Noble House

Dog-eared Chen had almost 400 HK and a jade bracelet of good quality. One of the men took the jade and Poon pocketed the money and turned on Smallpox Kin. All their eyes popped as they saw the big roll of notes he found in the youth's pants pocket.
Goodweather Poon shielded it carefully from the rain. "Where in the name of Heavenly Whore did you get all this?"
He told them about shaking down the lucky ones outside the Ho-Pak and they laughed and complimented him on his sagacity. "Very good, very clever," Poon said. "You're a good businessman. Put your clothes on. What was the old woman's name?"
"She called herself Ah Tarn." Smallpox Kin wiped the rain out of his eyes, his toes twisting into the mud, his mutilated hand on fire now and aching very much. "I'll take you to her if you want."
"Hey, I need the fornicating light here!" Kin Pak called out. He was on his hands and knees, fighting John Chen's clothes into place. "Can't someone give me a hand?"
"Help him!"
Dog-eared Chen and Smallpox Kin hurried to help as Good-weather Poon directed the circle of light back on the corpse. The body was swollen and puffy, the rain washing the dirt away. The back of John Chen's head was blood-matted and crushed but his face was still recognizable.
"Ayeeyah," one of his men said, "let's get on with it. I feel evil spirits lurking hereabouts."
"Just his trousers and shirt'll do," Goodweather Poon said sourly. He waited until the body was partially dressed. Then he turned his eyes on them. "Now which one of you motherless whores helped the old man kill this poor fornicator?"
Kin Pak said, "I already t—" He stopped as he saw the other two point at him and say in unison, "He did," and back away from him.
"I suspected it all along!" Goodweather Poon was pleased that he had at last got to the bottom of the mystery. He pointed his stubby forefinger at Kin Pak. "Get in the trench and lie down."
"We have an easy plan how to kidnap Noble House Chen himself that'll bring us all twice, three times what this fornicator brought. I'll tell you how, heya?" Kin Pak said.
Goodweather Poon hesitated a moment at this new thought.
Then he remembered Four Fingers's instructions. "Put your face in the dirt in the trench!"
Kin Pak looked at the inflexible eyes and knew he was dead. He shrugged. Joss. "I piss on all your generations," he said and got into the grave and lay down.
He put his head on his arms in the dirt and began to shut out the light of his life. From nothing into nothing, always part of the Kin family, of all its generations, living forever in its perpetual stream, from generation to generation, down through history into the everlasting future.
Goodweather Poon took up one of the shovels and because of the youth's courage he dispatched him instantly by putting the sharp edge of the blade between his vertebrae and shoving downward. Kin Pak died without knowing it.
"Fill up the grave!"
Dog-eared Chen was petrified but he rushed to obey. Good-weather Poon laughed and tripped him and gave him a savage kick for his cowardice. The man half-fell into the trench. At once the shovel in Poon's hands whirled in an arc and crunched into the back of Dog-eared Chen's head and he collapsed with a sigh on top of Kin Pak. The others laughed and one said, "Eeeee, you used that like a foreign devil cricket bat! Good. Is he dead?"
Goodweather Poon did not answer, just looked at the last Werewolf, Smallpox Kin. All their eyes went to him. He stood rigid in the rain. It was then that Goodweather Poon noticed the string tight around his neck. He took up the flashlight and went over to him and saw that the other end was dangling down his back. Weighing it down was a broken half-coin, a hole bored carefully into it. It was a copper cash and seemed ancient.
"All gods fart in Tsao Tsao's face! Where did you get this?" he asked, beginning to beam.
"My father gave it to me."
"Where did he get it, little turd?"
"He didn't tell me."
"Could he have got it from Number One Son Chen?"
Another shrug. "I don't know. I wasn't here when they killed him. I'm innocent on my mother's head!"
With a sudden movement Goodweather Poon ripped the necklace off. "Take him to the car," he said to two of his fighters. "Watch him very carefully. We'll take him back with us. Yes, we'll take him back. The rest of you fill up the grave and camouflage it carefully." Then he ordered the last two of his men to pick up the blanket containing John Chen and to follow him. They did so awkwardly in the darkness.
He trudged off toward the Sha Tin Road, skirting the puddles. Nearby was a broken-down bus shelter. When the road was clear he motioned to his men and they quickly unwrapped the blanket and propped the body in a corner. Then he took out the sign that the Werewolves had made previously and stuck it carefully on the body.
"Why're you doing that, Goodweather Poon, heya? Why're you do—"
"Because Four Fingers told me to! How do I know? Keep your fornicating mouth sh—"
Headlights from an approaching car rounding the bend washed them suddenly. They froze and turned their faces away, pretending to be waiting passengers. Once the car was safely past they took to their heels. Dawn was streaking the sky, the rain lessening.
The phone jangled and Armstrong came out of sleep heavily. In the half-darkness he groped for the receiver and picked it up. His wife stirred uneasily and awoke.
"Divisional Sergeant Major Tang-po, sir, sorry to wake you, sir, but we've found John Chen. The Were—"
Armstrong was instantly awake. "Alive?"
"Dew neh loh moh no sir, his body was found near Sha Tin at a bus stop, a bus shelter, sir, and those fornicating Werewolves've left a note on his chest, sir: This Number One Son Chen had the stupidity to try to escape us. No one can escape the Werewolves! Let all Hong Kong beware. Our eyes are everywhere!' He w—"
Armstrong listened, appalled, while the excited man told how police at Sha Tin had been summoned by an early-morning bus passenger. At once they had cordoned off the area and phoned CID Kowloon. "What should we do, sir?"
"Send a car for me at once."
Armstrong hung up and rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. He wore a sarong and it looked well on his muscular body.
"Trouble?" Mary stifled a yawn and stretched. She was just forty, two years younger than he, brown-haired, taut, her face friendly though lined.
He told her, watching her.
"Oh." The color had left her face. "How terrible. Oh, how terrible. Poor John!"
"I'll make the tea," Armstrong said.
"No, no I'll do that." She got out of bed, her body firm. "Will you have time?"
"Just a cuppa. Listen to the rain . . . about bloody time!" Thoughtfully Armstrong went off to the bathroom and shaved and dressed quickly as only a policeman or doctor can. Two gulps of the hot sweet tea and just before the toast the doorbell rang. "I'll call you later. How about curry tonight? We can go to Singh's."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, if you'd like."
The door closed behind him.
Mary Armstrong stared at the door. Tomorrow is our fifteenth anniversary, she thought. I wonder if he'll remember. Probably not. In fourteen times, he's been out on a case eight, once I was in hospital and the rest … the rest, were all right, I suppose.