Dead Chinamen Tell No Tales
Also in This Number: Alt Dicks Sneak-Crash Banned Joe Break; Get Broke Big
As the sun turns the corner of the building, a lingering bright shard of bluish light pierces each setting window on the agency’s second floor. Though momentary, the persistence of the light’s singularity is somehow worse than if the sun were ramming through the Euro-quality panes whole, shades drawn and all.
The discomfort, the disturbance, is enough to make the most disadvantaged men in respect of this light lift up a hand, or a notepad, to shield their eyes and unselfconsciously angle their thinking faces away from the disruptive brightness. Two ceiling fans whir and rattle at near-full speed, but appear increasingly inept at dissipating the room’s rising heat.
Again, in respect of this light, a number of the men try to shift their seats into some slightly less uncomfortable position, without breaking the rough and approximate circle they’d formed with their chairs. Each shifting man realizes the futility of their intention even as the legs of their chairs crack and scrape against the floor. [We are fully aware of the suspect nature of the grammatical construction of the preceding sentence, but, sadly, at this moment are unable to conclude, for your benefit, whether that nature is conclusively suspect – The Kyiv Unedited Secret Editorial Board.]
The train of thought among them all has been derailed; the private, “in camera”, inquiry, the order of question and answer, has been broken. No one quite remembers what, if anything, has been surmised, much less where it is all supposed to be going. Each man suddenly feels tired and irked under a penumbra of annoyance, as the light beam which had set them all in motion now softens impishly and disappears.
A clatter of cheap porcelain cups and saucers erupts at the coffee-break setup at the far end of the room opposite its entrance.
The ring of detectives turns to see a couple of interlopers who’d just gotten by them without their noticing, while they’d been ensnared in their struggle with the sun.
A feeling of offended pride pervades the team; they grow angry and fill up with contempt.
The stoutish ginger-haired man loses his nerve. He quits the spigot of the large stainless steel coffee urn and sets the half-filled cup he’d taken back down on the dessert table. He begins to alternate brushing either forearm of his flannel sports jacket with the opposite hand, as though to dust off his guilt.
His rangy-limbed partner decides to essay an air of nonchalance: he jams sweetmeats and a wedge of Black Forest Cake onto a tiny plate, his amplified self-consciousness making his already gawky movements all the more awkward, until he too puts down all his illicit takings. In a gesture similar to the ginger-haired man’s, he reaches for his dark-green fedora and crosses the other hand with it below his beltline… waiting.
Mack: Kind of late in the day to be filling up on coffee – no?
Ginger-haired man: Our coffeemaker broke.
Mack: Oh, did it now? So then why don’t you go to the canteen down the block? Last I heard, it hasn’t been blown up yet…
The ring of detectives laughs.
Ginger-haired man: But… we work here, so –
Mack: No… no, you don’t work here. And I don’t think your coffeemaker broke. You wanna know what I think? I think –
Jack Step (interrupting Mack): Hey, aren’t these the dopes that scored that big collar recently? You know, the arrest and near-incarceration of – get this – none other than the notorious… Half Guinea…
They all break out in derisive, high-school cafeteria laughter.
Dirk Dickerson: Yeah, dragged him in – somewhere around here – for questioning, and everything…
More laughter.
Sims: Nah – used our facilities; snuck in, like they did just now, for the coffee. But they’re supposedly headquartered somewhere else around here. Podil District, in fact. But where – I haven’t quite figured it out yet.
Mack: You haven’t figured it out, yet, Sims, ‘cause it ain’t that important to us. Stupidest thing I ever heard of: some Alt Detective Agency. Haven’t been briefed on it, haven’t been read in on it. Ever since this started, no one’s written more than two sentences to me about it, and in all this time, I haven’t been able to come any closer to an answer as to what this all’s about, and why. Duplicating our work. Like some fucking commie government. Almost like they’re supposed to be some kind of check on us. Against us. Almost like they’re trying to set them up over us.
Jack Step: There’s two different theys there, Mack. Who’s the second they?
Mack: Damned if I know, Step. On the records, reporting, and documentation side, the publisher won’t tell me, the board’s mum – won’t say Word One about it. Stateside, where we supposedly get our backing from – same thing. So, who’s behind it, what it all means or adds up to, I don’t know. At least, not yet…
Ginger-haired man (deciding to get a little braver): We’re doing what we’re supposed to do, Mack. We’re doing our work. We’ve been submitting our reports to you, like we’re supposed to do; like we were told to do! We’re opening up new cases and following up on old cases your team hasn’t been able to effectively deal with and tackle – so you close them. Case after case after case. It’s not just a question of professionalism, but –
Rangy-limbed partner (deciding to chime in with his two-cents’ worth): But of competence…
There’s a moment of darkened silence in the room, as everyone appears to take in the import, whether fair or not, whether true or not, of the thing about them that has just been questioned… and suggested…
Mack rises from his chair and takes a few measured steps toward the two intruders. His face is red; restrained fury animates his bearing. His powerful chest rises and falls under suspenders and shirtsleeves as he fights inwardly to regain his equanimity, his characteristic composure and cool.
“No,” Mack starts, almost congenially, “I don’t think your coffeemaker broke… um… as I was saying…
“I think you’re… well… basically ham-fistedly trying to spy on our little conversation here. So, get this, you mugs: You don’t work for me, you don’t work under me, you don’t report to me – got it? You bring me no information, and if you’ve started doing it, I’ll have to disabuse you of that tendency very quickly and probably very painfully. Because I’ll have no choice in the matter. You got that? So, you don’t put my name into your reports with reference to what you’ve done and how you told me all about it and showed me the results of your work. Savvy?”
Impatience itself palpably stirs in the circle of chairs – and then… a collective synchronicity of electric savagery sets the dozen seated men as a single body into articulated motion… And Mack can do nothing to stop them…
xxx
The ring of men, who work for the Kyiv Proper Detective Agency, originally launched years ago as Weasel Watch, are all back in their seats.
Mack: So, what were we saying about Doctor, ah, Woo? What was that last question? [Note to Readers: Also “Wu” – Ed.]
Jack Step: Frankly, Mack, I don’t think anyone remembers.
Dirk Dickerson: Hey, Mack, let me ask a few of my own questions, for a change.
Sims: I don’t think it’s up to you to decide. After all, this is a murder case, and you are the main –
Jack Step: Shut your trap, whelp. What do you do around here, anyway, other than sharpen Mack’s Number 2 pencils and get him his coffee?
Sims raises an eyebrow, but looks neither ruffled, scared, nor particularly impressed.
Mack: Go ahead, Dickerson. Whad’ya got?
The sudden din of ambulance and cop-car sirens just outside the building shatters their origin of thought again.
Filed by Ed Tomorrow, August 6, 2025