Looking for Henry Turner (Mo Gold And Birdie Mysteries Book 1) by W.L. Liberman

Author:W.L. Liberman [Liberman, W.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter
Published: 2016-06-27T22:00:00+00:00

32

I picked Birdie up in front of the office. I kept the windows of the Chevy rolled down. If we intended to search the gin joints and opium dens of Chinatown, and we did, then any fresh air would be welcome. I parked right on Spadina opposite John Fat Gai's place. Although late, the joint hopped. You'd almost think John had a legit business going. With the kind of trade he did, it made me wonder how much more he socked away illegally. Must have been a bonanza.

Our first stop–the alleyway where we'd found Ying's body. You could always find a lively game of craps taking place in back of Mr. Ling's Grocery. We edged around John's restaurant sticking to the shadows at the opposite side of the street. I could hear them before we saw them as we turned into the alleyway. About 50 feet in, half a dozen guys sat on upturned box crates, smoking, drinking and rolling dice. They were parked just about on the spot where Ying died. I could hear the clink of the glass as the die hit its sides and the clackety-clack as they rolled on the pavement. That and the yells and groans of the players marking the winners and the losers.

A pair of look-outs took the watch–as custom dictated. We didn't hide ourselves as we strolled into the alleyway and the watchers melted out of the shadows. They knew we hadn't come to play craps.

“What you want, fella?” one of them said, a wizened fellow in a pair of blood-stained overalls. A rusty machete lay against his thigh. Some chickens had died tonight.

I kept my hands clear. “Nothing. Just looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Doesn't matter,” I said. “He's not here.”

“Big man,” the other one said. “Dark face, like the devil…” The Chinese were nothing if not superstitious. I hoped Birdie didn't take offence. A burst of Mandarin followed this acute observation along with a surfeit of spitting. The players stopped the game and watched us suspiciously. We backed out of the alleyway. I'd seen what I needed and there was no one of interest. We kept walking along Dundas Street, Birdie's size 17 brogues clopping on the cracked pavement. After a moment, we heard quick steps behind us. One of the players. Once we'd turned, he pulled up keeping his distance.

“Who you looking for?” he said in unaccented English.

“Danny Chow. You know him?”

He was hatless and wore a dark jacket over a dirty white shirt and a pair of trousers that didn't match. He wore different shoes too. They were odd but looked about the right size for each foot.

“I can take you to where he is.”

“Okay.”

“Five dollars,” he said.

“Sure.”

I handed over the half sawbuck and it disappeared into the folds of his jacket. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and the guy tensed.

“Relax,” I said. “Just want to show you a photo.”

I pulled out the picture of the girl and handed it to him. He held it up to the streetlamp to get a look.

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