MEN DIES ABOUT IT A Novel by Edward McInnis ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Special thanks to Lynda Connolly for her invaluable assistance in preparing this book. Website, book conversion & publication by Kendrick * * * "Could be a spoonful of coffee could be a spoonful of tea. But one little spoon of your precious love is good enough for me. "Could be a spoonful of water to save you from the desert sand. But one spoon of lead from my forty-five will save you from another man. "Men lies about it Men cries about it Men dies about it." Spoonful by Willie Dixon CHAPTER 1 "Castille!" Margie Wong shouted into the phone. "Betty Boop is missing!" "I know," I said, receiver gripped between my shoulder and ear while my hands strummed flamenco chords on my gitbox. "She was last seen on screen in a Talkartoon in 1939." "Not that Betty Boop, you dope! My Betty Boop! Works for me? You always flirt with her? Betty Lum!" "Oh, that Betty Boop. Correction. She always flirts with me. Particulars, please." She babbled. I'd never heard her so shaken, rattled and roiled. "Excuse, Miss Margie," I interrupted in my Charlie Chan voice. "Please to slow down. Make haste only when withdrawing hand from mouth of tiger." "Maybe she's kidnapped!" "Kidnapped?" I asked. "Have you been inhaling synthehol again?" "I'm serious!" "What makes you think she's been kidnapped?" "She didn't come to work Friday or today," she said. "Maybe she's ill." "She would have called." "Maybe she took a mini-vacation with her family and forgot to tell you," I said. "Her husband..." "Mister Boop?" "Ha ha," she said. "He called here looking for her. In fact, he's here right now. Nobody has seen Betty all weekend." "Call the cops." "I did! I went with Mr. Lum to the police station. Filled out a missing persons report." "And?" I asked. "They told us about the thousands of adults who go missing every day for a dozen different reasons." "What are they going to do about it?" "Far as I can tell, nothing," she said. "Keep an eye out for her. Whatever that means. Now I see why you say cops are useless." "You actually agree with me about something," I said. "Which means you're buttering me up. To do...?" "You know." "But I want to hear you say it." "You're so childish," she said. "Someone down the hall's calling me. Have to hang up." "All right! Come here to talk with Mr. Lum. I want you to look for Betty. Satisfied?" "No," I said. "Why not?" "Because I don't look for missing persons," I said. "I find them." CHAPTER 2 A grim black man in his 20's swaggered into my office, wearing cashmere coat, shaved head and an exaggerated air of indifference. Youngblood with roller coaster coked-up eyes. "You Castille?" he asked. "And exorbitantly glad of it," I said. "Have a seat." "I stand." "They also serve who stand and wait," I said. "How can I help you?" "Not me," he said. "Help Queen Cleopatra." "Queen Cleo...? Oh. Sister Flukie." "That her slave name. Now she Queen Cleopatra. Right righteous ruler of the Combat Zone." "I know," I said. "I christened her." "You?" "What does she want?" "Say fly a kite to Castille," he said. "What?" "Queen Cleo want a sit-down." "When?" I asked. "Tonight. Midnight." "The witching hour. Where?" "Hot Spot," he said. "The clitoris of Boston. Why?" "War coming." "Rather awkward on such short notice," I said. "Have to get my armor - you know, gauntlet, helmet and chain mail tunic - out of storage. But I'll be there. Brass fittings and all." "You best be there." "And your name?" "Laughing Death," he said. "You haven't even cracked a smile." "Cause you ain't dead. Yet." CHAPTER 3 Walking from one end of Chinatown to the other in the scolding cold air of early December, I pondered. Sister Flukie had rejected my strenuous voice-straining advice to leave Boston on the first available plane, train, boat, wagon or any other means of conveyance she deemed fit. Instead, Sister Flukie - zombified slave-daughter of King Pimp, recently deceased lord and master of the Combat Zone - had transformed herself into Queen Cleopatra. The new maximum leader of the Zone. And, as I predicted, her rule would be challenged. And, as I knew full well, like Sysyphus - doomed to push a boulder up a hill only to see it fall to the bottom of the hill, over and over and over - I would be sucked back into the epic vortex of violence. Sigh. I said aloud in my Godfather voice: "Every time you get out, they pull you back in." CHAPTER 4 At the Chinatown Service Center, Pinky Tran, receptionist, sat behind her desk. Head bowed, tissue in hand, she cried hard. Real hard. Three early-20's Chinese Vietnamese gangster types jeered and sneered in Cantonese at Pinky. Counselors and clients peeped around flimsy cubicle walls, not daring to get involved. But not wanting to miss the show. "Impudent rapscallions!" I said. The three stopped taunting Pinky. They turned to look at me. The same three jamokes I had booted out a month before for the same incivility. This time, I studied their scorn-savoring faces. Two looked away. One dead-eyed me. The leader. Though short, he gave the impression of being taller by his erect posture. He had shoulder-length black hair, jutting chin, smug arrogance engraved in his features. He studio-gangster stared at me. "I am Hung!" he announced. "I don't care if you're drawn and quartered," I said. "Told you before. Leave her alone." "She no good!" he burst out with surprising resentment, with seemingly genuine indignation. "Why not?" I asked. "She nigger-lover! No good! I learn from you!" "Me?" I asked, astonished. "You teach me! I learn! Very well!" No idea what he was talking about. "Out!" I commanded. "I leave," smirked Hung. "But someday..." "Someday your prince will come," I said. "But until then. Out!" Two shambled by me. The leader - the great and mighty Hung - walked boldly, eyes locked with mine. He actually curled his upper lip in contempt. Seen too many Grade-Z American action films. If he had a waxed mustache, he would have twirled it. Pinky still cried but quietly. "Same reason?" I asked. She nodded. Then looked up at me, teardrops still raining from sorrow-clouded eyes. "Castille, you think I should stop see Calvin?" "Why?" I asked. His name was actually 'Kelvin.' But no matter how many times he corrected her, she still pronounced it as 'Calvin.' "So much trouble because he black," she said. "Vietnamese and Chinese no like black people." "Do you and Kelvin like each other?" "Of course," she said. "Love each other?" "Think so." "I can't tell you what to do," I said. "But if you find someone in this Godforsaken grave-digging world to love? You're lucky." "I think so too. I am lucky to have Calvin. When I gamble, I always think luck better than skill." "Not exactly what I meant." "Margie wait for you," she said, drops drying, eyes rainbowing. "You go back her office now. Okay?" CHAPTER 5 With Margie sat two Chinese males, adult and child. The boy hunched over a small table off to the side, frowning fiercely as he drew with pencil on paper. The man, seated in front of Margie's desk, wore a gray business suit. His black hair was fading to gray. Even his skin looked gray. Though his professional mask was inoffensive, modest, bland, his true expression was worried, weary, worn. "Castille," said Margie. "You remember Mr. Lum, Betty's husband. And Little Ming, Betty's son." "Sure," I said, shaking his hand. His grip felt limp, reluctant, weak. Shock? Fear? Guilt? "Hi, Ming!" I said to the boy. "Hi," he said softly, without looking up from his drawing. Ming took after his petite mother. Ten years old, he looked a sickly seven. I felt bad for him. If he didn't master the Dim Mak Death Touch soon, he'd be bullied during his whole adolescence. "Castille will get Betty back," said Margie confidently, as I sat down. I wish I was as lay-down-my-life certain of myself as she was of me. Wandering wife jobs were sometimes a bit of a sticky wicket. "Yes, of course," said Mr. Lum, without conviction. "I'm sure you've told the story several times," I said. "But if you can stand it one more time, I'd like to hear it from your own lips." Margie poured steaming tea into small white porcelain cups for the adults. "Yes, of course," repeated Mr. Lum, again without conviction. He was sure I couldn't help. But he would go through the motions if that's what society, propriety, Margie wanted. "When did you first realize Betty was missing?" "Almost right away," said Mr. Lum, tonelessly. "I work in the financial district. Betty works here. And Ming goes to Chinese School after regular school. We all get out around the same time. "Betty gets Ming. I walk over. We usually meet at Ming's school, a few blocks over. Then we walk to the parking garage on Beach Street and drive home to Randolph." "Simple enough," I said. "So what happened?" "Friday, when I got to the school, Betty wasn't there. I went inside and got Ming. He hadn't seen her. I asked the other parents, teachers, administrators.