Mike's Revenge - chapter 3

Chinatown. Mike climbed stiffly out of the yellow cab and pushed a fiver back through the open window to the driver. He straightened his back and glanced around the crowded streets. No one he knew.

Anything happened in this town and the Chinks knew about it. More than likely because they were involved somehow, and not in a good way. Pulling the overcoat belt tighter, Mike headed down a nearby alley, leaving the crowds behind. “Just me and you Tom,” he said absently to a ratty looking cat. The cat ignored him and continued to search through a tipped over garbage bin for dinner.

Finding the door he was looking for, Mike stepped through without knocking. Inside was a hallway, lit by a single red incandescent light in the ceiling. Stopping for a moment, Mike reached down to ease the 45 from his chest holster and pushed it deep into an outside pocket.

Mike knew Lin Fat from his army days. Lin Fat had never been in the army, at least not the American one, but he had run the best poker game in San Francisco during those years, and Mike developed an interest in poker about that time. After the war, Lin Fat had moved on to bigger things. They weren't friends but they stayed out of each other's way... mostly. This was Lin Fat's building. How Mike knew that was another story.

Mike pushed open a red painted door at the end of the corridor, at least it looked red in the red light, but then everything looked red. He stepped carefully into the dim room and stopped to look around.

It was a large space with several pillars holding up the roof, empty of everything except a single mattress in the center. The mattress wasn't empty. A Chinese girl lay on her back, naked except for knee-high leather riding boots and black silk panties. She was languidly field stripping a Thompson sub-machine gun and ignoring his intrusion.

“Hello Ivy,” he said.

“Hello Mike," Ivy said after a lengthy pause, her eyes never leaving her work.

“Been awhile,” Mike ventured.

A pair of slanted eyes shifted to bring Mike into view. Eyes he knew could flash anger and passion with the unpredictability of a feral tiger. Lin Fat's daughter had worked at the poker tables as a child, and a teenager, and a young woman. For a very short time, she had a thing for Mike, at least until her father noticed. Mike had never seen her again.

Her eyes left Mike's face and moved back to the Thompson she was holding. It was all but reassembled - just the magazine drum left, which was lying on the mattress beside her thigh; her brown, lean thigh, not that Mike noticed.

The Asian woman rose effortlessly to her feet. Her head was at a level with Mike's chest, long black hair flowing down behind her back. She was standing too close, her face inches away from Mike, looking up at him with those eyes... waiting.

“Someone came to my office this morning,” Mike said slowly, not moving away.

“So?”

“They damaged my secretary.”

“So?”

Mike looked down and noticed her nipples had become hard nubs and were almost touching his overcoat. He noticed too that her full lips were painted a glossy red that was a lot more interesting than the red light bulb had been. Ivy pushed up on her toes and brought those lips up to his, almost touching.

“Where have you been Mike?” she whispered, looking into his eyes.

That's when a door on the far side of the room crashed open and three Chinese goons in black suits walked in. They had guns too and their guns had the magazines attached. They were talking as they came in but stopped when they saw Mike. Or Ivy. Or Mike and Ivy; one of whom was almost naked and about wrapped around the other.

A flurry of Mandarin filled the stagnant air of the warehouse, angry male voices with an occasional calm female counterpoint. Mike relaxed, shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for the conclusion. Should have learned some Chinese, he thought idly.

The tone of the discussion seemed to darken suddenly and Mike noticed that all the weapons were now pointed at his chest. At a distance of yards, it seemed a credible threat to his person.

Ivy had stopped taking part in the discussion and was just staring at the men. She had not pulled away from Mike and was definitely blocking their line of fire, should they take it upon themselves to opt for violence. Unless of course they decided to include her in any retribution they might exact.

Mike was a big man and needed a lot to fuel his body. Also he had skipped breakfast that morning, upset as he was at the break in office routine. The resultant low blood sugar level and general irritability may have explained his short temper and perhaps precipitous action in cocking the 45 inside his pocket and blowing the nearest goon away. Ivy immediately dived for the mattress and Mike kept shooting, the big gun booming in the quiet room. A staccato hammering that sounded a lot like a Thompson joined in with the big bass to complete the orchestra.

Mike stopped shooting when there were no more targets and looked down. Ivy was kneeling in front of him with the noisy Thompson still jerking in her hands, her small perky breasts bouncing saucily with the recoil. Mike felt himself harden at the sight of her, and when she finally stopped shooting to look back at him, her eyes fixed at his waist.

"Is that for me," Ivy drawled.

"Maybe," Mike replied, unable to think of anything better to say at that particular moment. He felt his face start to burn as she continued to stare at the bulge in his slacks. There was dead Gooks everywhere and probably more coming, but all she was interested in was his cock. He smiled suddenly, like the sun breaking through the clouds.

"What a woman you are."