The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [34]
Kanazuchi cut up at an angle so the demon's body would shoot no blood onto his clothes. He sheathed Grass Cutter, reached out in time to lower the body silently as the arteries began to pump onto the floor. He jumped lightly to the landing, and pulled the demon's head out of the cheap paper dragon costume—eyes and mouth caught wide open in surprise; the flat, stupid face of a common thug.
Kanazuchi pulled the flute from his belt and headed back toward his room.
When the trustee heard the demon stop outside, he reached for his key, then for his knife when he found the key was missing. The knife was gone, too. Just then the door swung open and he heard the hollow, reedy whistling of an evil wind. The rest of the men in the room huddled under their blankets.
The bright paper dragon head peeked around the corner of the open doorway. A clawed finger pointed at the trustee and beckoned him forward.
What the hell was Charlie doing? thought the trustee. This is not how things are supposed to work.
Annoyed, the trustee walked out into the hall. The wind stopped suddenly; the door closed behind him. A sulfurous white cloud of smoke billowed before him in the hall, and in a flash of light he saw the head and body of his cohort, Charlie Lee, laid out on the blood-soaked floor. Before his legs could run, an iron vise grabbed him around the throat and lifted him straight off the floor. His captured breath swelled in his chest like a balloon.
"The gods are unhappy with you," said a harsh whisper in the trustee's ear.
What a horrible voice! He kicked his legs futilely and struggled for air: Nothing moved inside him. Surely he was about to die....
"They have sent me to punish you with the death of a thousand torments."
Heaven protect him: a real demon!
"Maybe you don't deserve such mercy. Maybe I should just eat you one piece at a time."
The demon shook him like a helpless kitten.
"Lucky for you I am in a good mood. Return the money you've stolen from these men and maybe I will let you live."
The trustee tried to nod his head: anything! A trickle of breath slipped through the demon's grip, keeping him on a thin edge of consciousness.
"Tell me: Do you steal this money for yourself?"
The trustee frantically shook his head no.
"Really? Then who told you to steal this money?"
The grip relaxed enough for him to croak out an answer. "Little Pete."
"Little Pete? What sort of name is that for a civilized person?"
"Real name is ... Fung Jing Toy. Chinatown boss."
"Which tong does he lead?"
"Sue Yop Tong."
"Where will I find Little Pete?"
"On Leong Society Building," croaked the trustee.
"The Chamber of Tranquil Conscientiousness?"
The trustee nodded again. For a Chinese demon, this one spoke pretty good English, he thought, just before its grip tightened on his neck like a band of iron; another blinding flash in the air. The trustee blacked out.
When he came to, a crowd of men from all the building's rooms milled around the decapitated remains of well-known neighborhood tough Charlie Lee. The trustee scrambled to his feet, sharing their happiness that the reign of terror had come to such a satisfying end: It wasn't a demon after all! Picking up the extortionist's grab bag, the trustee began to distribute its coins to the residents: What a stroke of fortune! He took none for himself; a change of heart had come over the trustee, a spurt of generosity that might last as long as another two days: The demon had let him live!
In his elation, the trustee took no notice of the slender, quiet man who had come in the day before, the last to leave his pallet and step into the hallway with the others. The man stood near the back of the crowd, apart from them, his