Free Yellowthread Street by William Marshall Page A

‘Wrong person to chop. Hanford Hill gang.’ He stood out of range and waggled his still intact index finger, ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong, Hanford Hill—wrong, wrong, wrong.’
    ‘Money!’ the Mongolian said. He kicked aside one of the counter display cases and faced the waggling finger. The finger disappeared behind its owner’s back. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ Mr Tan chided him, ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong.’
    The Mongolian looked at Mr Tan. Mr Tan smiled happily. The Mongolian looked at his eleven-inch long kukri with a silver lion’s head pommel. ‘Wrong—ha!’ Mr Tan said. ‘Can do nothing—wrong, wrong, wrong.’
    So the Mongolian killed him.
    ‘Hernando?’ Mr Boon asked.
    Hernando Haw from Macao shook his head, ‘Cripple.’
    ‘No!’ Alice protested. Mr Boon ignored her.
    ‘Cripple,’ Mr Boon confirmed, ‘Cripple?’
    ‘Cripple,’ Mr Haw said. He threw his extinct cheroot buttinto the brass spittoon. Crushed Toes grinned lovingly at him. Crushed Toes was the official crippler.
    ‘Low?’ Mr Boon asked.
    Low Fat considered it. He said, ‘I don’t know . . .’
    Crushed Toes nodded encouragingly at him. Low Fat looked at Tinkerbell Lin Wong. ‘I don’t know what Miss Alice wants.’ He looked pointedly at Tinkerbell Lin Wong.
    ‘Kill!’ One-Eared Alice said, ‘Kill!’ She touched at her ear bandages gingerly, ‘Look what that bastard did to me!’
    ‘Hmm,’ Mr Boon said. He said kindly to Low, ‘Take your time; no one wants to make the wrong decision.’
    Hernando Haw made a tiny bow of respect to Low Fat. He said, ‘It’s all right with me. I don’t mind.’ He explained with a little self critical motion of his chin: ‘I’m always a little over cautious.’
    ‘That’s very often a good trait to have,’ Low Fat said chivalrously, ‘you shouldn’t be embarrassed.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Hernando Haw said. ‘I call it subtlety.’
    ‘Quite right,’ Mr Low said. He caught Tinkerbell Lin Wong’s eyes looking at him, ‘Still, a man does have to be violent on occasion. A man has to have the thrusting fierceness of white steel.’
    ‘Hmm,’ Mr Boon said, ‘take your time.’
    ‘Look!’ Alice said suddenly. She tapped her bandages hard. It hurt. ‘Look at what he did to me!’
    ‘Poor old Alice,’ Spencer said. He fixed his attention on to the line in Chen’s statement form that said
Witness To Statement
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Rank
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Number
. . . . . . . . . and signed through a gauze curtain of hot tears. ‘Poor old Alice,’ he said bitterly.
    ‘Quite right,’ O’Yee said, ‘The day shift will be righteously diligent.’
    ‘Oh, shut up,’ Spencer said. He was the newest member of the Station and he thought they were picking on him. ‘Oh, shut up,’ Spencer said. He thought he had been so forthright andfirm and policeman-ish at
Alice’s.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Spencer said again.
    ‘Who’s doing all the talking?’ O’Yee asked. He began to type out the circumstances of the African’s arrest and found that any way he put it made him sound like a cross between Dick Tracy and the Lone Ranger. He said, ‘Jesus, this is going to look good on my record, this one,’ and ignored Spencer’s barely audible rejoinder of ‘Oh, shut up.’
    The barman came over to Francis John Vinehouse the tax-man as the fat stripper’s fat legs wobbled her off to the makeshift dressing room behind a curtain to put clothes on again so she could take them off.
    ‘Mr Lop,’ Mr Vinehouse greeted him.
    ‘Hullo,’ Mr Lop said. He sat down at the table unhappily, ‘More trouble?’
    ‘Not for me,’ Mr Vinehouse said. ‘For you.’
    ‘Your Cantonese is getting better,’ Mr Lop said morosely. ‘Do you want to talk in English?’
    ‘No,’ Mr Vinehouse said. There was an opened bottle of Tiger beer on the table in front of him. He slid it towards Mr Lop.
    ‘Aren’t you going to drink it?’ Mr Lop asked without interest. ‘You’re going to claim it on expenses so