The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [36]
Little Pete fell to his knees and violently retched up his lunch, mind blanked, senses obliterated; blind, deaf, and dumb.
There were feet on the tray.
Human feet.
Little Pete crawled quickly away on hands and knees, instincts for survival surfacing. Where were his bodyguards? Four on duty downstairs around the clock; someone got past them. The attack could come from any direction, at any moment. He would have to defend himself. There had been a time when no one bested him with a knife, but he hadn't been in a fight that mattered for over ten years.
A pistol in the top drawer of that table. Little Pete scampered over, pulled the gun out, hands shaking wildly, gripping onto the table for support. He wiped the drool from his lips with the sleeve of his gun hand, tried to summon enough voice to call out for his guards, but the words died in his throat; heart beating too hard, tongue cottony and sluggish.
Slow, slow down now, Pete. This is a good place. You can see every door and window from here. Steady the gun with both hands. Wait until they come close: Don't waste any bullets____
A tremendous force slammed his head down from behind onto the tabletop. The layer of thick glass covering its hardwood surface cracked, his face locked in place motionless against it; Little Pete felt heat run down his face, saw his own blood flowing freely into the splinters. His arm wrenched backward and the gun was taken from his hand like a rattle from a baby.
"You understand how easily I can kill you," said a quiet voice.
"Yes," croaked Little Pete.
"Your guards are dead. No one is coming to help you. Answer my questions; don't waste time and you will live."
The voice spoke flawless, unaccented Mandarin. He didn't know this man. Little Pete tried to nod in agreement, grinding the shattered glass deeper into his face.
"You sell workers to the railroads," said the voice.
"Yes,"
"Tunnel men. Chinese. Good with explosives."
"Yes, a few ..."
"There can't be many of them."
"No, not good ones."
"You would know who they are, then, the good ones."
What in heaven's name was this about?
"Yes. If they're demolition; they used to be miners mostly. They came here for the gold rush...."
"You sent some out to the desert."
Little Pete's mind raced: There weren't many Chinese demolition men left, the good ones were always in demand—hard to think now....
"Answer or I'll kill you."
They worked in teams; his offices handled sale and shipping of dynamite as well. Couldn't remember; he would have to check his ledgers—that would take time—would this man let him live long enough to do it?
Wait. Something coming back; yes.
"SF, P and P."
"What is that?"
"Santa Fe, Prescott and Phoenix Railroad. One team."
"When?"
"Six months ago."
"Where exactly did you send them?"
"Arizona Territory. Working the line west from Tucson. From Stockton, they come from Stockton, California. I don't remember anything else; I don't know their names but I could find out for you. Four men ..."
The man's hand palmed Little Pete's head and rammed the soft center of his temple against the table edge. Little Pete slumped into a pile on the floor, unconscious.
Kanazuchi walked to the balcony, rapidly scaled a trellis up to the roof, and faded away. No one had seen him enter; no one saw him leave.
By the time Little Pete came to his senses and the uproar over the murders in his town house spread through Tangrenbu like a grass fire—the feet of one of his bodyguards had been severed and served as Little Pete's lunch and he was forced to eat them, according to more extravagant versions—Kanazuchi had already moved well beyond the San Francisco city limits.
Eerie silence belowdecks: The ship's engines had died along with the lights. The Elbe sat dead in the still water. The hold seemed as dark and inhospitable as the belly of a whale.
"Gott im Himmel—"
Doyle shushed him. They stood and strained to listen....
Someone was moving