I reached out and whacked it again, using the gun this time. The doorman repeated his peephole ritual, and when he still didn’t see anything it annoyed him. I heard him mutter something softly in Chinese.
Come on, I thought. Open the goddamn door.
He opened it. The lock scraped, the door edged inward; he poked his head out. I moved over, wedged my shoulder against the door, and crowded into him, through the opening and inside. He made a startled grunting noise, staggered, and caught himself with one hand on the wall. I went right up against him and jammed the gun in his stomach.
“Make a move,” I said, “make a sound, I’ll put a bullet in you.”
He was young, brawny, with a wispy beard and not much chin. He didn’t show me any fear, but he didn’t move or speak, either. The door was still open; I backed off from him a couple of steps and pushed it shut with my foot. We were in a small foyer, maybe ten feet square, lighted by a low-wattage bulb screwed into a wall socket. Under the light was a chair and a tiny table with some Chinese magazines on it. A flight of steep stairs stood opposite; I couldn’t see all the way to the top, but I could hear voices from up there, the steady clicking of coins and tiles and poker chips.
“Upstairs,” I said to the doorman. “Move.”
He stayed where he was, watching me through eyes narrowed down to slits.
I thumbed the hammer back on the .38. That made up his mind for him; he shoved away from the wall and went over to the stairs. I lowered the hammer, put the gun with my hand around it into my coat pocket, and then moved up behind him and jabbed the muzzle into the small of his back. We went up crowded together like a couple of old friends.
At the top there was a landing with a blank wall at the end of it; the parlor was on the left, beyond a wide doorway. I prodded the doorman inside. Big room, blue with smoke; floored in linoleum, filled with imitation leather furniture, old-fashioned smoking stands, and maybe a dozen gaming tables. The tables were all covered in white felt and each of them had a silver-shaded lamp hanging low over it. Half were fan-tan layouts with nothing on them but mounds of little brass coins that had square holes in the middle, presided over by housemen with ivory-handled rakes. There were two four-seat Mah-Jongg tables cluttered with dice and green-and-white tiles; the rest were six-sided poker tables. Maybe forty people occupied the room, all men and all but two of them Chinese.
Neither of the Caucasians was Carl Emerson.
Most of the gamblers were grouped around the fan-tan layouts, probably because fan-tan was a simple game and required no particular skill; the houseman used his rake to pull coins two at a time off the pile, and the betting was on whether one or two would remain at the end. The two white guys were playing poker. Both of them gave me cursory glances and then looked back at their cards. The Chinese were more curious; some of them stopped talking and their gazes lingered on me, wary and speculative.
But I did not pay any attention to them. I was looking at the rear of the room, where a glass-fronted cubicle spanned the entire wall. That was the bank, and through the glass I could see Lee Chuck sitting on a high stool behind a counting desk, like an Oriental despot surveying his domain.
He was bent forward in an attitude of concentration, horn-rimmed glasses pushed down on the tip of his nose, writing something in an oversized ledger; he hadn’t seen me yet. I nudged the doorman with my shoulder to get him moving again, and we went along the side wall past a couple of the fan-tan layouts, toward the cubicle. We were halfway there when Chuck raised his head. I saw him stiffen, but that was his only reaction; he kept on sitting on his stool, staring out as we approached.
There was a door on the near side of the cubicle, open and guarded by another young, heavyset Chinese, this one in a business suit. He was probably armed; not all of the bulges under the suit jacket were muscles. He was watching us, too, with the same wary speculation as the players.
In an undertone I said to the doorman, “We’re going inside. Tell the guard Lee Chuck is expecting me. In English.”
He didn’t give any indication that he’d heard me. I was pretty tensed up by this time; I did not want to have to use the gun, and I wouldn’t use it unless it became a matter of self-preservation, but if the doorman or the guard made trouble, somebody was going to get hurt just the same. I was in a mood to break the place up if that was what it took to get to Chuck.
But there was no trouble. When we reached the cubicle the doorman said what I’d told him to say, and the guard looked me up and down and then glanced in at Chuck for confirmation. Maybe Chuck sensed the potential for violence, or maybe the house was having a big night and he didn’t want to disrupt the gaming, or maybe he was just curious; in any case, all he did was nod. The guard stepped aside, and the doorman and I went in through the open doorway.
Lee Chuck got off his stool as I elbowed the door shut. The glass wall was fairly thick; the babble of voices in the parlor receded. The doorman said something in Chinese that sounded like an apology. Chuck didn’t look at him; behind the horn-rims his eyes poked at my face like rough stones.
I said, “I’ve got a gun in my pocket. I can show it to you if you want.”
“No. I believe you.”
“Good. Just so you understand I’m not playing games.”
“What is it you wish here?”
“I’m looking for Carl Emerson,” I said.
“Emerson, sir?”
“No more bullshit, Chuck; I’m tired of bullshit. I want Emerson and I’m going to get him. If I have to walk on you to do it, I will.”
He let a small silence build. The doorman had gone over to a big black-and-gold safe and was leaning against it, looking sullen. On a table behind the desk, a Persian cat lay sprawled on its side; it seemed to be watching me too.
Chuck said finally, “Why do you want this man Emerson?”
“You know why I want him. But there’s another reason, too. When I tell you what it is I think you’ll agree to help me find him.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. He murdered Jimmy Quon tonight. At the Tien Hou Temple.”
Chuck blinked, just once, the first time he had ever blinked in my presence; it was about as much indication of startlement as anyone would ever get out of him. He didn’t say anything.
I glanced out through the glass. The heavyset guard was half-turned so that he could watch what was going on in here; some of the gamblers were still rubbernecking. It made me uneasy, being on display like this. The longer I stayed around here, the more chance there was of things stirring up into a skirmish.
“What we’re going to do,” I said to Chuck, “we’re going to walk out of here and go downstairs to the herb shop. There’s more privacy down there.”
“And if I do not agree?”
“You’ll agree. I’ve got a gun, remember?”
“You would not shoot me in front of so many witnesses.”
“No? I’m liable to do just about anything right now. Try me and see.”
We matched stares for maybe thirty seconds. It was a will thing: he was trying to gauge whether or not his was stronger and he could make me back down. He must have decided that wasn’t likely because he shrugged and said, “As you wish. Perhaps it is best that we do talk.”
“When we go out, tell the kid at the door you’re leaving for a few minutes. Use English so I know that’s what you’re saying. Make it casual; we’re just a couple of guys going off to discuss business.”
He dipped his head, came over to the door without hurry. I made a motion to the doorman, and the three of us went out into the parlor. Chuck repeated my words to the guard, who said something in Chinese; Chuck answered him in English, saying, “Yes, everything is fine.” The guard seemed satisfied. Two-thirds of the men in the room followed us with their eyes as we filed out to the stairs, but none of them moved from their chairs. On the way down, I heard their conversation pick up and the renewed clatter of coins and tiles and chips. That was a good sign, but I stopped the three of us in the foyer for half a minute, just to make sure. Nobody appeared on the stairs.