Kung Fu - Book #1 - Year of the Tiger by Lee Chang - Chapter 01

1973 Genre: Vintage Paperback / Martial Arts

A BIG SCORE OF "H" ON THE HIGH SEAS—

but the San Francisco Mafia needed a respectable boat to make the transfer. Ho Li Wing and his fishing vessel Dragonwind were picked. Too bad they didn't realize Wing had a visitor from Hong Kong—his Eurasian nephew, Mace, who was a Kung Fu Master. When the goons strong-armed Wing, Mace warned them. When they came on strong with Mace, he pulverized them and sent them limping away with a second warning. Then they came up with an idea they thought couldn't miss! They kidnapped Wing's wife and daughter.

Too bad they didn't understand Kung Fu...

CHAPTER 1

An intermediate-range fishing vessel that could remain on the high seas for several weeks at a time, Dragonwind was 64 feet long and, when out in the Pacific purse-seining for tuna, carried a crew of 17 men, including Ho Li Wing, the owner and captain, and James Wing, his son, who had worked on the boat since he was a boy.

Dragonwind, practically motionless at her mooring at Fisherman's Wharf, appeared to be deserted in the soft moonlight. That evening, at 6:30, the diesel-powered boat had pulled into the harbor with her two-day catch and now, five hours later, her tons of tuna had been unloaded and her crew gone home for a much-needed rest. Dragonwind's large hatches had been tightly secured, the power winches locked, the nets hung high to dry, the wheelhouse darkened.

Three men stood on the stern deck, gazing out over the water that reflected the moonlight and the lights from the wharf—Ho Li Wing, his son James, whom everyone called Jimmy, and Mace, Ho Li Wing's nephew, who had arrived from Hong Kong only six weeks before.

A slim but wiry man of medium height, his body tightened and toughened by years of hauling in heavy nets, Ho Li Wing waved his hand out over the stem, indicating the myriad lights and the night sights and sounds of San Francisco Bay. His son stood to his left, Mace to his right.

"All my life I have loved the sight of this bay at night,"

Ho Li said wistfully, turning to Mace. "But I suppose, Nai C'h'ien, there is no comparison between this bay and Hong Kong harbor?"

Before Mace could answer, Jimmy Wing turned to his father and placed a hand on the older man's arm. "Father, they told you they'd come to the house tonight, didn't they?" Jimmy whispered fiercely.

Although typically Chinese in appearance-dark hair, dark eyes and amber skin-Jimmy was as American as apple pie, his outlook on life conditioned by American education, by American habits and customs.

When Ho Li didn't answer, Jimmy moved closer to his father and placed his hand on his shoulder. ''They warned you before we left on this last trip, didn't they? That's why we're stalling here on Dragon wind, in the hope they will miss us! Isn't that true, Father?"

Roughly brushing his son's hand away, Ho Li glared angrily at Jimmy, and even in the semi-darkness one could see rage burning in his eyes. "I forbid you to speak to me like that!" Ho Li hissed, his voice trembling. "And to mention our problem in front of our guest, my sister's very own son, is a disgrace! It's not li-mao!"

"Dammit, father! This is not China!" Jimmy said savagely. "I couldn't care less about old country li-mao!

The real problem is not telling Mace about the hoodlums who are threatening us! After all, he's not a fool without eyes and ears! If I were in his place I'd think my relatives considered me an idiot for not knowing what was going on under my very nose!"

Jimmy began giving Mace quick, imploring glances, begging him with his eyes to take his part, although he realized that because his cousin had been reared within the Chinese educational system, his own li-mao would not permit him to interfere in the personal affairs of another family, particularly in private matters between a father and his son.

Mace remained silent, seemingly calm. He would have liked to speak; he would have liked to say to his Uncle Wing: Your son is right, Uncle. Observing the ancient Chinese niceties will not help you in your struggle against the American gangsters threatening you because you will not let them use your fishing boat. Trying to reason with the tiger will not pull its claws or dull the sharpness of his fangs . . .

To his cousin, Mace would like to have said: Yes, James: from almost the first day of my arrival, I knew something was wrong. But it was not my place to speak, or to probe into the affairs of my uncle. If one desires to be wise, the first wisdom is to know when to hold one's tongue.

Accordingly, I asked my half-brother what he knew of the thorn piercing the happiness of your home, feeling that since Chen Fong had been living with you for almost a year he could provide me with the answer; and it was he who told me of this evil Mafia organization that is trying to make your father do its bidding!

Uncle Wing, realizing that he owed his nephew some kind of explanation because of what Jimmy had just said, regarded Mace solemnly.

"My son speaks the truth, Nai C'h'ien," Wing said. "I am having trouble with a group of men, but I didn't mention these animals to you because I didn't want to involve you in our trouble."

"Tell him now, Father," Jimmy urged, his voice hopeful.

"Tell him about the hoods and what they want! Maybe he can help!"

Ho Li Wing stubbornly shook his head. "Nai C'h'ien is a guest in our home," he said, addressing himself to both his son and his nephew. "And I do not want him involved in our misfortunes."

"He may already be involved, Father," Jimmy said fearfully. "Look at the dock!"

Ho Li Wing and Mace turned in the direction of the dock, to the left of Dragonwind, where a long, dark car had just pulled up to a stop. The driver turned off the lights and six men got out ... well-dressed men who moved with an air of confidence ... tough-looking men who knew what they were about and where they were going. Immediately they began walking toward the short gangplank connecting Dragonwind to the dock.

"Father, we must call the police!" Jimmy said angrily, turning to Ho Li. He then glanced at Mace, who had turned from the stern and was also watching the six men. They had crossed the gangplank and were walking on the boat deck, portside toward the stern.

The hoods reached the stem, and Mace studied the six goons with calm and calculated appraisal. Tall and muscular, three were in their late 20s or early 30s, and in spite of their expensive sports clothes they couldn't quite conceal their coarseness and lack of culture. All three were hatless.

Two other hoods, dressed neatly in dark silk suits, were older, perhaps in their middle or late 30s. One, a hawk-faced man smoking a big black cigar, was short but spread out all over the place, built like a bull and called "Crusher." The other man was a goon of medium height, a square-jawed slob whose most distinguishing feature was his hideously crooked nose. He looked like a fourth-rate boxer who had never learned to duck! His last name was Rossetti, hence his nickname "Rosie."

The pleasant-faced man in chino slacks and Irish sweater was in his early 40s, a broad-chested man with thick, wavy hair and a tiny, well-trimmed mustache who seemed almost friendly as he smiled, revealing even, white teeth.

A vain man, who took great pride in his appearance, his name was Vincent Lupare, and he was a "captain," or caporegime, in The Fist, the newspaper tag given to the Vito Marletti Family, the Cosa Nostra group ruling the San Francisco underworld.

Lupare leaned against the portside of the fishing boat and put his hands on the railing.

"We had an appointment tonight, Wing," he said smugly. "I told you on the phone three days ago that we'd come around this evening to meet your family unless you agreed in the meantime to lease your boat to us. Mr. Tuskan wants an answer tonight."

Another hood, whose name was Carlos, sneered. He had beady little eyes, a large mole on his right cheek and very thick, almost girlish lips.

"But we didn't mind going out to your house, Wing," he said obscenely. "Hell, we got to meet your wife and that good-looking daughter of yours! That's a slick little doll you got there." He paused and grinned evilly. "Even if she is a gook."

Shaking with anger, Ho Li Wing knotted his fists and took a step toward the man, his eyes twin flames. "You don't have the right to insult my daughter! She's a good girl!"

The hood blew cigarette smoke in Wing's face. "Go fuck yourself, you dumb-ass chink!"

Jimmy Wing, his jaw muscles quivering, his own fists knotted, made a motion to move toward the thug who had just insulted his father. He stopped and jerked his head toward Mace in surprise when he felt his cousin's fingers close around his shoulder in a steel-like grip.

With a stony expression, Mace merely shook his head, ignoring the hurt and confusion that spread over Jimmy's face, an accusing look that clearly asked—Why do you stand there and let these thugs insult my father? You, of all people! You, a master of Kung Fu!

Vincent Lupare moved his hands from the railing, his eyes raking up and down Mace, studying him suspiciously.

He had seen Mace restrain Jimmy Wing yet sensed that restriction had not been prompted by any kind of fear, but by a coldly, logical calculation. Hell, no! Lupare told himself. The tall, well-built slob wasn't dangerous. He was just another stinking chink. Couldn't be more'n 23 or 24.

Probably one of the crew, or maybe a relative. Them goddamn chinks had kids like rabbits...

"Get off my boat," Uncle Wing said, a frightened look on his face. "I don't have to take this from you scum!"

For a moment, Lupare merely stared at Wing; then he smiled and shook his head in mock disbelief. Two of the tall, muscular hoods also smirked, while the other Mafia morons stared noncommittally at the two Wings and Mace, whose own face remained as impassive as a chunk of concrete.

Finally Lupare said, "Listen, you chopstick stupido, I'm going to spell it right out for you! Either we get to use this tub of yours—and you'll be well paid, you yellow-faced bastard—or we'll give you and every member of your family an accident you won't recover from! You understand that, you sonofabitch?"

Crusher looked at the tip of his lighted cigar, then spit out, "Your wife might fall in front of a car, or fall on a lighted cigar and get them slanted eyes of hers burned out!"

The hood called Rosie moved closer to Ho Li Wing. He seemed to be prowling with restless suspicion, like a jungle cat closing in for the kill, as he said, "Hell, Wing! Your wife might even fall down and strangle to death in her kimono!"

"Yeah, and that includes that good-looking daughter of yours!" Carlos sneered. Very carefully he adjusted his blue sports coat, tugging gently at the lapels. ''I'd enjoy raping her to death—and you'd better believe that, you stupid chink!"

Jimmy took several steps toward Rosie, his fists at the level of his chest; he practically shook with rage.

"Come on, China boy," Rosie said, grinning and waving Jimmy toward him with his hands. "Come on and get your balls beat off. You won't have a Chinaman's chance!"

Quickly, Uncle Wing stepped in front of his son. Never in his 61 years could he remember being possessed by such anger. He would have liked to strike out at all the thugs, at each one of the six hung mo kwai, to beat and stomp them, to tear their arms and legs from their bodies, the way a sadistic child would pull the legs from a bug; and these men were less than insects. But he restrained himself, knowing that anger could not fight bullets.

"Get off my boat," he said again, staring at Lupare.

"And you can tell Mr. Tuskan I won't let him use this boat under any condition!"

"You're going to get your head cracked, you nutty noodle-eater!" one of the hoods snarled. Carmen was a fat-faced freak with bags under his eyes and a big .45 Colt under one armpit. "And damned soon if you don't start cooperatin' with us ... "

Mace moved from the stem where he had been standing all this time, seeming to glide to a position that placed him directly in front of Uncle Wing. Gently, with one hand, he pushed his uncle and Jimmy to one side, looking steadily at the surprised hoods as he did so.

"Get off the boat, all of you," Mace said, his gaze sweeping the circle of men. "If you don't, you'll regret it!"

Vincent Lupare's expression did not change; he continued to look mildly startled as he studied Mace. Hmmmmm!

This guy wasn't all chink! Okay, the jerk was a half-breed!

He didn't look very tough, either. Tall, a little over six feet, he was more lean than muscular, more plain-faced than handsome. His hair, black as ink, was straight and combed back, his jaw firm and full of confidence, his nose evenly formed. Only the cast of his eyes marked him as Oriental.

And the color of his eyes—Lupare couldn't tell in the moonlight. But from the way he talked, he wasn't any dummy. Damn right, he spoke good American for a chink!

"Who are you?" Lupare asked again. "You sound like an educated chinkie boy!" There was more than a hint of derision in his voice as he continued to size up Mace, who was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, cheap blue cotton pants and leather sandals.

"My name is Mace, and I'm from Hong Kong—now get off this boat before I throw you off!" Mace said calmly.

One of the tall young hoods laughed and then sneered at Mace.

"Hell, I thought all you yellow-faced bastards was either acrobats or Ping-Pong players. But here you are making threats! Hell, you're a comedian, fella!"

Vincent Lupare cocked his head curiously to one side, frankly puzzled over Mace's obvious lack of fear or apprehension. It didn't add up, Vince told himself—or maybe the chink had a piece on him! Even so, there was only one of him and six of them!

Lupare smiled. "Well, you heard what this nut said, boys! If we don't get off, he'll throw us off!" His voice had the rasp of a disturbed parrot, but strangely enough there was no anger in his words. He made a slight motion with one hand—a movement not missed by the keen-eyed Mace—and Crusher, who had just tossed his cigar over the side of the boat, began edging toward Mace, moving lazily to his left side. Mace didn't miss these movements either—nor "mole-face" edging slowly to his right.

Foolish men! A mental picture of EnSheng, his Tung-chia, or Master, in Kung Fu, rose in Mace's mind; he saw the thin old man standing before him, saying: Always remember, my son, there is a morality, a principle of justice, in defending your own rights and the rights of others ... a universal principle emanating from the Source of all Goodness. There will be those times when you must cripple, or even take another's life, in order to uphold this universal principle. If you must cripple or kill do so, but only after your own conscience is clear. Better that YOU should die than harm another without just cause.

With an untroubled conscience, Mace pretended not to notice the two men flanking him. Uncle Wing and Jimmy backed away toward the stem.

Mace waited, gazing calmly at Lupare, who now said in a soft voice, "Chink, you need a lesson, and you're going to get one—right now!"

As if on a given signal, Lupare backed up against the portside railing, and the other five hoods rushed Mace. At least they thought they were attacking him!

Carlos bored in from the rear, to Mace's right; the built-like-a-bull boob rushed in from the left. At the same time, the nut with the crooked nose and the slob with the brown coat and brown slacks launched a frontal attack, coming at Mace like three express trains.

The strategy of the Mafia enforcers was simple enough:

two men would set him up by holding his arms, by throwing an arm around his neck and by jamming a knee into the small of his back, while the other three would pound him to a pulp, making sukiyaki of his face, egg foo yung of his ribs and chop suey of his guts.

It was a goon-squad method that had worked scores of times in the past and, presumably, would work now.

Only it didn't! This was the present, and the "victim"

was far from ordinary!

Not a single hood managed to as much as even touch the Eurasian youth!

In less time than it takes for God to work a million miracles, Mace seemed to explode in a blur of arms and legs. Leaping at least five feet into the air, he gave a short, stabbing yell—KI AI!—and instantly Carlos—the man with the large mole on his cheek—felt the most hideous agony of his life, the pain from the Harai Tsurikomi Ashi Mace had dealt him, a direct kick to his solar plexus that, instantly paralyzing the hood, made him think he was dying. With a choked cry of unbearable pain, Carlos crashed to the deck of Dragonwind, blubbering, his thick lips twisting like the rubber mouth of a hot-water bottle. All he could do was lie on the deck, hold his guts and taste the pepperoni he had eaten for dinner.

A split second later, Crusher, coming in at Mace from the rear-left, screamed as the heel of a left foot smashed into his broad chest with all the impersonal determination of a pile driver—a terrific side-kick that caved in three ribs as easily as a sledge hammer tearing through a straw wall.

Crusher suddenly felt as if he had an anvil in his throat!

Choking, fighting for breath, he collapsed, sagging backward.

It was one helluva surprise for the ugly-faced Mafioso. It was the first time in his life he had ever gagged end gurgled on blood welling up in his throat!

Just as astonished were the three men moving in on Mace from the front. Rosie, the slob with the crooked nose, got it in the throat, Mace giving him a lightning Shao Lin pa-kua—a knife-hand thrust directly below the Adam's apple.

Gus, the second fool, got a hsing-i full force in the mouth, the heel of Mace's palm breaking all his front teeth, cracking all his molars and dislocating his lower jaw!

Rosie, gasping and choking, began spinning like a top, doing a crazy dance in rhythm with Gus, who had just had his front teeth extracted! Holding his hands over his mouth, as if trying to keep the blood from spilling all over his new-looking brown coat, Gus hopped about like a large chicken, squawking strange sounds. He wasn't a pretty sight.

Carmen tried to draw his .45 Colt as Vincent Lupare, who still couldn't believe what was happening, jerked out an S & W .38 "Terrier" from a shoulder holster.

Both men might as well have tried to stop a rhinoceros with toothpicks!

A high front "hell" kick, and Mace's foot snapped Lupare's arm back, breaking the bone at the wrist and knocking the .38 over the side of the boat into the dark water of the bay. A knife-hand chop to Lupare's neck, and the leader of the Mafia goon squad went down, his eyes glazed, his left hand useless and dangling.

In a red daze of pure pain, he wondered: How am I going to explain all this to Mr. Tuskan, and to Mr. Marletti?

I hope I don't get my sweater torn!

Carmen tried to draw his big .45 from its shoulder holster. Mace had other ideas: first snapping the hood's arm at the elbow as a preliminary to the main event, then giving fat-face a flashing Kata Guruma. He picked up the terrified man—one hand between the moron's legs, the other hand on the man's collar, pulling him forward—and flung him violently across the deck of Dragonwind, toward the starboard side.

Carmen flew through the air with the greatest of ease, a wild tumble of arms and legs, and crashed onto Carlos, both men becoming entangled. Together, they resembled a kind of giant, pulsating pretzel!

With some effort, Carmen managed to disentangle himself from Carlos and tried weakly to struggle to his feet.

A snap-kick in the side of the head sent him back down, this time into unconsciousness.

The one-sided, 34-second battle was over! Mace was not even winded!

Ho Li Wing and his son, both of whom were still crouching in the stern, stared at Mace in awe and admiration.

"You are a lei jen!" Uncle Wing said solemnly to his nephew. "A man of thunder!"

He moved slowly across the stern deck, looking in disbelief at the moaning hoods, then glancing at Mace, who was calmly searching the beaten Mafiosi, taking their weapons from them.

"And I was stupid enough to think you might be a coward!" Jimmy Wing said, glancing at Mace. "I'm sorry, Nai C'h'ien. Forgive me."

Mace dumped two revolvers, an automatic pistol and two pairs of brass knuckles over the side of the fishing boat.

Then he turned and looked at Uncle Wing.

"I dislike any kind of violence," he said in a soft voice, and both his uncle and his cousin got the impression that he might be speaking only to himself. "Yet one cannot argue with a scorpion. One can only crush it."

Mace surveyed the demolished goon squad, noticing that while most of the six men were able to get to their feet, they were afraid to do so, held back by the fear that this terrible tornado from the Orient might again give them the beating of their lives.

Staring down coldly at Vincent Lupare, Mace leaned down, grabbed a handful of the thick Irish sweater and jerked the gangster to his feet. The hoodlum cringed, tears of pain, hate and rage brimming in his eyes, and the quiet, deadly fury behind Mace's dark orbs didn't make him feel any more comfortable.

Mace said, "Earlier, I warned you that if you didn't leave you'd regret it! This time I was lenient with you and your friends. But I warn you, if you ever bother my uncle again, you'll be tempting death-understand?"

Instinctively, Lupare quailed in fear before this terrible Oriental, realizing how easily this young man could kill him if he wanted to.

With the distinct impression that Mace was a man who'd hit himself over the head with a sledgehammer just to keep in practice, Lupare quickly nodded his head.

"Sure, sure," he mumbled. "I understand—sure."

"You can also tell Mr. Tuskan what I said!"

"Yeah, sure. I'll ... I'll tell him," Lupare choked.

Mace could see that the man was not only in pain but very frightened. One side of Lupare's neck was red, blue and black and swollen. His wrist was also discolored and enlarged. However, Mace derived no pleasure from the knowledge that he had done physical harm to another human being, even under the circumstances.

''Now take your friends and get off the boat!" Mace ordered. "And don't ever come back. If you do ... you'll regret it the rest of your life—if you survive."

Lupare stared in anguish at his smashed and beaten-to-a-pulp goon squad. Every damn one of them needed medical attention! The hood's eyes darted back to Mace.

"B—But they can't even walk," he said thickly, the taste of bile strong in his mouth. ''What the hell!" He sniffed loudly. ''They need a doctor."

"When the hare runs with the wolf, he must pay for his mistake," Mace said. "Your friends are paying for their stupidity; you are paying for yours."

"But—do you expect them to crawl off the boat?"

Lupare said weakly. "Carmie's got a busted arm, Rosie's mouth is wrecked, and—"

"They can either walk or crawl—or I'll throw them off, you included!"

Mace suddenly stabbed out his hand with such speed that his arm was only a blur, the stiff fingers knifing in toward the right side of Lupare's body.

Crying out in surprise and terror, the hood bowed his body, bracing himself for the expected searing pain that, astonishingly enough, never came! Instead, Mace's fingers merely seemed to graze, to caress the hood's right side, the tips drawing a kind of perpendicular line and a type of curve that might have contained an element of symbolism.

Almost holding his breath, Lupare stared down at himself, completely surprised to find himself intact and unharmed. He expelled his breath with quick, unconscious relief.

"What—did you do to me?" he asked, his voice one big tremble.

"Tell your boss that very easily I could have killed all of you," Mace said, looking directly at Lupare. "As proof, I have given you what could loosely be translated, from Chinese to English, as the Delayed Death Touch. But you needn't worry about dying. You won't. You will be sick for several days, beginning at noon tomorrow. You'll start vomiting and have severe pains in your stomach. You'll recover after two days."

The gangster stared incredulously at Mace. Finally, he found his voice and croaked, "You're putting me on! You gotta be!"

Mace laughed very softly. "No, I'm turning you off for a time. I've limited your chi, your inner energy, to your chou, or liver."

********

Ho Li Wing, his son and Mace watched the six men struggling portside toward the gangplank. San Francisco's best Mafia goon squad was a pathetic sight, the six men assisting each other as they shuffled and staggered along.

"They'll be back." Uncle Wing said in a fearful voice. "I am afraid, Nai C'h'ien, that by helping us you have made yourself a marked man. Believe me, Nai C'h'ien, there is now great danger for you, for all of us."

A thoughtful expression spread over Mace's face. How odd to hear Uncle Wing address him as Nai C'h'ien.

True ... C'h'ien was the Mandarin Chinese translation for the name Mace, the surname of his English father; but Nai was the maiden name of his Chinese mother, and in China it would have been considered fan-kan—very improper—to include the name of a female in the name of a male.

However, Mace didn't mind his uncle's calling him Nai C'h'ien, knowing that he did so out of affection for Mu Lan Nai, who was Uncle Wing's sister and Mace's mother. Mu Lan had never been able to come to the United States, her parents having given her up for adoption some years before coming to America because they had been too poor to keep her. Chong Nai and his wife had adopted the little girl.

Nervously, Jimmy Wing lit a cigarette, his eyes watching the departing hoods.

Mace didn't seem worried: he didn't appear afraid. He stood there thinking of how savage and barbaric the United States was, a truly wild country in which almost any man could purchase a firearm. Such a pity that the United States was still a pioneer nation, a violent nation, a nation still living in brutality, such as existed in its days of the Old West.

Mace recalled the American history he had studied in the Shao Lin temple, where he had received his education, his mind skipping back over the years ... back to the 1860s and the 1870s. Yes, those years in America had been years of death and quick destruction; and he thought of the Chinese custom of assigning a specific animal to each individual year. If Americans had such a custom, what years would be appropriate?

Mace smiled. Ah, the Tiger—the Year of the Tiger! But such a year had been in 1878, almost a hundred years ago!

Mace's features became grim, and his eyes narrowed. The trouble I've just had with these American gangsters! The men threatening my Uncle Wing and his family. Yes, those men will return. There will be more violence and suffering.

This will be MY Year of the Tiger...

Please let us know if you like this story in the comments. If there is enough interest, we will publish more of this story.