Shanghai
1923“Over there, over there… send the word- send the word over there…”
DCI Gates curled his upper lip at the sight of the man. To call him disheveled would be an understatement. He rested against the wall of the back alley, dressed in a long smock that reeked of piss and shit. His hair was matted, as was the black beard that covered his jaw. He had the far away look of a man chasing the dragon. Gates knew the raggedy man well. Hell, half of Shanghai knew the American well.
Kent Allard was perhaps the most notorious opium addict in the city. He’d literally washed ashore sometime in the summer of ‘21, dressed in a tattered uniform of a US Army aviator. From that point on the man was a fixture at all the best opium dens in the city. Gates and the rest of SMP knew Allard because he was suspected of a laundry list of petty crimes, but just suspected. They had never managed anything concrete enough to warrant an arrest or caning.
“I thought you were dead, Allard,” spat Gates. “That was the rumor among the underworld, at least. Heard a group of monks chopped you up into little bits.”
“Reports of my dismemberment were greatly exaggerated,” said Allard. He giggled and added, “Unlike the Green Gang, I am very much intact.”
Gates stared long and hard into Allard’s glazed over eyes.
“I know you’re one of Green Gang’s best customers, or were one of their best, where were you last night, Allard? What did you see?”
“Just the pipe and the back of my eyelids,” the junkie mumbled. “Besides, why are you asking me? You should be looking at the Green Gang’s competition.
Who is that?”
“Goro,” said Gates. Normally he would tell someone like Allard to piss off. He was the one asking the questions. But for whatever reason, he felt the strong desire to tell the man. An odd need to please him. “Goro and his gang of Japanese mutts.”
“Where are they hiding?” asked Allard.
To Gates, there was a strange tone to the man’s voice. The sleepiness of the opium high seemed to have faded, a strong and commanding tone taking its place. Allard was now on his feet. Curiously, the filthy smock and dirty hair was gone. The Allard that stood before him was clean shaven and wearing a clean black tunic with matching pants and shoes.
“Goro has a tea shop that he runs drugs and whores from,” Gates whispered. “SMP are going to raid it tonight at eight.”
“Make it nine,” said Allard.
“I don’t want you and your policeman chums getting caught in a crossfire.”“Sure thing,” Gates said with a small laugh. “Whatever you say, Allard.”
“One more thing,” he said as he raised his hand.
“You will forget this conversation ever took place, and as far as you know Kent Allard is still rumored to be dead.”Allard snapped his fingers and like that, he was gone.
---
Chicago
2019“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Chicago Mayor Claude Fellows held his head in his hands. Fellows sat behind the expensive desk in his office while Chief Weston and Roy sat and looked on. Officially, Roy Tam was only a lieutenant in the CPD. But he was the most powerful lieutenant in the entire organization. And his power solely rested on his own entree to power. He served as Chief Weston’s right hand and knew when to keep his mouth shut. Like this little scene with the mayor.
“You know I used to be somebody,” said Fellows. “I was the goddamn chief of staff for the White House!”
“Mr. Mayor,” said Weston. “I--”
“I could have leveraged it to be something important. A senator, a governor, hell even a fucking cabinet secretary. But what did I do instead? Run for mayor of my hometown, thinking I could change a goddamn thing!”
“Mr. Mayor--”
“Six years of eating shit sandwiches from this fucking hellhole of a city, barely being reelected. And all that political capital is wasted. I’m just a brokeass mayor of a brokeass city.”
‘Sir!” Weston shouted. “If you could give the pity party a rest, we can talk about a solution.”
Fellows slid the tablet across his desk towards Weston and Tam.
“I don’t see a solution, chief. I see a media nightmare. One of your officers shot an unarmed man. The bodycam footage shows it clear as fucking day. CRB is gonna get this video and have a field day with it.”
“I if I may,” Roy said, clearing his throat. “We believe we an option.”
Fellows put his head down on the desk.
“I’m all ears, lieutenant.”
Roy straightened his glasses before leaping into it. “The civilian review board has oversight on any use of lethal force the CPD carries out in the city of Chicago. But from the reports of the officers that night, the suspect they were pursuing lead them into unincorporated Cooke County. That’s where the shooting occurred. According to the CRB’s charter, they have no oversight into this matter. Cooke County Sheriff’s have the jurisdiction on this.”
“And Sheriff Zebrowski owes me,” said Weston. “Owes me enough to help keep this muted. It’ll let us take care of the problem in-house, and the bodycam footage officially becomes their evidence, out of the reach of the review board.”
Fellows raised his head and sighed. “Fuck. It still smells like shit, but you knocked enough of the smell off that I can at least swallow it--”
Weston and the mayor continued on, but Roy wasn’t listening. He was transfixed by the little voice inside his head. It wasn’t his conscious. His job had trained him to suppress that a long time ago. No, this little voice was something else. It was a voice he’d heard a few years ago. The night he almost died.
“Roy Tam… your life belongs to me. As hard as it may be to pull yourself away from your repugnant work, try to me meet me tonight at our usual place. We have much to discuss.”Roy swallowed hard and wiped the sweat from his brow. Fellows and Weston hadn’t noticed his sudden white face. He let out a sigh of relief that the voice in his head was gone. While Roy Tam was known for his discretion when it came to secrets, there was at least one man he told everything to. A man who did not hesitate to remind Roy that the only reason he continued to draw breath was because of him. And if he even had the slightest notion to not show up to the meeting, the man would reach out to him again with a warning. Because, he reminded Roy, he knew. He always knew.
---
Larson snorted before spitting on the ground in front of him.
“It’s time we give that nigger his comeuppance.”
Larson and the three other patrolmen in his squad were gathered around Larson’s old Buick, a collection of empty beer cans on the trunk of the car. The Buick’s radio blasted out classic rock that filled the air. The late night bender was their usual tradition after going off-duty. Twelve hours humping it in a squad car gave you a strong thirst. And it was during the drinking session that they always talked their usual bullshit about Q.
“Easiest thing in the world to rob that motherfucker,” said Larson. “Who the fuck is gonna call? ‘Yo, man dis da po-leece? Man, they stole my muthafuckin’ stash!’”
Larson and the other men roared in laughter.
“He’s had it too good too long,” said Mike Milkowski. “Walks around that fucking neighborhood like he owns it. Thinks he’s some fucking drug dealing version of Steve Jobs. He just got lucky and didn’t die or go to jail like the rest of the project niggers in the nighborhood.”
“Acts like he owns us,” said Roger Leatherman. “He pays us fucking chicken feed and thinks we should be grateful for that shit.”
“I hear he pays narco three times what he pays us,” said Larson. “It’s a goddamn disgrace. Which is why we need to remind him who the goddamn law is around these parts.”
The rest of the men murmured in agreement. Larson polished off his beer and tossed the empty can over his shoulder.
“In the morning before we go on duty, Rog I need you to buy some ski-masks. I’ll take care of the shotguns. Make sure you all bring some black clothes to change into tomorrow night. Not the usual late night unwinding we do, but we will sure as fuck celebrate once we’ve taken care of Q.”
The four cops started to work out the plan, the steps, how to get inside the dealer’s house and take him out, how to make a clean getaway. It was obvious the plan was something Larson hadn’t just come up with. It had been crafted over time, methodically built piece by piece every time his patrol car had passed by the drug dealer’s home.
They talked low enough among themselves so that the radio would mask any potential eavesdroppers who happened upon them. But it was a futile gesture. They were being watched from the dark, and their interloper didn’t need to hear them to know what was in their hearts. They were planning something bad. And the thought of what they were planning to do made the watcher laugh.
Morden Man
xVampire3go
Captain Uni
Memoria
Eddie Brock
Master Bruce
parelaxis
Cyrania
mattmanganon
