Chinaman’s Chance
- Автор: Томас Росс
- Серия: Arthur Case Wu #1
- Год: 1978
- Язык: английский
- Год: Simon & Schuster
- ISBN: 978-0-671-24070-7
- Жанр: Политические детективы
Электронная книга - «Chinaman’s Chance». Краткое содержание книги:
Simms shrugged and drank some of his sherry. “They may have heard about the pickings,” he said. “I’ve asked Ploughman to look into it should they come nosing around Pelican Bay. Ploughman, incidentally, had some interesting news.”
“Which you’ve been saving.”
“Yes, that’s like me, isn’t it? The best at the end.”
“You have a strong streak of the dramatic in you, Reg. You always have had. I rather enjoy it.”
“Yes, well, the news is that Ploughman thinks he might have turned up the girl.”
Almost involuntarily Imperlino’s eyes went toward the portrait on the wall. “Might, you said.”
“He’s checking it out.”
“Will he kill her for us?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“In a way.”
“And he refused?”
“Yes. His argument was rather good.”
“I trust he has no objection if we kill her — or have her killed.”
“None. He even suggested how we might dispose of the body.”
“Over in Burbank?” Imperlino said with a small smile.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. In Burbank.”
“The Chief learns fast.” Imperlino was silent for a moment. “Have Gesini kill her and for the same price — as penance.”
“All right.”
“Right away.”
“All right.”
“Tell me something, O friend of my youth,” Imperlino said, almost tasting the posied phrase, “does it bother you — all this talk of murder on such a pleasant spring afternoon?”
“No. Does it bother you?”
Imperlino rose and stood before the fireplace, gazing up at the portrait of the dead sister of the woman whose murder he had just arranged. “Yes,” he said finally, “it still bothers me.”
Chapter 25
The huge Armenian would have to be dealt with first, of course: the one with the historically imprecise nickname of Turk. For the past twenty or twenty-five minutes he had been describing the delights of Chinese pederasty to the five other men who were on his side of the large, windowless cell in the Pelican Bay jail.
There were no benches or bunks in the cell, only a toilet without a seat and a drain in the middle of the floor where the drunks’ vomit could be hosed away. The cell, with its concrete floor and metal walls, was about the size of a large living room, and Artie Wu and Quincy Durant sat leaning against the wall on one side, the five other prisoners across from them.
When Wu and Durant had first arrived, there had been only two other prisoners in the cell — a couple of middle-aged early-afternoon drunks who had been sleeping it off. Now one of the drunks was half awake and listening without much interest to the Armenian tell of the sexual delights that he had in store for Artie Wu.
In addition to the two drunks, the Armenian had as an audience a big, wise-looking black called Jimbo and a slim, young, almost pretty Mexican with a silky, deadly smile. The Mexican was called Dolores. All three men had been brought into the cell together shortly after Wu and Durant arrived.
Turk, the Armenian, had started in almost immediately on his sexual monologue, interrupted only occasionally by Jimbo, who kept staring at Durant and muttering something about the closer the bone, the sweeter the meat. The pretty Mexican had only smiled silkily and said nothing. Wu figured the Mexican for a knife.
After another five minutes the Armenian was beginning to repeat himself. Artie Wu closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and without moving his lips, said, “Well?”
“Let’s,” Durant said.
“Watch the Mexican.”
“Right.”
Wu opened his eyes and got up slowly. So did Durant. They moved over to where the other three men sat. The two middle-aged drunks were still sprawled on the floor. The one who had been awake had gone back to sleep. Wu stopped about a yard from the Armenian and stared down at him. Durant yawned and let his gaze wander, but kept bringing it back to the pretty Mexican called Dolores. The Mexican smiled at him sweetly. Durant smiled back.
“Gentlemen,” Wu said, “permit me to introduce myself.”
“You don’t have to introduce yourself, Chinaboy,” the Armenian said. “I know who you are. You’re my sweet candy ass, that’s who.”
“Candy ass,” the black said, and smiled hugely. “Sweet as sugar, I swear he is.”
The Mexican only smiled some more.
Artie Wu rocked back on his heels a little and shook his head slowly as if saddened by some misunderstanding. Then he bent forward a bit, stared down at the Armenian, and grinned wickedly. Durant watched the Mexican.
“You got it just a little wrong, friend,” Wu said softly. “You see, what I really am is the new chief motherfucker around here.” He jerked his head at Durant. “And he’s the new assistant chief motherfucker, and we’re sort of sick of listening to your mouth run.”
“Well, now,” the Armenian said, and got up slowly, keeping his eyes on Wu. The black called Jimbo also got up and gave his pants a hitch. The Mexican, still smiling, rose and with his eyes on Durant, started to sidle around to Wu’s rear. Durant turned with him. The Mexican was no longer smiling. Wu stepped back until he felt Durant’s back touch his. Then Wu relaxed and the smile reappeared on his face. Durant raised his hands slowly until it looked as if he were showing the Mexican the size of some just-caught fish.
Turk, the Armenian, had a long, spiked mustache, and he stroked it once as though to make sure that it was still there. The Armenian was as big as Artie Wu, perhaps even a little bigger, although Wu was older by several years. The Armenian had thick, hairy arms and there didn’t seem to be much fat on him anywhere.
“You ain’t the new chief motherfucker around here, Chinaboy,” the Armenian said; “you’re just my very own sweet candy ass, that’s what.” Then he threw the left.
Although Artie Wu had been expecting it, it still came far too fast — a hard, much-practiced blow with all of the Armenian’s weight behind it. Wu caught some of it on his forearm, but the rest slipped by, and it hit him hard just below his throat. Wu dropped into a crouch, and the Armenian’s follow-up right slid past his ear. Wu drove two quick, hammering rights low into the Armenian’s stomach. Very low. The Armenian’s breath rushed out of his lungs with a harsh rattling gasp, and he bent over, clutching at his stomach. Wu clenched his hands together up high and hammered them down hard on the bent-over man’s neck. The Armenian sprawled on the floor and lay there twitching and gasping.
The knife had appeared in the Mexican’s right hand suddenly with a magician’s deceptive movement. It had been shaped from a spoon, and its handle was a kind of papier-mâché made out of wet bread and newspaper, molded to fit the Mexican’s grip and then dried. It was a very personal knife, and Dolores, the Mexican, seemed fond of it.
He didn’t wave it around unnecessarily. He came at Durant with a slick, fast lunge, the blade aimed for just under the rib cage. Durant caught the pretty Mexican’s right hand, found the nerve in the wrist just below the pad of the thumb, and pressed hard. The Mexican screamed, but didn’t drop the knife. Durant twisted the arm up behind the Mexican’s back and broke it. The Mexican screamed again, and dropped the knife.
Jimbo, the big black, had been debating about whether to try a move on Wu. But when the Mexican screamed the second time, Jimbo frowned, hitched up his pants again, moved back to the wall, and settled down into a seated position on the floor.
He looked up at Wu, grinned without any mirth, and said, “Okay, Chinaboy, I reckon you is the new chief motherfucker around here.”
The Mexican kept on screaming, holding his broken arm, until a jailer opened the door and took a quick look around. Five minutes later Wu and Durant were back up in Ploughman’s office.