Saint Augustine

Chapter 1: Detective Doyle Longstreet grew tired of the constant fog that seemed to lay thick over the city day in and day out. Even during midday, the blanket of mist seemed a malaise layered over the alleys of Chinatown. He glanced to his right, and the reporter, Carl Darren, who he now considered his friend, rubbed his hands together trying to warm them, though the calendar told him it was still summer. “It seems colder down here in Chinatown.” Carl blew into his cupped hands. “I believe you. The weather seems unnatural. A few blocks over on the Coast it isn’t as cold.” When Doyle spoke of the Coast, he didn’t mean where the land met the bay or the docks. No, he meant the Barbary Coast, the few blocks of saloons, dance halls, and brothels that made up the rest of his beat. Of all the neighborhoods in San Francisco, his precinct contained two of the most violent vice-filled areas of the city. “You’re sure your source knows what they are talking about? I haven’t heard about any high-level deaths in Chinatown.” Doyle searched Carl for reassurance. “Last time you came to me with a tip, we ended up in the sewers and a cage.” “I’m telling you, a war is brewing between the Tongs. The Hop Sings leader died mysteriously. They blame the Suey Sings. If they’re right, the fighting will get worse before it gets better.” Carl studied a crumpled paper with a pencil map outlining some of the less-traveled backstreets of Chinatown. He looked at the corner where they stood trying to orient his sense of direction but failed. “I have a little experience with both groups. They’ve kept an uneasy peace for several months. Something big must have happened to start a war.” Doyle observed Carl and turned his map right side up. He would much rather be looking for Tsang Mei Yan, his schoolteacher girlfriend, but her trail had grown cold over the past day. It just so happened he felt she was somewhere in Chinatown. Her school for Chinese girls had been only a few blocks away before Helena Brandywine moved it to a much larger, safer building a few blocks away. Tsang Mei had run-ins with the Tongs in the past but was never openly threatened by them. She had too much influence in the community. If she had finally crossed them somehow, he might never find her. The reporter stepped cautiously down an alley. “I’ve heard...” Carl started to tell him something but stopped. “Isn’t it strange no one is out? Noon and all the shops are closed.” “Don’t change the subject. Tell me what you were going to say.” Doyle pushed him on the shoulder, forcing him down the way a few steps. “No need to get pushy. I heard an old evil has returned to our world. Word on the street is the evil is gathering followers at an incredible rate.” “That is some pretty specific words. Does the street say anything else?” “Yes, words about demons returning to the lands of the living, disguised as women with white hair, long flowing white hair.” “You need to stop talking to the street. I think it’s lying to you.” Doyle couldn’t help but think of the old stories he was forced to learn as a child growing up in Canton, the ancient Chinese folktales from long ago. A shiver ran down his back. He was sure it was brought on by the damp cold of the penetrating mist. They contained many tales of demons disguised as humans walking among the common people doing what they wished, all in the name of evil. “Do you hear that?” Carl stopped a few steps ahead of Doyle. The slow rhythmic pounding of a large drum reached Doyle’s ears. “Yes, a drum? But I can’t tell the direction, can you?” “No, this damnable fog distorts the sound, but it grows closer. Head down the path. Maybe we will get lucky.” Doyle instinctively reached to check that his automatic gas operated pistol sat secured in the hog-leg under his arm. The weapon was a gift from a friend whom Doyle called Mister Wizard. In many ways, he wished he had run off with Helena and his friend, but he had responsibilities to handle here in his adopted city and a missing girlfriend to find. Approaching the corner, he could hear the high pitch of a bell matching the tempo of the deep sounding drum. They came upon a courtyard hidden from the streets, the tall surrounding buildings lost in the gloom. A breath of wind swirled the fog enough to spot the approaching figures dressed in white as they marched from the vapor at a slow pace, toting the heavy burden of a casket on their backs, a great painting of a man held high in the lead. Carl cleared his throat. “I think we are close.” Before Doyle answered, a string of deafening explosions happened at the intersection. Carl jumped back and landed on Doyle’s foot. “Careful, damn it. Those are just firecrackers. They are chasing away evil spirits. I think we found it.” Doyle didn’t want to interrupt the procession, so he grabbed Carl’s coat and pulled him back a few paces to hide behind some stacked empty crates. Carl whispered, “If the guys in white are the funeral, who are the ones in black?” He motioned to his right with his head. “s**t,” Doyle cursed under his breath. He was fairly sure the ones in white were the Hop Sings, one of the meanest Tongs in Chinatown. He’d dealt with them in the past. They’d placed a death warrant on his head. The group would be happy to kill both him and Carl in this part of town. The ones in black must be the Suey Sings. He knew little about them, but if they were willing to attack the funeral procession of the Hops Sings, all bets were off. The alley was about to get bloody, and the pair of westerners had nowhere to run. Each of the black-clad men carried a weapon of some sort, and two hatchets tucked into the sash were tied around their waists. Both groups stopped with twenty paces separating them. Cantonese was shouted between the groups, and Doyle translated for Carl. First, the leader of the white group yelled, “You have no place here. Let us bury our leader in peace.” Carl nodded that his information was correct about the death in Chinatown. Followed closely by the leader dressed in black shouting back, “Your time in this city is over. Join with us or die!” “We will meet you in the lowest level of hell before we join you!” Carl asked, “How many levels of hell are there?” “Some say hundreds, now shush,” Doyle answered. “Then we have no choice, Lady Bai decrees it.” At which point the black-dressed leader motioned with his hand forward and screamed a word that needed no interpretation, “Attack!” The white-robed group dropped the casket and produced weapons of all shapes and sizes. The first two pulled out a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun each and fired into the charging wave of black suits. Doyle risked a peek and counted six on the ground. Before they reloaded, each received a thrown hatchet into the chest, killing them instantly. The men behind the casket charged in response. Weapons of all shapes and sizes flailing about in an orchestrated frenzy as the two groups collided with a crash. The two formations of men disintegrated into individual pairs fighting hand to hand. Sharp and blunt instruments of death spun in the hands of master fight artists. The crush of combat drew closer to the two westerns’ hideout, the wave of men in black being pushed back the way they came. “We need to leave.” Doyle pulled on Carl’s coat, moving him to a safer distance. “It looks like the Hop Sings are winning.” Carl tried to pull away. “Just because they wear white, don’t think of them as the good guys. They will kill us just as quick as the ones in black. As soon as the fight is over, they will want to erase any witnesses.” Doyle backtracked the way they had walked into the area, wanting to get out of the alley as soon as possible. He kept Carl in the lead, keeping an eye on their collective backsides as they hurried down the way. “I don’t—” The remainder of Carl’s sentence was cut short when he caught the end of an oak staff in the face. He dropped to the muck covered cobbles like a sack of horseshoes. From around the corner, two of the largest men Doyle ever saw stepped out. Both the Chinese men wore western-style suits and derby hats, very striking with the oak quarter staffs held in their hands. “Now look, fella’s...” Doyle stalled for a time while he reached for his ever-present handgun. Before he whipped it out, he found his coat pulled down over his shoulders, effectively pinning his arms to his sides from behind. A pair of strong hands held him trapped. He looked overhead and found the fire escape directly above. “I guess you three want to talk?” The traffic of one of San Francisco’s significant streets wasn’t far down the dark, foggy way. If he yelled for help, he was sure none would come. That was the kind of city San Francisco had become. “We carry a message from Lady Bai—stop looking for the school teacher, or someone will get hurt.” The accent was not as thick as he had expected. Doyle figured this man was a second or third generation in the States. Maybe negotiation would work. It would be better than what Doyle had expected the outcome would be. This was the first lead he had on Tsang Mei since her mysterious disappearance. “Listen, I don’t know who this Lady Bai is, but I would love to sit down and speak with her. I just want Miss Tsang Mei Yan to be returned. I will do anything you require of me to free her.” “You didn’t understand. I will repeat the message one last time. You must stop your search for the school teacher or else.” The large man used the end of his staff as the full stop of his sentence into Doyle’s abdomen. The unexpected blow knocked his wind out. After a few gasps, he regained his speech. Through wheezes, Doyle said, “You should understand I will never give up. Just kill me now if you must.” Doyle watched the pair in front of him expecting the worse. The man on the right shared a glance at his partner and both shrugged. “Lady Bai told us you would say something like that.” Doyle smiled to himself and had no choice but to laugh. He had a pretty good idea what was about to happen. “Get on with it then.” Doyle spat at the largest one and missed. He closed his eyes just as the staff rounded the first man’s shoulder and spun, cracking him across the head, but not hard enough to knock him out or kill him, but the blow still hurt like hell. The other took a wider swing catching Doyle under the arm. He was sure he heard the noise of cracking ribs with the impact to the right side of his body. The men were talented. The beating was going to last a while. They only broke the bones they intended to, their strikes leaving him barely conscious to feel every hit and every crack.