Greta ran back to where Jake and Elva still lay snoring. She shook Elva, but the woman wouldn’t wake up.
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” Wally said, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “When those two get a snootful of brandy it would take an earthquake to wake them. Maybe two earthquakes. Have a doughnut. We want to fatten you up.”
Fatten me up for what? Greta glared at him. “I don’t want a doughnut. I have to look for Hank.”
“Have you looked on the second floor? Maybe he went exploring up there.”
“How would he get there?” Greta knew there was another floor above this one but she hadn’t seen any stairs or an elevator, not that an elevator would work in this place.
“Why, there’s some stairs down at the other end, next to what used to be the elevator shaft.” Wally laughed and pointed into the dark bowels of the warehouse. “Wait, I’ll come with you.”
Greta ran ahead, frantic with worry about Hank. She found the stairs and clambered up them, calling for her brother. She heard Wally behind her, chuckling to himself as he climbed the stairs.
Hank wasn’t on the second floor of the warehouse. Or if he was, he wasn’t answering her. Greta felt tears prickling behind her eyes as she searched the big empty space, skirting the hole near the stairs, where Wally said there used to be an elevator.
“Why, look at this,” Wally said. She looked in the direction he was pointing. There was a doorway, open, with blackness beyond. “There’s rooms back there. Maybe that’s where your brother’s gone.”
She didn’t trust the bearded man, but she had to find Hank. She walked toward the doorway and peered into the dimly lit chamber, her eyes adjusting, picking out shapes. This part of the warehouse had been used as offices, about a quarter of the floor carved up into cubicles by partitions. There was a door on the far side next to a dirty window.
“Hank?” she called, her voice echoing against the walls.
Was that a voice she heard, just a whimper? Maybe he had wandered in here and gotten hurt or something. She moved into the divided-up room, heard Wally step in after her, then whirled in alarm as she heard the door shut. Wally laughed. A few seconds later this portion of the room was brightened by the circular glow from a big flashlight.
In that instant she saw Hank. He was under an old metal desk, his hands tied to one of the legs with a length of rope. He’d been crying, but he stopped when he saw Greta.
She ran to Hank and scrabbled at the rope with her fingers. It wasn’t tied very well. If she had enough time, she could get it loose. But did she have enough time?
She turned and shouted at Wally. “What have you done to him?”
Wally laughed, a nasty sound. “Caught me a pair of plump little partridges, that’s what. You and him both.”
“What are you talking about?” Greta demanded.
“Been talking to a man. The kind of man who’ll pay good money for a couple of fat little angels like you. Oh, yes. The kind that likes little boys will have a good time with your little brother. Then there’s the kind that likes sweet little virgins like you.”
Wally shifted the flashlight from his right hand to his left. Greta saw his right hand go into his pocket and pull out a handful of greenbacks. “This is just seed money. I get the rest when I deliver the goods, when the man comes through that fire escape door in a few minutes.”
A few minutes. That’s all the time she had. Wally was between her and the door. Greta squatted and tugged at the rope securing Hank’s hands, her fingers working the knot. There, it was loosening. Just a little bit more, that’s all she needed.
“Look at him,” she cried, making her voice teary. “You got it so tight it’s cutting his hands. That’s why he’s been crying.”
Hank didn’t need to be told twice. He started to wail. Greta joined in, still fumbling with the rope.
“Shut up, both of you,” Wally said, shoving the money back into his pocket. “Shut up, I tell you.”
Wally walked to the desk and knelt, setting the flashlight aside so he could adjust the rope. Quick as lightning, Greta scooped up the flashlight and brought it down hard on Wally’s head. He bellowed and grabbed for her as he tried to get to his feet. She slithered from his grasp, then hit him again, and he went down. She hit him a third time, and he moaned. Then she turned to Hank and helped her little brother pull free of his bonds.
She seized her brother’s arm and tugged him toward the door. When they reached it, she jerked it open and they ran for the stairwell. Hank had just reached the top step when Greta was caught from behind. Wally was cursing in her ear as he lifted her off the floor. She wriggled in his arms, almost gagging at the smell of him, and sank her teeth into one of the hands that held her. He screamed as she tasted blood. He dropped her.
She regained her balance and turned to face him as he came at her again, aiming her fist at the crotch of his baggy pants, at the place Mom said it would hurt if you hit a man. He screamed again when she hit him, falling backward. But he didn’t fall onto the floor. He kept going back, and down, into the open elevator shaft.
“He went splat,” Hank said when she found him at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Good. I hope he broke his damn neck.”
Greta looked dispassionately at the motionless body lying on top of the rusted metal at the bottom of the elevator shaft, about three feet below the first floor of the warehouse. Blood trickled from his mouth. When he didn’t move, she climbed down and reached into his pocket, pulling out the folding money he’d been showing off. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore.
Greta shoved the money into her own pocket, climbed out of the shaft, and took Hank’s arm. They ran through the warehouse, back to where Jake and Elva were still sleeping it off next to the gray ashes of the fire. Greta scooped up the bag of doughnuts and zipped them inside the brown nylon bag. No sense letting food go to waste.
“Where we going now?” Hank asked.
She slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the street. “Invisible time.”
Part IV
Desolation angels
Street court
by Seth Morgan[12]
Outer Mission
The state of war with the Wah Ching mandated that the Sing brothers stay constantly on the move. To find them, Joe loitered in Chinatown Park, searching out one of their minions for instructions. There, dozing behind his pulleddown porkpie hat beneath the checker pavilion’s snapping pennants, the wizened pigtailed dopepeddler known only as Firecracker.
“Barkersan!” Firecracker cackled once Joe roused him from his stupor. Bright beady eyes laughed from a face like a desiccated apricot. “Doggone no see, long time.”
Hastily Joe asked where Joe and Archie Sing were to be found. Firecracker knew the Barker was trusted by the brothers and issued a convoluted set of directions. Thanking him, Joe halfturned to leave, then stopped, flinging back his head and puffing his cheeks disconsolately. Releasing his breath with a curse, he turned back.
“Front me a dime of your gunpowder, Firecracker.”
Surprise further wrinkled Firecracker’s face. He’d never known Barkersan to use coke. But his next knowing cackle guessed Joe had a good reason for wanting it now. With a motion subtle and fluid as the T’ai Chi performed by nearby youths in martial pajamas, Firecracker swept off his porkpie hat, plucked a plastic pane of white powder from its band, and palmed Joe a quarter gram.
The vast import warehouse near the piers at the foot of Telegraph Hill was owned by one of the brothers’ innumerable relatives. A loft that could be reached only through labyrinthine secret passages was on their rotation of hideouts.