitted to witness such a ritual. It was admission by invitation only. It was a scene that Eichord would dream about a hundred bloody times, no matter how hard he tried not to. His dream of the Man in Kowloon.
Jenny Weiss had come out of one disaster of a marriage and wasn't about to leap into another just to bed down with Marc Thompson, cute though he was. She had little Jerry for one thing, a wild and precious two-year-old from the train wreck of a liaison that had swelled her belly with child and left her penniless and bruised and alone in Dayton, Ohio. When the grand and glorious and spectacular Mooney Kyle Shows came through for a week, compliments of the Dayton Jaycees, and Jenny had wandered down with Jerry to take in the sights, she'd seen Marc and Marc had seen her and the idea of a kid was no problem to this fast-stepper and first thing you know she was Cincy-bound in the passenger seat of the aging Thompson pickup, a decrepit house trailer locked to the tow hitch.
She'd taken to the carny life at first. The family-under-siege mentality had appealed to her and for the first year Marc hadn't let her come up for air to see the one-nighters and fortnighters of shows and carnivals that were their on-the-road life-style. Marc was a ride supervisor, and he'd gotten Jenny work with a variety of flat joints, including an alibi joint that she'd taken to pretty good and she'd worked alibis from then on. But she was starting to get the itch to settle down. Enough is enough. She was going to have to give Jerry more than this constant moving.
Jenny was twenty-three, with good legs, a great butt, a nice face wreathed in long, auburn hair, a sexy smile spoiled only by a cheapo cap job that dated back to her years in foster homes, and nice, high breasts, still firm after little Jerry. Nice little hooters that made the town creeps and marks drool and come back to drop more coins at the alibi. She didn't know what a bra was, and with her hair combed, some makeup, and a tight yellow sweater she could still make some heads turn and put a rise in some Levi's.
She saw the man in the car saying something to her but she ignored it. Townies were always yelling some shit—she didn't even listen. She was going to feed their dog and then ... Well, for Christ's sake.
“Huh?” She couldn't understand what the guy was yelling.
“...dering if you were with the show.” Something or other, the word “show” triggering a familiar note. She wandered over to hear what he's saying.
