A Bomb Built in Hell

“I already did.”

38/

The morning news linked the Bridge assassination to “mob sources,” and the explosion on Henry Street to “long-simmering political differences between Latin gangs, as yet unidentified.” Eleven people had been reported killed and twenty-one others hospitalized.

39/

Hobart Chan smiled to himself as his sable Bentley rolled gently across the mesh grids of the Williamsburg Bridge and into the clogged traffic on Delancey Street. Its air conditioning was whisper-quiet, the FM stereo filled the car’s vast interior with soft string music, its plushy tires transmitted not the slightest vibration to the driver’s seat.

Chan preferred to drive himself into the city each day, although he could have quite easily afforded a chauffeur. It wasn’t the expense that stopped him, nor the paranoia that seemed to haunt the Occidental gangsters of his acquaintance. There were many trustworthy young Chinese boys coming over from Hong Kong every day. Good boys, not filled with the ancestor-worship crap that those born in Chinatown still seemed infected with. He used a number of them in his business. But there was just something so ... perfect about the cloistered luxury of driving in his steel-and-leather cocoon right past all the degenerates and bums that filled the area along Forsythe, Chrystie, and—Chan’s favorite—the Bowery. Something wonderful that the corpulent little man loved with a deep, private passion. He never missed an opportunity to make this soul-satisfying drive. As he crossed the bridge, the J train rumbled by in the opposite direction.

Hobart Chan was a firm believer in community control. Until he came from San Francisco seventeen years ago, the Cubanos controlled prostitution in Chinatown by a tacit agreement with the Elders. But his willingness to promote a homicidal war between the Cuban and Chinese factions finally resulted in a change of ownership. Hobart Chan had run a lot of risks. But that was in the past. The risks were over, the gusanos were back dealing cocaine in Miami where they belonged, and the flesh business was never better.

Chan sometimes thought longingly about Times Square, but always concluded by writing off the idea. There was more money to be made there, true, and Chan was no stranger to the packaging and sale of human degeneracy ... but something about the cesspool frightened him. Chan told himself that he was a businessman and a good businessman didn’t take unnecessary risks. So he remained content with the significant cash that annually funneled into his Mott Street offices.

The only flicker of worry that ever crossed Chan’s mind was about his new competition. Not all the young Chinese from Hong Kong wanted to work for the established organization and he had been receiving threatening messages from some of the younger thugs. But Hobart Chan was too much a master of the art of extortion to fall victim to it himself. The new kids had no base outside of Chinatown, and they certainly weren’t going to attack him inside his own territory.

As the big car crossed Grand Street, Chan decided he would drive down to the Bowery today. The sight of dozens of pathetic humans in various states of decomposition, all running toward his car with filthy rags to “clean” his windshield in grateful exchange for whatever coins he wished to bestow, did more for him than even his occasional visits to his own merchandise. He thought of his humble origins in Hong Kong: the forged birth certificate that cost his father seven years of indentured servitude to enable the young Chan to enter the land of promise, the bloody-vicious mess in San Francisco, his eventual—and, in Chan’s mind, inevitable— rise to power in his world.

As the Bentley approached Houston Street, Chan automatically slowed down. He never wanted to make the turn west on this light—it was the best corner for the display of bums. Once he had thrown a dollar into the street after some of the lowlife had attempted to clean his windshield and had watched fascinated as they groveled in the street for the single piece of paper. Hobart Chan fancied all the bums knew his car and that they fought among themselves to see which of them would have the privilege of serving him each morning. Although it was difficult to imagine such human waste actually fighting for anything.

The bum that approached the car was younger than most, although no less degenerated. Chan mused on the theory that the entire race would someday find itself right down here on the Bowery as the youngish bum industriously cleaned the windshield and the side mirror with a foul rag. The bum was about thirty or thirty-five; it was hard to tell under the dark stubbly beard and the rotted hat. This bum even carried a pint of what looked like white wine in his hand, holding on to it with a death grip. Chan thought it somehow strange that a bum who already had a bottle would still work to clean windshields like this. Somehow it seemed even more debasing than usual, if that was possible.

The bum quickly finished and looked beseechingly at Hobart Chan. The fat man’s jade-ringed finger touched the power-window switch and the glass zipped down on its greased rails. As Chan extended the crisp dollar bill, the mouth of the bum’s wine bottle seemed to fly open and the wine gushed out all over the flesh merchant. His face twisted into an ugly mass and he drew back his left hand to slap the bum when he noticed that the wine smelled like gasoline.

That was the last conscious thought printed on his brain as the bum tossed a flaming Zippo lighter into the front seat and was off running with the same motion.

There was a brief sound like heavily compressed air being released, then the flames enveloped the interior of the big car. Chan screamed like a mad beast and ripped at the door handle, but the door was stuck. He frantically pushed against the door but the flames held him prisoner ... for another second or so, until they reached the gas tank.

The only witnesses to Wesley’s departure were the bums.

The cab pulled up at the far end of the alley and Wesley caught it at a dead run—he dove into the back seat and began wiping his hands with the damp towels there. Pet turned toward Houston and took the main drag to Sixth Avenue. He followed Sixth Avenue north and wound his way through the Village until he got to Hudson Street. Pet followed Hudson to Horatio, where he parked the cab and both men got out. They climbed into the black Ford— the kid slipped from behind the Ford’s wheel and into the front of the cab. He was wearing a chauffeur’s cap today, but no belt. The Ford swung uptown, Wesley in the front seat, Pet driving.

“That epoxy stuff is perfect, Pet. It sealed the door like cement.”

“I told you it would. Even with a few coats of wax on the doors it’ll always work.”

“I could have sat there and pumped slugs into him for days— nobody sees nothing down there.”

“They paid for him to die by fire, right?”

“Yeah,” Wesley mused. “I wonder where those kids got all that money.”