Thirty-Five

The stenciled-glass door at the top of the concrete walk read Xiong Distribution.

“This must be the place,” I said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Mel said.

We pushed through the glass door, stepped into The Room That Time Forgot. Brown wood paneling covered the walls, the swirls and patterns of its knotholes interrupted by parallel black notches simulating planks. Two particularly sinister knotholes over a doorway stared at us like the eyes of a sentry.

“Eyes,” I said, pointing.

“Those are not eyes. They’re simulated knotholes.”

“They follow you around the room.”

The room held a black steel desk with a linoleum top, an office chair behind the desk with a torn seat cushion, a computer, and two steel-and-black-vinyl armless guest chairs.

Mel inhaled sharply, about to shout.

I put my finger to my lips. “Let’s keep the element of surprise.”

“I don’t have a warrant.”

“Then don’t search for anything or arrest anyone.”

Two hollow wooden doors led from the room. I tried the lightweight doorknob on the first—lavatory. We moved past the desk. I imagined the wooden eyes of the paneling crossing as they followed us to the second doorway. The door was locked, but I jiggled the knob a bit and the lock shook loose.

“Not much of a security budget,” I said.

“So far there’s nothing to steal.”

I opened the door, peeked through. A broad office space presented itself. Three desks, two phones, water cooler. The phones had the kind of Lucite buttons that light up when you push them. I took a step into the room.

Mel grabbed my arm. “You’re trespassing.”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “There was no sign.”

“That doesn’t matter. The law says it’s trespassing.”

“Good thing I’m not a lawyer.”

I stepped into the room, trying to be quiet on the threadbare carpets.

Mel followed me. “I’m not sure this place is even open for business,” she said.

“The front door was unlocked. They must be expecting someone.”

We moved through the empty office. So far there had been no place that Xiong Shoushan could hide. A metal door provided an exit from the room, or an entrance to something important. This door had some heft. I tried the knob. It turned.

I looked at Mel. She shrugged. “In for a penny.”

I pushed the metal door open and we stepped into a large industrial space in which the floor switched to concrete. Dim fluorescent lights blinked over rows and rows of shelves. A warehouse.

I tiptoed into the nearest row. Xiong Distribution serviced more than the dashboard Jesus industry. This row featured a variety of crosses on beads, their boxes showing them hanging from rearview mirrors. Other boxes contained St. Anthony statues, mezuzahs intended to adorn Jewish doorjambs, and commemorative plates featuring the Virgin Mary holding Jesus both as an infant and as a recently crucified adult.

The fluorescents flickered and sputtered overhead as we turned a corner, found a row of soccer paraphernalia. More commemorative plates, this time featuring a green, white, and red crest adorned with the word Italia. Another plate advised Keep Calm and Call an Italian.

Farther down the row we moved into the Irish neighborhood, featuring signs that warned Irish Parking Only; green-white-and-orange commemorative plates; and shirts that advised Keep Calm and Kiss an Irishman.

The international pattern continued as we moved down the aisles with Brazil, followed by Spain, Argentina, and Greece.

“Everybody but the Chinese,” Mel said.

“The cobbler’s kids get no shoes.”

Xiong Shoushan turned the corner at the end of the row, raising a gun. I spun and pushed Mel to the ground, covering her as Xiong fired. The bullet ricocheted off a shelf next to my ear. Xiong fired again.

Mel shouted, “Get off me!”

I rolled off. Mel produced a gun, sat up, and aimed down the row, but Xiong was gone, his footsteps echoing down the warehouse.

Mel stood. “Stay here.” She started off down the row.

I stood, followed.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Following you,” I said.

“I said to stay.”

We had reached the end of the row. Mel peeked around. Gunshots rang out, echoing across the concrete flooring. The bullets hit a box of commemorative Bruins plates, showering us with black and gold shards of ceramic.

Mel squeezed off several shots and ran off to another row of tchotchkes, leaving me behind. More shots from Xiong and more plate shattering convinced me to move to a safer spot. I ran back down the row, away from the gunfire. Heard more shots from Mel, a pause, more shots from Xiong. The back doors rattled, Jael trying to get in. The doors held.

I ran along the rows peeking down each one, looking for Mel. Saw her across the way, leaning out to fire at something. I continued to run down the warehouse, peeking into the rows. Saw what I had hoped to see: Xiong standing at the end of the row, looking toward Mel, firing his gun. I’d have only one chance.

I looked around for a weapon. I’d moved from the international portion of the warehouse to the Boston Sports section, and had landed right in Red Sox Land. I saw the box I needed, slipped my hand inside, and pulled out my weapon of choice: a Red Sox baseball bat the size of a police baton.

Xiong started firing another volley at Mel. I took the opportunity to attack while he was distracted by aiming his shots, came up behind him, and brought my tiny baseball bat down on his head.

Turns out that physics matters. A tiny wooden baseball bat, no matter how fiercely wielded, is not going to knock a guy out. It pissed him off instead. The wood clacked off Xiong’s head, then bounced off his shoulder. He swore in Chinese, turned, and hit me across the face with his gun.

Right in my stitches.

Metal gun, one; wooden stick, zero.

I reeled, saw him turning to shoot. The gun fired, but missed. I decided poking people with a wooden stick would be more effective than hitting them, so I poked at Xiong’s face. He dodged, grabbed the bat out of my hand, raised his gun, and crashed to the floor as Mel landed on his back.

I sat on his head while Mel applied the handcuffs.