CHAPTER 11

                                                 San Francisco, California

                                                      Golden Gate Bridge

                                             Wednesday, 17^th October 2001

 

“Jeez-Louise!  Never underestimate the breeding capabilities of rats!” –

 FBI Special Agent Fred Glover

                                               
     I glanced at my fake Bangkok Rolex.  It was just coming up to 3:36 A.M.  Thick, damp fog continued wafting across my body, making me shiver and cough.  I hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat it over the wet iron railing; the fog bank swallowing it.  In the distance a chorus of foghorns weakly echoed round the bay, while the occasional car or truck rumbled down the roadway behind me; appearing ghostly in the fog as they passed.  I snugged down my ball cap, and then shoved both hands inside the pockets of my windbreaker.

     Jake Holman remained standing next to me, in his cocked, white sailor’s cap and heavy peacoat, as he rested both hands on the iron railing.  Finally he turned to me and said, “So that’s about it, shipmate.  Near as I can tell...you’re the best man for this risky detail.”

Machinist’s Mate First Class Jake Holman.

     I took off my ball cap and massaged my aching head. 

     I was stalling, dear reader.  The proposition of taking a nose dive off the bridge, or confronting a group of killer-terrorists, held little appeal to me.  Only how else was I to beat this tumor in my brain?

     Replacing my ball cap, I turned to Jake, then said, “And if I attempt to s-stop these camel-jockeys...you can pretty much guarantee I won’t s-survive the exercise...n-negating my need to deal with this brain tumor.”

     Jake came upright, placed both hands in his peacoat’s pockets, shrugged and replied, “You’ll be goin’ up against trained assassins.  I won’t lie to you, Pete, your chances of survival will be fairly slim to none.  But by messin’ ‘em up...you’ll call attention to ‘em.  The FBI will do the rest.”

To add emphasis to this statement, Jake turned and spat into the fog, and ultimately the sea 200 feet below.

     Then he faced me, and looked me square in the eye, adding, “The clock’s tickin’, shipmate.  Ya gotta make a move on these ragheads today.”

     Looking away from Jake, I analyzed the fog as it spilled across the bridge.

     After examining my hopeless situation from every angle, dear reader, I clenched my jaw and determined a course of action.

     Continuing to study the fog, I at last heaved a tired sigh and said, “Okay, Jake, you can sign this ragged-assed air-whore up.  I’ll give it my b-best shot.”

     I glanced back at Jake.  He winked a cobalt blue eye, cracked a crooked smile, then said, ”I don’t care if you are a landlubber...in my book ya got spine, fly-boy.”

     After taking a moment’s pause, then clearing his throat, Jake continued, “Alright...take out that notepad and pen.  I’m gonna give you a checklist of stuff ya gotta accomplish today before buttin’ heads with al-Qa’ida.”

              *     *     *     *     *

     Later that same morning, after a few hours of sleep, a shave and a shower, plus a change of clothes (red turtleneck jersey, Levi’s, black leather sneakers, ball cap and windbreaker), I zipped over to Coffee Ron’s, corner of Ellis and Mason, for breakfast. 

     My Finnish bartender was on duty, so I slipped her quarters for the jukebox, and enjoyed some great music as I dined on a giant croissant, cheese omelet and Irish coffee made with Grand Marnier. 

     I also had her phone for a taxi.

     When I climbed aboard the cab, I consulted the Parc 55 note pad with Jake’s dictated checklist, to make sure I got the address right, and told the driver, “New King Tin Restaurant, 826 W-Washington Street.”

     So where are we headed, dear reader?  Fabulous Chinatown!

     Centered on Grant Avenue and Stockton Street, covering a 24 square block area, it’s the oldest Chinatown in North America, containing the largest Chinese community outside Asia.

     The first private residence at San Francisco (then called Yerba Buena) was an adobe house, built approximately in 1822 by an English sailor in Portsmouth Square, at the heart of what is now Chinatown.  Afterward, in 1846, Captain John Montgomery sailed from Sausalito with 70 soldiers and raised the American flag in Portsmouth Square, claiming San Francisco for the United States. 

     The handful of houses built around the square was the genesis of San Francisco and Chinatown.  Grant Avenue, currently the main street in Chinatown, was San Francisco's first street and is a major tourist attraction, drawing more visitors annually than the Golden Gate Bridge.

     At 11:18 A.M. I got dropped off at the New King Tin, on the north side of Washington Street (running east and west), and reviewed Jake’s checklist; as per its instructions I looked to my left.  Not 45 yards away, I spotted the entrance to Ross Alley, barely a block long, running north and south, between Washington and Jackson Streets.  Being so narrow it only accepted foot traffic.

     In the “good old days” this alley was a haven for opium dens, gambling dens and brothels, which the Hong Kong Triads and local Chinese Tongs occasionally waged war over.

     Upon entering the alley, I paused a moment as I took in all the vertical signs in Chinese advertising the various businesses.  Wandering in a daze down the alley, I observed merely two signs in English: “Double Dragon Massage Parlor,” and then at the alley’s extreme north end, “Golden State Fortune Cookie Factory.”

     None of these were any help to me.  Referring to Jake’s notes again, I was instructed to look for a sign with a golden bat, hanging upside-down, gripping a gold coin in its mouth.

     As nuts as this sounds, dear reader, bear with me; among the Chinese the bat is an influential icon.  This is because the sound for “bat” in the Chinese language, “fook,” is similar to the word “fuk” (no...not fuck), closely related to the phrase for joy and good fortune.  Which, I suppose, can also happen if one should encounter a “good fuck.”  Forgive me for being such a pig and wandering off topic.

     Would you believe, roughly halfway down the alley, on the east side, I stumbled onto such a sign above a doorway.  This was a narrow shop with boarded windows and a reinforced iron door.  I tried the door’s knob...locked; the door wouldn’t budge.  On its right side though, I found a doorbell; pushed its button and heard it ring inside the shop.  Stepping back, I glanced upward and discovered a TV camera high up, and off to the door’s right side.  Hoping to appear totally harmless, I removed my dark glasses and ball cap in order for the occupant to see me clearly.  After a long pause, there was a loud buzzing sound, as the door unlocked and popped ajar.

     I pulled the door open, stepped inside and closed the door behind me.  The buzzing stopped as the door re-locked itself.

     I wasn’t in this shop more than five seconds, dear reader, when already I felt sorry for myself.  Jesus wept...this place was grim!

     For starters, there was hardly any light, everything was dark, cluttered and covered in a layer of dust.  Jake had warned me to watch my step and stay alert, for this “hole in the wall” pawn shop was used by the local Tongs.  It was a long narrow shop, and had two aisles loaded with the used-hocked stuff of broken marriages, broken lives, and broken dreams, along with the residue of burglaries and thefts.

     At the far end of the shop was the exclusive source of light, illuminating a glass display case.  As I gingerly approached this display case, ultimately I uncovered a Chinese gentleman on the far side, in the shadows, seated on a stool in the corner, smoking a cigarette using an ivory holder.  He appeared to be in his early sixties, with long, white balding hair, a Foo-Manchu, white mustache and goatee, with long, white strands growing out of a dark mole on his cheek.  He was dressed in a long-sleeved, black silk shirt and trousers, with black slippers, and as he blew smoke, he seemed to scrutinize me through thick, wire-rimmed glasses.  I also noted the fingernail on his pinky finger was amazingly long.

     When I reached the tired, glass display case, I dropped the following on its scratched counter top: The Parc 55 notepad with Jake’s checklist, my dark glasses and ball cap, along with my battered and abused VISA Card.

     For a moment I studied the items on display inside the case, and was fairly certain half these used goods had been involved in some type of criminal activity.  However, my eyes picked out one particular worn, secondhand piece of merchandise I was intimately familiar with.

     Glancing up at the Chinese proprietor, seated in the shadows of the corner, I was about to make him an offer, when our eyes locked, causing me to hesitate.  He took a drag on his cigarette...then as he exhaled, blowing a blue cloud at me, his wrinkled face broke into a wide grin, exposing nicotine-stained teeth along with a solitary gold one.

     So why the big toothy-grin, dear reader?  I’ll tell you why, this crafty Chink discerned the desperation in my eyes.  For him my “desperation” meant only one thing: “profit.”

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