Knights of Aurora

"The Knights of Aurora" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

I have been remiss of late in not thanking my editor, Peter, who has, as always, made my scribbling better with his comments and suggestions.

Comments from readers are always appreciated. Flames are ignored, unless I am in a grumpy mood. In that case I flame back.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 2

A weather front had moved in from the west and a light drizzle fell on the small city. Near the waterfront, along Dallas Road, fog shrouded the two-three-and four storey buildings housing the offices and warehouses of the shipping firms that dominated the area. The buildings of Cook Street looked even more decrepit that they did in the sunlight; wisps of fog accentuating the broken bricks, the crumbling concrete stoops, but softening the mound of what appeared to be a human form slumped in the doorway across from the car.

Closing the door behind himself, the slim, bespectacled man hunched his shoulders as the warm, August drizzle of rain began seeping under the collar of his open-neck shirt. He fumbled in his pocket for the car keys. Looking about he saw no one other than the derelict, and smiled. From somewhere in the distance the wind carried the sound of a bell sounding the time. The man frowned. He was late.

Quickly entering his car, the man turned on the air conditioning, impatiently willing the cold engine to start putting out some air to clear the inside of the fogged windshield. Glancing at the dashboard clock the man cursed under his breath. He had to get going. He could not linger and risk his car being ticketed by a roving police patrol, not in front of this building, not in this neighbourhood. As he leaned forward to swipe the rime from the windshield, the man flinched as a stab of pain shot from his buttocks and anus. Things had got a little . . . intense . . . but no matter. He felt satisfied, satiated, and that was all that mattered. He put the car in gear and drove as quickly as he dared through the silent streets. He chaffed at every red light, cursing under his breath as he sped as quickly as he dared over the Johnson Street Bridge. He barely braked to wave his Forces ID card at the ancient Commissionaire on duty at the main gate and sped onward to his quarters.

Once inside his room, the man stripped and gathered up a towel and soap. As he turned to leave the room he caught his reflection in the mirror fixed to the open door of the closet that held his clothes. Damn, he still had to pack!

Dismissing the hanging clothes, the man examined his body. What he saw caused him to frown. The brutes had left marks - not too apparent, but marks nevertheless! He pulled open the door of his room and peeked left and right. The long corridor was empty, and the showers were only a few steps away. With luck there would be no early morning risers, no inquisitive eyes to question why he had faint bruises and welts in places . . .

The man stepped under the showerhead and briskly soaped his body. His mind drifted as he remembered, and smiled . . .

The car had pulled to a stop in front of a ramshackle old building deep in the warehouse district near the waterfront. The street was deserted, but it was 3:00 am and even derelicts - the usual inhabitants of the streets - needed to sleep, or sleep off the effects of Sterno, or Thunderbird, or whatever the alcoholic beverage of choice amongst the denizens of skid row was this week.

The thin, bespectacled man slid easily from behind the wheel of the car, stood erect and looked around. The rain that had been falling all day seemed to have increased in intensity and driven all but the most hardcore of the street people somewhere. Nodding, the man stepped briskly to the alcoved door set into the wall of the warehouse, just paces away, and knocked. Soundlessly the door opened and the man stepped inside.

The room was oppressively hot, and over furnished. Lounging on the sofas and chairs the young men whose services were offered by the hour or by the evening studied the man with veiled indifference. Two of them, both white, both slim and both "pros", turned their heads to hide the sneer of contempt they held for the man. They had spent a session with him and neither cared to repeat the performance.

The doorkeeper, a hulking, muscled Vietnamese regarded the bespectacled man emotionlessly and nodded his head toward the steep staircase that led up to the second floor. "He say go right up," the Vietnamese said.

The bespectacled man returned the nod and ascended. At the top of the staircase was a long corridor lined with doors, all closed. These doors led to the rooms where the young men who lived and worked in the building "entertained" their clients. The man knew that a second staircase, hidden behind an alcove at the end of the corridor led upstairs, to the third floor, to the special rooms, to the rooms where . . .

The man realized that he was panting with excitement. He needed to ascend the second set of stairs badly. It had been too long since he had managed to come to this place. He shivered as he thought of what waited for him on a higher floor.

Before the man could contemplate further what was to come, the door at the end of the corridor opened and yet another Vietnamese man appeared. He gestured to the visitor. "You are late," he growled.

Sniffing his disdain at the Vietnamese, the bespectacled man entered the small, yet comfortably furnished office. Behind the desk sat the man he reported to.

General Cao Din Minh, who had fled his native Vietnam with his family and his fortune long before the Viet Cong and NVA marched down Tu Do Street, looked up from the paper he was reading and gestured for the bespectacled man to sit. As he read, a frown settled on his face. The figures for the past month were down, the totals dipping slightly. The General had not spent years in the South Vietnamese CIA for nothing. His suspicious nature was heightened by the nature of his "business". His street spies, poor, penniless refugees in what was becoming known as "Little Saigon" had told him that business was brisk, booming in fact. The figures confirmed that the new shipment of China White was very popular. So then, why the dip in the gross in the North End? With a perceptible nod of his head the General answered his own question: someone was skimming - not much, but enough to make a difference.

Glancing at the man who functioned as his secretary and bodyguard, General Minh said with a quietness that belied the ice in his voice, "The figures from the North End are down. Find out why."

The bespectacled man felt an icy finger slide down his spine. Someone was about to pay a heavy price for something.

Minh set aside the paper he had been reading and looked at the bespectacled man. "So?"

Reaching into his pocket the man withdrew a closely written report. "They left this morning." He slid the paper toward his employer. "It's all there, names, ages."

"You did not accompany them?" Minh's tone was almost accusatory.

"I leave in the morning," the bespectacled man almost whined. "These things must be handled carefully." Then he added, "I will not fail you."

The General could not keep the contempt he felt for his visitor from his eyes. The man was a traitor, a turncoat, and much worse. But . . . he had his uses after all. "See that you do. Be circumspect, be very careful. Michael Chan is not a forgiving man." He waved his hand carelessly. "Diem will take you upstairs." Forcing a smile, the general continued tonelessly. "The usual amount will be deposited in your account."

When he returned Diem settled in the chair recently vacated by the bespectacled man. Diem's eyes were flinty. "It is unfortunate that we must deal with such people," he said presently.

Minh shrugged. "He serves a purpose." He gestured at the report. "Michael Chan is a fool, and much too trusting." He laughed mirthlessly. "And when I am finished with 'His Serenity', Michael Chan will regret ever having refused my request for his assistance."

"Michael does not approve of your business," Diem pointed out needlessly. "And he does not interfere with the dealers."

Grunting angrily as his face grew flush with anger, Minh snarled, "He does not allow me free access to the docks, here or in Vancouver! The Tsangs wait like cobras, daring me to . . ." Minh's hand smashed down onto the desk. He was not accustomed to being told "No". "One shipment, just one," he ranted, "and we will control the entire supply on the West Coast. I have customers waiting, customers who can handle large, very large shipments! The customs agents are ready and willing to turn aside their faces! Everything is in place and Chan refuses to . . ." The General stopped speaking abruptly. "Get me a drink!"

Diem rose heaving and walked to the small cabinet near the door. He took out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and gestured with the bottle. "Large?" he asked.

"Very," muttered Minh. Then he spat, "Damn that bloody Chinaman!"

Diem poured the whisky and placed it on the desk. "Patience, General. Tomorrow we will have . . ." He looked up at the thickly tiled ceiling. " . . . a man inside Chan's house! With the new information he gathers - and he is much too frightened to fail - along with the information we have, it is only a matter of time before the Elders in Hong Kong take action."

Returning to his chair, Diem smiled wolfishly. "When that happens, you will be the 'Emperor'. The Elders will prefer a man who pays attention to business, and does not devote his time to some mythical 'Order'."

The General considered Diem's words and nodded imperceptibly. "It must be done soon. Chan is about to marry the Soong girl. If that happens he will become impregnable. Not even the Elders will dare go against the Soongs."

A snort of disgust escaped Diem's lips. "The Soongs will hardly approve when they are told that their new son-in-law prefers the company of young men to that of young women."

"A rumour," General Minh said dismissively. "There is no proof."

"Yet," returned Diem. He glanced upward. "And who knows what our friend will discover?"

Minh's eyes followed Diem's. "A pity we must deal with such as he." He straightened and took up the glass of whisky. "But . . ." he smiled around the lip of the glass. "If he gives us what we need . . . "

Diem nodded and glanced again upward. "I could never understand people like him." He placed the glass on the desk and idling ran his finger around the rim. "Still, I will deal with such as our visitor, no matter how repugnant he is to me." A dark smile crossed Diem's lips. "This man is clear evidence that Michael is paying more attention to his 'Order' than he is to business. That is good, that is very good. If Michael is looking in one direction, we will be approaching from another."

Minh's face mirrored his employer's slim smile. "I wonder if the Serenity . . ." his voice dripped with venom at the word, " . . . knows that one of his so-called knights enjoys . . ."

Diem's hand slashed the air. "His lust for such enjoyment is what brought him to this house and his lust is what makes him our servant." His grimace turned to a contented sigh. "The gods must be laughing when they consider what they have done!"

Minh, who did not believe in 'the gods', sniggered. "Who could have known that a chance encounter in a bath house would lead him here. Or that his urges far outweigh his common sense."

"We are fortunate that the boy sent him here. And that his salary could not support his secret." Diem rose from his desk and peered out of the rain-streaked window. "His greed, his insatiable 'needs', led him here. He has no honour. He is venal, and selfish, and only interested in satisfying his lust." He turned and stared evenly at Diem. "He must be handled with great care. If he is capable of such treachery with Michael Chan, think of the depths he will sink to if he decides to turn on us."

"We have the tapes, and the photographs," offered Minh. "Which we will use if and when we need to," responded Diem. "Until then give him what he wants. When we have dealt with Michael Chan we will deal with that . . ." he looked upwards at the ceiling. " . . . Creature!"

The look of disgust on Minh's face mirrored Diem's. "Leather whips, chains," muttered Minh with a shake of his head. "Codpieces! Studs! Artificial genitalia! Master and slave . . ."

Minh's voice trailed away as he fought the urge to vomit. He recovered and said, "They have their uses, fortunately," he growled presently. Minh finished his whisky in one gulp. "One hopes that this time they keep the noise down!"

The burley man, dressed in a leather thong hung with chains, and a vest studded with chrome, ran the silk, plaited whip down the naked man's body. Behind the leather mask covering his face the man's eyes sparkled with anticipation. He looked at his companion, equally burly, hairier, and also dressed in leather, who was fondling a massive, ridged and moulded black plastic dildo.

The whip paused to stroke the erect, throbbing penis of the man whom they had been ordered to service. "I am told that you are a doctor," the sadist growled.

Panting, the man nodded. His glasses reflected the purple light the dimly lit the room. "Yeeesss, I am," he moaned as the whip tapped gently against the glans of his penis.

"Master!" snapped the man with the whip.

"Yes, Master!"

Doctor Daniel Bradley-Smith sank to his knees. His hand reached out toward the full, bulging codpiece. "Please, Master," he moaned as his fingers found the snaps that held the leather cup closed.

The Master grinned at his companion. "You shall have what you want soon enough, slave!" His whip snapped in the air and then against Daniel's bare back. "Take it out!"

Scuttling forward on his knees, Daniel pressed his face into the Master's groin, his senses filled with delight as the acrid aroma filled his nostrils. "Oh, God . . . " he groaned as his lips brushed against the massive organ his fingers had revealed. His tongue flicked out to taste the fold of skin that covered the massive head of the man's flaccid penis.

"Not yet," growled the Master. He took a step back and again the whip flashed downward. "You have been a very bad boy, haven't you?"

Daniel lowered his body and lay prone on the filthy floor. "Yes, Master. I must be punished."

The Master stepped forward and offered his penis to the kneeling doctor. "Push the skin back with your lips," the Master ordered. He cackled evilly. "I need a good cleanout!"

A look of mild disappointment crossed Daniel's face. "Am I not to be punished?"

"Oh, you shall be," chuckled the Master's companion. He knelt beside Daniel and presented the intricately carved phallus. He bent down and whispered into Daniel's ear. "No lube!"

The August sun beat heavily down on the sprawling lakeside city. There was not a hint of air, and the city sweltered with humidity. In Acton "Ace" Grimes' apartment the central air had been cranked up to its coldest setting, but did little to dispel the muggy air in the apartment. The small living room, filled with large men, was like a steam bath.

Sprawled around the room, on the sofa, on the two chairs, and on the floor, sitting cross-legged, were the men who called themselves The Gunner's Rangers. Steve Winslow, known as "The Gunner", stood before the huge wall map, studying the different coloured pins stuck into it, and from time to time reaching out to touch a pin as a name or a location twigged a forgotten memory. The Rangers were all, save one, of a type: young, muscled, handsome and powerful looking. Sitting alone was Terry Hsiang. Unlike the others, who were dressed in loose fitting shorts and T-shirts, Terry wore a suit, starched white shirt, and a tie. In the small kitchen area, perched on a chair, Aaron Edgar, the son of The Gunner's "rabbi", wiped the fog from his spectacles as he muttered grimly at Lester Menkes, a slim, fey, effeminate young man wearing a pair of screaming red running shorts and nothing else. Lester was puttering about making iced tea and iced coffee, heating croissants and muffins he had cadged from the café in the building next door.

All the men looked haggard and tired, which was not surprising. They were doing double and triple duty, keeping watch on the men identified as part of a citywide ring of paedophiles. Terry Hsiang, who was Michael Chan's representative in Toronto, showed little signs of the fatigue he felt.

The Gunner shared the tiredness of his Rangers. He and Ace had been coordinating the operation and keeping vigil with Sophie Nicholson and Chief Jim Edgar, Aaron's father, at the hospital where the first boy they had rescued lay in a coma and, The Gunner suspected, near death.

Everyone was tired, and irritable, including the usually phlegmatic Terry Hsiang. The Rangers had that slightly dishevelled look of men who had spent too long in the field, and not enough time in a bed, or under a showerhead. They were all strong, young men, but their labours over the past few days had taken a toll. Muscles ached from sitting too long in cars and trucks; stomachs rebelled from the effects of hastily eaten meals of greasy take-aways. Clothes were wrinkled and chins nicked from the effort to shave. Even Lester, who shaved on average once a week, had a small bandage under his chin.

The Gunner studied the map, thinking as his red, irritated eyes scanned the coloured pins and little notes written in Lester's neat hand. "We need a rest," he thought. "It's time for a stand down," The Gunner announced without turning around.

Only Aaron Edgar recognized the old navy saying. The others reacted with a series of grunts and muttered questioning moans. Teddy Vian, whose every muscle seemed to ache, raised his head. "Does that mean what I hope it means?" he grunted.

Beside Teddy, Shane Kingscote stretched out his legs, hoping to take the kinks out of his calves, and nodded. He was a graduate of the Royal Military College and had heard the phrase before. "Sleep," he moaned softly. "Sweet Morpheus."

"I could use some morphine!" returned Max Hainey. "I swear my ass is numb! I've been sitting in that damned truck for what seems like days!"

"At least you weren't out seducing Mormon boys!" snickered Lester as he brought out a heavily laden tray, offering tall glasses of sugar-laden cold tea and coffee.

"Easier than sitting next to a farting machine," sniped Jeff MacKenzie as he glared at Sam North. "The guy must have scarfed down a crate of beans!" He shook his head and reached for a frosted glass. "Sugared?" he asked Lester.

"Sweet for the sweets," simpered Lester. There was enough sugar in the cold drinks to put a diabetic into a coma. None of the of the men in the room paid Lester the least notice. Lester's simpering and posturing was an old habit they had all become accustomed to. None of them had the slightest interest in Lester other than as a friend, and fellow Ranger. For his part, Lester had no interest in the Rangers. He was heavily involved with a tall, strapping, black-haired Metro cop, Brent Dawson, and while the Ranges were studs, Lester was not tempted.

"Speaking of sweets," said Gil Stephenson as he wrapped a broad hand around his cold glass, "where's Brent?"

Lester sighed. "Working. Ever since he made Detective Third he's been on callout." He rolled his eyes theatrically. "Thank God he was at home when the call came." Then he frowned. "Not that she'd get anything from him!" he snapped, referring to Brent's wife. "All we've ever done is sleep!"

Sam North, who was in the process of taking a drink of iced coffee, choked on the liquid. He gave Lester a dirty look. "Losing your touch?" he asked with a chuckle.

Before Lester could make a scatological retort, The Gunner intervened. He was smiling inwardly at the badinage between the men. They might be tired, indeed nearing exhaustion, but the spark was still there. "Gentlemen," he said with a warning cough. "You will all take the rest of the day off." He looked at Terry Hsiang. "Can your people handle it?"

Terry, who was just as tired as everybody else, nodded. He had more resources and his men were accustomed to long hours anyway. "I have arranged for the men I am using to relieve each other in a timely manner. They are working in shifts."

"Good," nodded The Gunner. "But please, Terry, we will need everybody fresh and prepared when we make our move."

"They will be," promised Terry. As Michael Chan's personal representative in Toronto, Terry was not about to allow anyone, or anything, to cause him to let down his side of the operation.

"And we only need a short nap," interposed Shane.

"I've always felt that a good steam and a swim worked wonders," said Aaron Edgar as he left the kitchen.

"Try that in one of the baths here, Aaron old son, and I can guarantee you'd come out a hell of a lot more tired than when you went in!" said Shane with a broad grin. "The steam baths here are a little different from the ones in Halifax!"

Aaron coloured. The baths of Toronto were notorious for being places of assignation and anonymous sex. "Um, well, of course we don't have any in Halifax."

"Too bad, they're worth the price, if only for the education!" said Gil with a tired laugh.

"Leave him alone," ordered Teddy. "He's not a Mormon."

"He ain't Jewish, either, but I hear he has an in with Mossad!" returned Gil. He glanced at Aaron. "So, is Aaron Goldschmidt as hunky as he sounds?"

Blushing deeply, Aaron tried to sputter a reply. He knew that all the men in the room knew of his budding relationship with the young Jewish man, referred to more often than not as Aaron Mark II. Still, there should be some secrets. "He's, um, he's been very busy," Aaron said lamely.

Once again The Gunner's voice stopped the foolery. "Everything is quiet?" He looked at Lester, who as the self-appointed coordinator kept track of all the telephone calls, all the hastily written notes. "So it seems. The men we're watching don't suspect a thing."

"Good." The Gunner returned to looking at the map. "They are going about their normal business then?"

"They are," confirmed Terry. "They are all creatures of habit. They leave for work in the morning, they come home at night. They go shopping with their boys. Two have taken their boys to the films. None of them has done anything remotely out of character and none of them sense in any way that they were being watched or followed."

"Nothing out of the ordinary at all," offered Jeff.

"They blend in," continued Shane. "They don't want any attention, no trouble, nothing that will lead people to discover their secret."

"All the better, then," said The Gunner. "I still want a close watch." He scanned the semicircle of seated men. "And the boys?"

"We see them from time to time," replied Max. "You know, just coming out to get the paper, or fooling around in the front yard. We never see them when their masters are away. Only when they're home and only when they can watch their boys."

The Gunner picked up a sheet of paper on which was a typed list. "The final tally?" he asked Lester.

"Names and numbers," said Lester as he returned to the kitchen to refill the coffee mugs. "There are 18 names, with addresses. Between them they're holding 32 boys of all ages."

"We'll be ready for them," spoke up Ace, who up until now had remained silent. "The hospital will be ready."

"That's a hell of a lot of boys," opined Teddy.

Ace, who had been arbitrarily appointed Headmaster of the "Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre in Upper Canada", waved his hand dismissively. "The place is almost ready." He threw a guilty look at The Gunner. "I've been spending your money, Steve."

"Wisely and well, I'm sure," replied The Gunner. He smiled at Ace, who was not only his friend, but also his lover. "The money is not important."

"Still, I've blown a lot!" exclaimed Ace. "I had the whole place cleaned from top to bottom! Aaron Mark II arranged it." He laughed heartily. "He used a company that specializes in cleaning Jewish homes and businesses that have been 'defiled'. We're kosher, for Christ's sake!"

The joke was weak, but it drew a laugh nevertheless.

"And the rabbis?"

"Not a peep," replied Ace. "Aaron Mark II is keeping them in line. Of course, if you ask me, the price they got for the building, plus the 'donation' you gave to the synagogue, would make Ebenezer Scrooge smile and shut up!"

The Gunner chuckled. "Whatever keeps them happy." He settled on the edge of the dining table that Lester used as desk, drawing table and ironing board. "I think that we're as ready as we'll ever be. We know the enemy, we know how to take him down, and we know what we are going to do with the boys." He looked thoughtful a moment. "I want you all to know that I am more than grateful for your help." He looked at his Rangers and smiled. "I have no idea how I can adequately thank you."

"Come on, Steve," said Teddy with a deprecating wave of his hand. "We all know what's at stake, and we're all big boys." He leaned forward and looked at The Gunner. "We're all gay . . ." his voiced trailed of as his look slid toward Terry Hsiang. "Well, nearly all," Teddy said with a smile. Then he sobered. "Steve, my biggest concern is what happens next. You know and I know that if the news gets out, we're all going to be tarred with the same brush. The newspapers will have a field day, and when the churchmen get into the act . . ."

The Gunner held up his hand. "Teddy, I understand what you are saying. It won't matter a damn that you, all of you, are not involved in any way with young boys. I'm in the same boat."

"Then you realize what we could be up against," said Sam. "It's difficult enough being gay in a straight world." He shrugged and straightened his shoulders. "We're with you all the way in this, Steve, but we have to . . ."

Once again The Gunner held up his hand. Then he looked at Lester, who shook his head sadly at Sam. "Oh, ye, of little faith," he said flippantly. He went into the bedroom he shared with Brent and returned carrying a large box of papers and what looked like journals. "Troubridge - you remember him? He decided to gift us with the contents of old Percy's safe." He placed the box on the table and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Names, dates, names of boys. Percy kept exquisite records of every man he was involved with. Troubridge, who was covering his ass, kept meticulous notes as well."

"Insurance in the event the police discovered what was going on," offered The Gunner. "Now, suppose we made it known that we are prepared to send copies of these files to the newspapers, and send the originals to the police?"

"And we do have photos," put in Terry with a smile.

"And when the boys we rescue are ready, we will have their statements." The Gunner stood and gestured for a cup of coffee. "We will also have the boys medically examined and every one of them will be photographed." He took the mug Lester offered him and continued. "I've been around the Horn enough times to know that these men will do anything to keep their secrets . . . secret. They will offer money, they will betray their best friend, do anything needed to keep this part of their lives secret. They all have families, business associates, you name it, who will turn on them in a New York minute if their secret is found out. These men will be desperate. We will use that desperation."

"And let's also consider that if they are discovered, and prosecuted, Paedophiles and rapists last all of ten minutes in prison," said Terry Hsiang.

Gil let out an exasperated sound. "So they'll get off so long as they keep their mouths shut!"

The Gunner laughed and shook his head. "Gil, guys, there is more than one way to skin a cat."

"Meaning?" asked Teddy.

"Meaning, all of the men we are after have position, status, in some cases, power," replied The Gunner easily. "To destroy a man you first destroy his world." Before anyone could object, The Gunner continued. "Men of business never use their own money," he stated. He cocked an eyebrow and looked at Teddy Vian, whose father was a banker.

Seeing The Gunner's look, Teddy nodded. "They put down a minimum amount of money, and borrow the balance from the bank. All they need is a business plan, and good credit."

"We are dealing with men of probity, of substance," said The Gunner. "They must have bank accounts, brokers' accounts . . ." he paused for effect and carried on, "And we will find out exactly where these accounts are. I want to know everything, and I mean everything, about them."

"The Financial Times, The Globe & Mail," said Max, thinking aloud. "The Globe puts out a Report On Business weekly that chronicles the business dealings of the movers and shakers. It's very informative." He rubbed the side of his nose reflectively. "I'll give my dad a call. He won't like it, but he can do a search of the Securities Commission's files."

"So long as you are discreet," replied The Gunner. "We do not want to involve anyone outside our group. We do not want attention drawn to what we are doing."

Max reluctantly nodded his head. "Dad will want to know what I'm up to and if he thinks that there's a fiddle going on, or any irregularity he has to report." Max shrugged. "He has no choice."

"Let's use his resources as a very last resort," responded The Gunner. "We have other resources and . . ."

"Might I make a suggestion?" interrupted Lester archly.

"Of course," replied The Gunner. He had come to trust Lester's infrequent suggestions. "What do you have in mind?"

"Dun & Bradstreet," returned Lester with sniff. "They issue credit reports, financial statements, to accredited members." He shrugged. "It's a start."

Max jumped up, grabbed Lester and kissed him soundly. "Lester! You are a treasure!" he crowed. "And here I was thinking that all you were was a good lay!"

"I am a good lay, you oaf!" yelped Lester. "Now stay away from me! I'm spoken for!" He quickly retreated to the kitchen.

When the laughter died away The Gunner gave Lester a short salute. "Now tell me someone who is an 'accredited member'," he asked.

Terry Hsiang coughed delicately. "Would General China Investments be of help?"

The Gunner looked inquiringly at Terry. "The who?"

"It's a what," said Terry with a grin. "Actually, it's me."

"You're kidding!" said Shane. "My father made a packet on one of their investments." He frowned slightly. "Um, Terry, this 'General China Investments', it's um, no insult intended, but, my dad, he's pretty conservative."

"And being conservative he put his money into a well known, well established, legitimate investment company." Terry turned to The Gunner. "Michael and . . . his friends have many quite legal, very legitimate business enterprises." He snorted. "We even pay taxes."

The Gunner was not about to delve deeper into Michael's business. "Would this firm be willing to look into the financial status of the men we are interested in?"

"Of course, if I tell them to," replied Terry easily. "We're about to open the books on a new block of luxury flats, with a hotel and a shopping precinct on some harbour front property. The company will be inviting investment. It is all open and above board."

"Do it, Terry," ordered The Gunner. "Teddy, Max, Shane, visit the public library and look up anything you can find. Gil, Sam, Shane, visit the Ministry of Corporate and Consumer Affairs, and the Provincial Archives. These people all have houses. Are they mortgaged? Who holds the mortgages? Who owns the companies they work for, do they own the companies, are they shareholders?"

"There goes my date with Morpheus," complained Shane.

"Not at all," said The Gunner. "When you leave here you will all go home, and sleep. Start your research tomorrow. Saturday and Sunday you can spell Terry's people. Monday and Tuesday of next week, meet with Lester and correlate what you've found."

"And when does Lester sleep?" came a whining voice from the kitchen.

"When Brent isn't around," returned Ace. He winked at The Gunner and said, "I'll give my father a ring. These guys must be lawyered up. He can give us an insight into which shyster is doing their dirty work."

"Everything we can get will help," replied The Gunner. "But I want you and Aaron to concentrate on the hospital."

"I have to meet Aaron Mark II," supplied Aaron. "He's sent out some feelers in the international community."

"That's not all he's 'feelering'!" sniped Lester.

Aaron sputtered, turned red, and waved a fist at Lester. He was smiling, however.

"All right, enough," cautioned The Gunner. "I hope you clowns can behave yourselves when you visit the hospital."

"Why would we 'visit' the hospital?" asked Max. "We're not sick."

"Not that hospital, you nit," snapped Shane. He looked at The Gunner. "But it's a legitimate question."

"I would expect that as members of the Board of Visitors you'd want to visit once in a while," said The Gunner slyly.

"Huh?" asked Gil.

"Light went out," said Teddy with a sneer. He gave The Gunner a look. "Board of Visitors?"

"Well, yes," replied The Gunner smoothly. "I thought that since all of you, with the exception of Lester, have attended public schools - so who better to keep an eye on things, and who better to know the good, and the bad of such schools?"

Ace groaned. "You mean I have to put up with these clowns?" he asked.

"I'm sure they'll be gentle," responded The Gunner. He looked at the circle of men. "I would like you all to continue to be a part of what we hope to build. Ace is already the Headmaster, and Lester the Comptroller. I can't be around all the time and so I thought that you all might like to help me out."

"Well, put that way . . ." Shane nodded. "And to think, my housemaster expressed the hope that I would never consider a career in education."

"He also said you'd come to a bad end," added Max. "I think he lit a candle to ensure that you did come to a bad end!"

"He and I never got along," returned Shane, grinning, "so I lit two candles in the hope that he'd come down with something fatal, like anthrax."

"He didn't," sniffed Max. Then he added, "Unfortunately."

The Gunner smiled fondly and then looked to where Lester was standing. The look on the young man's face spoke volumes. "And Brent is also a member of the Board," he said quietly.

Lester brightened. "You mean it? He never went to a public school."

"So? We need the common touch. He's also armed," responded The Gunner.

"Speaking of which, where is Dudley Doright?" asked Teddy.

Lester, swallowing a short, sharp, and very dirty retort, shook his head dismissively. "I told you, he's working. He'll be by when he can."

The Gunner rubbed his chin reflectively and then said, "I had hoped he'd be here. I have something I'd like you all to consider."

Ace, who knew what was coming, for he and The Gunner had discussed the matter at length, nodded to Aaron. "We'd better boogie, Steve. I've got Eaton's' delivering a load of furniture - Sophie pulled some strings and Aaron has to meet Aaron Mark II."

As Ace walked toward the door The Gunner asked, "What about food? And are the kitchens in any shape at all?"

Opening the door Ace smiled and shook his head. "Steve, it's all in hand. Believe it or not that old crone who is Sophie's cook has taken over the kitchens. She's ordered a ton of food and has all but moved in!" He nodded toward the assembled Rangers. "Now get on with the business of the Order."

With Ace and Aaron gone, the room seemed larger. Lester left the kitchen and settled himself at the table. The Rangers shuffled around a bit. When everyone was settled, The Gunner said, "Guys, as you know, I am the Chancellor of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre . . ."

"Quite a mouthful," opined Shane with a grin.

"It is," agreed The Gunner. "However, it struck me that you all might want to consider becoming Knights."

"Even me?" squeaked Lester, his eyebrows rising.

"Why not you?" asked The Gunner. His tone suggested his exasperation with Lester, who was constantly putting himself down, convinced that his being queer was something to be ashamed of. "You're gay, and you have balls!" snapped The Gunner.

Lester coloured. "Well, yes, I do," he said with a giggle. "As you well know!"

It was The Gunner's turn to be embarrassed. He had, to emphasize a point, groped and squeezed Lester. He had already apologized but decided to do so again. "Lester, I'm sorry about that. I should not have done it."

Tossing his head coquettishly, Lester purred, "Quite a handful, though."

"Lester!"

"Sorry, I had to," said Lester, not at all intimidated or impressed. He folded his hands primly and looked at The Gunner. "Steve, at times you are so anal it astounds me. Loosen up. Don't take everything so seriously." He grinned at Max and then looked at The Gunner, his eyes bright with deviltry. "Go out and seduce a Mormon!"

"I have enough trouble with Anglicans!" snarled The Gunner in jest. "Now, if we can all settle down," he added as he settled at the table. "The Order is very dear to me, and is dedicated to helping gay men whenever and wherever it can. At the moment it is, to be honest, all but dormant. However, I have been charged with rebuilding the Order."

Glancing at his watch, The Gunner continued, "At the moment the first of the new knights are preparing to go to Vancouver to meet the Grand Master. They were invested yesterday. My concern with them is that they are young, very young, and I would like to see some more mature blood in the mix."

"Meaning, he wants strong, mature, male type critters," drawled Shane.

"Came to the wrong place if you're included," returned Teddy, "especially the mature part, not to mention the lack of fundaments, which everybody knows are rather lacking!"

Teddy's eyes sparkled with hidden laughter as he ducked Shane's swipe.

The Gunner, pleased that the young men could still joke and chuck shit at each other, waited for Shane and Teddy to settle down. "If you agree, I would like to put your names forward," he said.

"What's in for us?" asked Gil.

"Not much," admitted The Gunner. "You receive a ring, which has to be returned when you kick the bucket, and within the Order you'll be addressed as 'Sir', but it's all symbolic, really." A smile that could never be described spread across The Gunner's ruddy face. His voice became almost prayerful. "You will have the love and trust of your brothers. You will have the loyalty and deep commitment that only men can give to other men. You will never again be alone." Then he added prosaically, "And if someone tries to fuck with you the wrath of the Order will descend."

"That we know about," said Max. "What do we have to do?"

"Not much," replied The Gunner. "You will need three sponsors, which you already have."

"You, Ace and Aaron Mark I?" asked Teddy.

"Yes. Both Ace and Aaron are willing." The Gunner rubbed his nose reflectively. "You can opt to be a 'Professed' Knight, which means you must declare before the assembled knights at your investiture that you are gay."

"As if my being a fag is a State Secret!" sniffed Lester.

Before The Gunner could react Teddy all but leaped from his chair. He grabbed Lester and shook him soundly. "Damn it Lester, stop that! You're way beyond that! You keep putting yourself down and . . . God Damn it, once more, and I swear I will beat your ass until you can't sit down for a month!"

Lester, slack-jawed, drew back. "I . . ."

"Enough!" growled Shane. "You're one of us, Lester, and we ain't queers, or fags. We're young men who happen to be gay. So knock it off or I'll help Teddy!"

Shane turned to The Gunner. "I'm for it. You said we could 'opt' to be professed. What is the other option?" "You can become an 'Honourary' Knight," replied The Gunner. "We have knights who are not homosexual, but want to be a part of the Order." He shrugged. "Honourary knights more or less remain in that rank forever. Professed knights can move on to higher ranks, and become members of the Grand Council, and only a Professed Knight can be Grand Master."

"So we announce publicly what we all know privately, go through a ceremony, receive a ring, and then . . ."

"You only profess in front of the knights assembled for the Investiture," advised The Gunner. "Your brothers, so to speak." He looked embarrassed and gestured with his hand. "There is one . . . small . . . um . . . requirement."

"That sounds ominous," put in Terry Hsiang.

The Gunner was very straight laced when it came to discussing certain personal aspects of a man's anatomy. "I, um, well, as knights we swear to lead our lives according to the Rule of the Order, to succour the weak, defend our brothers and so on."

"You're procrastinating, and your face is as red as beet," Terry pointed out. "What's so bad that you can't talk about it?"

"It's not bad," replied The Gunner. "It's just that, well, under Article 26 of the Order, you have to be examined by a doctor, prove that you've been . . ."

Much to The Gunner's relief, Lester figured out what the man was mumbling about. "Circumcised!" he crowed with a laugh. "Why Steve, you are a piece of work!"

"What?"

"Come on, what's so embarassing about that?"

The Gunner, if such a thing were possible, turned an even deeper shade of red. "Well, it's hardly something you'd talk about at the dinner table!" he protested weakly.

"True enough," agreed Terry with a grin. "I must however, express the opinion that circumcision is a common occurrence. Of course, while it is a matter of course in the white world, it is not often done in mine."

"Oho!" sniggered Gil. "Looks like we need to find a good mohel!" He looked wickedly at Lester and then at Shane. "Now, me, I am prepared to prove my status." With that he stood up and promptly dropped his shorts to the floor. He was wearing tighty-whiteys and was just about to lower them when The Gunner stopped him.

"There is no need," The Gunner said with a gasp. "All you need is a doctor's certificate!"

"Ah, and here I was all set to . . ."

"We do not need to see that pathetic little thing!" snapped Teddy. He gave The Gunner a look. "We're all okay in that department. This is 20th Century Canada after all, not some backwoods collection of hovels in the Appalachians!"

"I'll take your word for it," responded The Gunner dryly.

"And just so you know," interjected Terry, "My brother and I were both sealed to the Serenity's service."

"I beg your pardon?" asked The Gunner. He had no idea what Terry was talking about. He knew who the "Serenity" was, but had never heard of anyone being "sealed" to his service.

Lester could not let the opportunity pass. "Well, I was born in Mt. Sinai. I think they were holding a recruiting drive, or something." He giggled. "So, what did they do, brand your butt?"

"Really, Lester, you're incorrigible," rumbled Shane. "I'm sure they did no such thing!"

"I was only asking!" returned Lester.

Terry shook his head and chuckled. "I wasn't branded. I was 'sealed', with great ceremony."

Lester opened his mouth to crack another joke. The Gunner's steely look caused Lester to promptly shut his mouth. The Gunner looked at Terry. "I gather your 'sealing' involved circumcision?"

"Very much so," said Terry. "Now, I know, as has been pointed out, that circumcision is not a part of Chinese culture - quite the opposite. However, to understand why I was 'sealed' you have to understand the nature of the Chan Empire, and the people who serve it."

The Gunner's ears perked up. While he was actively involved in the Order, which was rapidly becoming Michael Chan's second 'empire', he knew very little of Michael's other activities. Chef, who had known Michael almost since boyhood, knew much, but said nothing. All he ever said was that Michael had "other business interests" and let things go at that. Joel Chiang, who at one time had been The Gunner's lover, was Michael's cousin, and had hinted at certain activities that the law enforcement community would dearly love to know about. Michael Chan had many interests, some legal, most not, and his influence extended across Canada and down into the United States. He also had ties with the Hong Kong Triads. That Michael's "other business interests" were illegal, was a given.

What intrigued The Gunner, however, was that Michael Chan had never been involved with drugs. When he had suggested that the men the Rangers had discovered could be ruined financially, The Gunner had thought to use Michael's connections with the unions. Michael had 'arrangements' with politicians of all stripes, ranging from the City Hall to the chambers of the House of Commons and the Senate in Ottawa. Michael controlled much of the gaming in Victoria, Vancouver and, The Gunner assumed, points spreading eastward to St. John's, Newfoundland. Wherever there was a "Chinatown" there were gambling dens - there was not a Chinese born who did not gamble - and Michael owned, or had a majority interest in almost all of the small, noisy, cigarette smoke-filled casinos. Gambling had brought an additional, profitable sideline: loan sharking. Michael's "empire" embraced almost all of the vices of man except drugs and one other. He was not a pimp, and had never been involved in prostitution. He might smuggle illegals through the port of Vancouver, but they were destined for the sweatshops and fields of the United States, never brothels or the streets. Michael considered himself a man of honour, and saw nothing wrong in what he did. The Gunner had to admit that neither did he.

"Michael Chan is . . . Royalty," Terry said, almost breathlessly. "He never puts on airs, never tries to impress one with his ancestors, or his power - which is great. His uncle, Henry Chan, was the man who actually founded the dynasty. He was a man of . . . I call it vision, for he recognized that in every major city in Canada, and the United States, there was a sizeable Chinese community. He also recognized that there were certain cultural differences that the white world would not approve of, but which the Chinese world wanted."

"Gambling?" suggested Max.

"Yes. Uncle Henry also knew that the Chinese communities were not a part of the white world." Terry looked very sad for a moment. "At one time, the Chinese were ignored. If there was trouble in Chinatown the police never investigated. They cleaned up the mess, and went on to do whatever policemen do. Uncle Henry saw that Chinatown had potential, particularly when the white tourists started prowling, looking for bargains and cheap food. He also saw that there would be little or no progress unless there was unity and someone in charge."

"That someone being Henry Chan," said Gil dryly.

"Yes." Terry Hsiang was only relating the truth as he saw it. "There were too many gangs, too much disharmony. The tourists would never come if the bloodshed and the fighting did not stop. Uncle Henry used persuasion, money and, when necessary, the Tsangs."

The Gunner shuddered visibly. His movement was not lost on the others. "Who are the Tsangs?" asked Teddy carefully. From the way The Gunner had reacted, Teddy was almost afraid of the answer.

Terry looked pensive. "The Tsangs are . . . the Tsangs."

"They are the most ruthless men you will ever fear to meet," observed The Gunner. "They are totally fearless, and completely loyal to the Chans."

"It is not that they are . . . bad," temporized Terry. "They are, as Steve has said, completely loyal to the Chans. They are enforcers, and if need be, executioners. They do not question the Serenity in anything and they obey his orders implicitly. They have been retainers, servants, and lieges of the Chans for hundreds of years. In return for their loyalty the Chans have always ensured that the Tsangs were looked after, cared for, and held close. When the Chinese Communists took over Shanghai in 1947, Henry Chan made sure that the Tsangs were evacuated, all of them, and I am talking two or three hundred people, to Taiwan, and then to Hong Kong." Terry shrugged. "Had he not the whole clan would have been stood before a firing squad."

"Henry Chan was vehemently anti-Communist," added The Gunner. "Michael told me that Uncle Henry made sure that Mao's boys never had a chance to spread their poison in Vancouver, or Victoria."

"That he did," agreed Terry. "However, we're getting off track. The point is that the Tsangs were considered peasants, barbaric louts fit only for enforcing Uncle Henry's will and breeding in great numbers. Uncle Henry used them, rewarded them, and when necessary, punished them."

"Punished them?" asked Shane, intrigued.

"You must understand that the Tsangs are, in a way, an extension of the Chans," Terry continued. As servants they reflect the honour of their 'lord'. If a servant does something wrong, and loses honour, or 'face', so does the master. To a Chinese to lose face is a terrible thing. People talk and begin to doubt the authority of the 'lord'." Terry shrugged expressively. "To regain face it is sometimes necessary to punish . . . hard!"

"And the Tsangs go along with this?" asked Teddy, incredulous that any group of people would allow their lives to be so controlled and manipulated.

"Teddy, the Tsangs have been servants for hundreds of years. They were, and in some ways, still are, Neanderthals, never having moved forward. They are quite content - most of them - to remain mired in the 16th Century. Many of them still live in a huge, rundown block of flats, in Vancouver, which is overrun with children and chickens!"

"Chickens?" yelped Lester.

"Even Tsangs have to eat," responded Terry easily. "And for some reason the Tsangs are partial to the stupid birds. Personally I think the chickens have more sense." He smiled. "The males are at Michael Chan's beck and call, as they were at Uncle Henry's and his predecessors back to the Han Dynasty. They are a nasty piece of work."

"Are there any Tsangs here?" asked Shane with a feigned look of terror on his face.

Shaking his head, no, Terry answered. "No. The Tsangs are personal retainers. They stay in Vancouver, and Victoria, and only leave when Michael orders it so. As Viceroy I rely on my own resources."

"Viceroy?" Shane and Gil exchanged a glance as Shane asked, "What does that mean?" He was well educated and knew what a Viceroy was in the European sense of things, but could only guess what it meant among the Chinese.

"Well, Michael's empire is very hierarchical. When Uncle Henry began expanding he sent men to represent him in the Chinatowns of Canada. These men were, and still are, Mandarins, nobles who had aligned themselves with the Chans, which was the normal thing to do in Mainland China. The Imperial Court appointed loyal subjects of high rank to be Viceroys of the various provinces. Uncle Henry did the same. We are all loyal to the Chans. In return they allow us to do as we will. We pay obeisance to the Chans, but in many ways we are our own men. We all have our own 'territory' and poaching is very much discouraged."

"The Tsangs come calling," suggested Lester. "And not to take tea and catch up of all the local gossip."

Laughing Terry agreed. "The very threat of the Tsangs keeps everybody in line," he said. "Which makes my 'sealing' ironic, seeing as it was the Tsangs who started the thing!"

The Gunner's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Really? I would have thought that, being little more than paid enforcers, and peasants, nobody paid any attention to them . . ." He paused and then continued, "Unless they came calling, of course."

Once again Terry's head bobbed in agreement. "Frankly, they were ignored for centuries, and since they had no 'face', nobody really paid them any attention. That changed in 1930."

A look of puzzlement circled the room. "What happened then?" asked Gil.

Terry looked seriously around the room. "To understand you must know that the Chinese have never been made welcome here in Canada. The government has always had a 'Chinese Exclusion' policy. In 1885 the government imposed a 'head tax' of $50 on all Chinese immigrants, while at the same time severely restricting the number of immigrants allowed entry."

"But they helped build the transcontinental railway, the Canadian Pacific and, if memory serves, about 700 died in the building," protested Shane.

"And in the mines," confirmed Terry. "The point was and still is, they had served a purpose and government policy was 'No More Chinese!' Ottawa did everything it could to keep Chinese immigration low. This gave rise to the Snakeheads."

"Smugglers!" snapped The Gunner sourly.

"Precisely," returned Terry. "They charge thousands of dollars to smuggle people into the country. Most go on to 'The Great Mountain', the United States. But, and here is where the problem came in. Most of the Chinese in the early years of this century lived in Vancouver, with a sprinkling in Victoria. They were all men, or at least 99% of them."

Lester's eyes lit up. He was tempted to announce that he hadn't had 'Chinese' for weeks but the look on Terry's face gave him pause.

"You must also understand the Chinese culture," Terry continued. "Family is everything. A man is expected to marry, and have sons. Sons ensure that the family name lives on, and that proper respect is shown to the family's ancestors. In order to have sons you need a wife!"

"Which was impossible," said The Gunner reflectively. He was an omnivorous reader and had a memory for history. "There were no women, and the Chinese were never allowed to assimilate." His face grew sad as he added caustically, "So the government expected the Chinese population either to leave or to grow old and die away."

"Precisely," said Terry. "In order to marry, and because of government restrictions, a Chinese man was required to return to China. This took money, a great deal of money. He then had to find a wife in his own ethnic group." Once again Terry saw disconcerted and questioning looks. "There are 44 separate ethnic groups in the Chinese culture," explained Terry. "Most of the immigrants came from the areas around Shanghai and Canton, which is predominately Han. There are other groups, such as Li, Yao, She, Zhuang, and so on. As an example, I am Manchu, and my family comes from Peking. The Chans and the Chiangs are also Manchu. To the western eye, we are all the same. But we are not. We all have our ethnic differences, from the dialect we speak, the way we dress, to the gods we worship. A Chinese man could not marry outside of his class, or his ethnic group. Usually he would go to the village, or city, where he had been born. This also cost money. Now, having found a wife, he was faced with a conundrum: stay in China, where he was, after years away, a virtual stranger, with no employment and very little chance of finding it, or return to Canada where, while he was classified as a 'Domiciled Alien', he had work. However, the secondary problem was, what to do with his wife?"

"Couldn't he just sponsor her?" asked Shane innocently.

"Yes, provided he made an application for her to immigrate at the Canadian consulate in Peking, could pay the head tax, and find a steamship that would be sailing directly to Canada." Terry shook his head. "The government did everything it could to keep the Chinese in China, and one of the regulations was that anyone immigrating had to do so in one 'continuous' journey. Since most, if not all of the steamers broke their journey in Hawaii, to pick up passengers and freight, this was almost impossible."

"Jesus!" exclaimed Max. "I never knew it was that bad!"

"It got worse," returned Terry flatly. "Most men would stay in China, father a child or two, and then return to Canada, hopefully to make enough money to bring his family over. He also had to make enough to support his family back in China. In 1903 the Head Tax was increased to $500, an impossible sum for many. And what complicated the whole thing was the Chinese concept of 'family', which includes everybody remotely related to you. To a Chinese, family includes your parents and siblings, aunts, uncles, husbands of aunts, wives of uncles, cousins and their wives and husbands and children. My own family, and I only have one uncle, and one brother, consists of over 150 people at last count."

"Gosh," said Lester, "to think that I thought I had a big family."

Terry chuckled. "You don't, not compared to a Chinese family. Anyway, it was possible to bring your family to Canada. Most of the men went back two or three times and had more children, and some even managed to bring their wives and kids back."

"Until 1930?"

"In September of 1930 the government issued an Order in Council prohibiting the landing of any immigrant of any Asiatic race, and this included Indians and Japanese, except wives and minor children of Canadian citizens. Since most of the Chinese already in Canada were not citizens, but merely 'domiciled aliens', you can imagine the consternation this Order caused."

"Enter the Snakeheads," offered The Gunner.

"There has always been illegal immigration," said Terry. "People would stow away on the Pacific liners, and there has always been a limited smuggling operation going on at one time or another. To the average Chinese male, desperate to bring his wife and kids here, the Snakeheads offered an expensive solution. For 5,000 dollars a Snakehead would smuggle your family in. And they extended credit."

"And the Tsangs were Snakeheads?" suggested Teddy.

"That, and more," replied Terry. "The Tsangs had a branch in Shanghai, and one in Canton. They basically supplied reinforcements and new recruits to the Tsangs here. Uncle Henry Chan saw a business opportunity - and made an error in judgement that almost cost him everything."

"Because of the Tsangs?" asked The Gunner.

"Because of one." Terry shook his head. "Uncle Henry had the connections back in China, and he also had the wherewithal to supply papers to the illegals, forged papers, but very well printed, attesting to their legal status. He guaranteed not only the safe arrival of a man's family, but also a set of papers that would pass official scrutiny. He gave his word!"

"But . . ." prompted Max.

"When all this came about Uncle Henry was trying to consolidate his position. He was not quite the 'Serenity', but close. He had to curb the power and influence of the Tongs. In essence, he was at war."

"War? And what are the Tongs?" asked Gil.

"There are 22 provinces in China - 23 if you count Taiwan. The people who come from a particular province, Hunan, Shandong, Sichuan, Zheuiang, and so on, have different ways of doing things, different manner of dress, different ways to cook food, different seasonings, and so on. You need only go to Chinatown and see it. The Tongs are essentially 'fraternal' organizations dedicated to preserving a certain way of life. This is not at all unique to Chinese. A Roman is a Roman, while a Calabrese is a Calabrese. Little Italy is a microcosm of Italy. Certain groups from one village or province will gather in a particular area, spend their money in shops owned by people from their own area, and so on. The Tongs encouraged people from one particular district to support their fellows. They controlled, in many ways, the life of their members. This included gambling, and prostitution, loan sharking, and so on. Some of them also imported opium."

"Which Uncle Henry did not approve of," said The Gunner.

"He did not," nodded Terry. "But he was faced with a host of problems. He had the Tongs at each other's throats, and demanding a piece of the action. He had the white authorities demanding more of the action for Chinatown was big business. The tourists were coming in droves and spending big bucks. Then he had all these people begging for his help in getting their families out of China. Since the Shanghai Tsangs were already facilitating illegal immigration, Uncle Henry told them to handle it."

"Which they did?" asked The Gunner.

"They sent a man named Tsang Xiang to coordinate the Canadian end of business. He had the veneer of education and seemed to know what he was about. Uncle Henry seemed satisfied with him and so long as Xiang shared the profits, and there was no trouble, more or less left Xiang alone."

"Somehow I feel trouble rearing its ugly head," opined Shane.

"What nobody knew, not even Uncle Henry, was that the Shanghai Tsangs were even more venal, more thuggish, than the Canadian branch of the Clan. Xiang took the money and for a while things went smoothly." Terry's face grew icy. "Then the bodies started to wash ashore."

"Bodies?" Max looked at Shane. "What bodies?"

"The Canadian government was faced with a massive unemployment problem. They cracked down on illegal immigration and deported anyone they felt like deporting on the vaguest of pretexts - unemployment, or being on the public charge, were only two - and there was a problem with the papers Xiang was peddling. The authorities were not stupid. They increased their coastal patrols and every ship that came in from Asia was subject to search. Xiang was making a lot of money and wasn't about to take chances. In April of 1933 he ordered that one or more of his Tsang relatives would accompany each group of illegals. They had orders that if the navy, or the coast guard, in any way threatened a boarding the 'evidence' was to be . . ."

As Terry's voice trailed away, The Gunner looked at the Chinese. "The evidence was conveniently disposed of," he said, "Which inconveniently floated ashore."

"There was a man, a scholar, who was greatly revered in the community. He was very old and his only son had died. His grandson was in China, and the man wanted him in Canada. The man went to Uncle Henry, who was his friend, and a business partner. Uncle Henry directed this man to Xiang. The arrangements were made. The boy in China was put on a ship." Terry looked directly at The Gunner. "He arrived, in a way. His body washed ashore up near Cape Scott."

"The death of a son is a disaster," offered The Gunner. "The death of the only male to carry on the line is catastrophic."

"Yes, for who would care for him in his old age? Who would see that his journey into the Celestial Kingdom would be comfortable? Who would tend his grave and make proper gifts to the gods to ensure that his comfort was secure? To a Westerner this is all within the bounds of necromancy and polytheism and strange, but to the Chinese, it is a very serious thing." Terry's head bobbed respectfully. "A very serious thing," he repeated. "That the man was a Mandarin, a Prince made matters even more serious. Prince Tuan, for that was his name, and his family, had served the Emperors for centuries. He was respected and revered and, more importantly, listened to! The man came to Uncle Henry. He demanded that those responsible for his grandson's death be put to death. He castigated Uncle Henry and told him that he had been a fool for entrusting such an important business to the Tsangs! Prince Tuan then said that the blood of all those poor innocents who had been thrown into the sea was on Uncle Henry's hands."

"And Uncle Henry lost face to a man he needed," suggested The Gunner.

"Yes," replied Terry. "Prince Tuan turned his back on Uncle Henry. This is a very big insult and Uncle Henry knew he had to take action. He sent for Tsang Han Tzu, who was the head of the Clan in Vancouver. He ordered Xiang to attend him. Tzu showed up with his eldest son, Tsang Sho Sheng. Uncle Henry also sent for his most trusted associates, my grandfather amongst them. They would witness Uncle Henry's wrath."

Terry paused and took a sip of tea. "Uncle Henry confronted Xiang, who knew better than to deny what he had done. From what I was told, all Uncle Henry did was nod and reach for a sword. This he handed to Tzu, who as the "Elder Brother", would mete out the punishment. Tzu, could not, or would not do it. Xiang was the son of his youngest sister's son, family. He refused the sword and by his refusal condemned himself. Uncle Henry handed the sword to Sheng who took it and . . ."

"He killed his father?" exclaimed Lester.

"Blood washed away the shame that Uncle Henry had by his own actions brought upon his honour," replied Terry. "Sheng beheaded his father, and then Xiang. Uncle Henry became Prince Tuan's adopted son. Harmony returned to their world. Tsang Sho Sheng was declared "Elder Brother" of the Clan and returned to the compound where he revelled in opium, whisky and concubines. Uncle Henry returned to the old ways of using the Tsangs only when he had to, and then usually to intimidate or eliminate. Things more or less remained the same. The Tsangs were outcasts, without 'face' and remained so until Younger Brother Tsang Su Shun deposed Sheng."

A puzzled look came over The Gunner's face. "I am a little confused. I thought you were the Elder Brother."

Terry realized that The Gunner's remark once again showed just how ignorant the white world was of the Chinese. "In my world, the head man, the boss if you will, of a family, or clan, is referred to as 'Elder Brother'. In many cases he actually is. In others the title is an honourific."

"So you are "Elder Brother" of the Hsiangs?" asked Teddy.

"Yes," replied Terry without emotion. "I am the 'Viceroy' here in that I pay allegiance to Michael Chan."

"Did you have to 'depose' anybody?" asked Lester, his eyes wide.

Terry's face flushed and then he regained his composure. "I inherited the title," he said stiffly. "When my father died . . ."

"I meant no disrespect," Lester hastened to say. "But Terry, you have people being beheaded, people being thrown into the ocean, brothers deposing brothers . . . It's . . ." "Like a bad novel," interjected Shane."

"Is there sex?" asked Lester, grinning evilly.

"No sex," replied Terry, returning Lester's grin. He could not stay angry with Lester, who was the court jester, and not a bad sort.

The Gunner looked reflective. "I never knew Uncle Henry Chan. I know Michael and I cannot help thinking that he would not have allowed Sheng to go on for too long. Not only had the man killed his father, and his cousin, Sheng was an embarrassment!"

"True," agreed Terry. He held up a hand. "But what could Uncle Henry do? Remember, he had ordered Xiang to be executed. Tzu had forgotten his station, and refused to carry out the order. My father believes that Uncle Henry wanted to do something, but his hands were tied. The Tsangs were totally loyal to him, and it could have been argued that Sheng was only obeying orders."

"Still, there must have been some grumbling," interjected The Gunner. "Family is family, after all."

"Quite so," said Terry.

"Uncle Henry had a problem?" asked Gil.

"Uncle Henry had a problem," repeated Terry. "Old Sheng was a disgrace, hell, he was giving the Tsangs an even worse name than they already had. He was boffing young girls, drunk most of the time, dabbling in heroin. Something had to be done and when Younger Brother Tsang Su Shun offered to make the problem go away, well, Uncle Henry agreed."

"Another brother!" muttered Lester. "I think I'd better take notes!"

Terry could not help laughing. "I admit it does get confusing, but if it had not been for Shun, chances are I would not have been 'sealed'."

"Now I'm confused," said The Gunner with a shake of his head.

"Shun was literally and figuratively 'Younger Brother' to Sheng, and the author of my fate!"

"Now I am even more confused!" growled The Gunner pointedly.

"Bear with me, Steve, I'll get there," returned Terry with a grin.

"Please do."

"Tsang Su Shun was an aberration, a hiccup in the Tsang gene pool. Not only was he not ugly, which is a Tsang family trait, he was intelligent, and ambitious, something unknown in a Tsang. Shun was not happy being constantly reminded that he was peasant, a barbarian, and several other unpleasant things. He very early realized that his older brother wasn't about to change anything, so he left Vancouver. He never broke with the Clan, or with Uncle Henry . . . he was still a Tsang and owed Uncle Henry his loyalty. But he did distance himself from the Clan as much as he could. He was a peasant, but he wanted to be a Mandarin. Shun was determined to give his branch of the Clan something it had never had."

"Face!" exclaimed Teddy and Shane together.

"Precisely. Shun needed to show that some of the Tsangs could rise above the muck, that some of them were capable of honour. He left the compound and moved to Victoria where Uncle Henry gave him a small living. At the same time Shun opened a grocery store, and catered to the carriage trade. He was very successful. He married out of the Clan, some would say above his station, but his marriage succeeded. He entered the mainstream of white culture. He became assimilated and when the time came he petitioned Uncle Henry to be allowed to not only reaffirm his loyalty, but to show that his 'Clan' should have special status separate and distinct from the Mainland Tsangs."

"He had himself circumcised?" squeaked Lester.

"Not at all," replied Terry equably. "He asked that his first born son, and any other sons, of his branch of the Tsang family be 'sealed' to the service of the Serenity, given a mark that would make them unique in the Tsang world."

"But why circumcision? Wouldn't a tattoo serve the same purpose?" asked Shane, not quite joking.

"No," replied Terry sharply. "Remember, at the time in the bulk of the Chinese population such a thing was not in their culture. Shun knew that circumcision was a normal enough thing in the white world but to his way of thinking it was a mark of something special in the Chinese world."

"Why would he think that?" asked Lester. "I know that the Chinese tend to gather together, which is why there are "Chinatowns", and try to retain as many of the old ways as they can."

"Quite true." Terry could not disagree with Lester's simplistic rationale. "However, the Tsangs have been serving the Chans, and their cousins, the Chiangs, for hundreds of years. They were servants and minders and guards. Shun knew that the young 'princes' of both houses, had been circumcised, which he equated with nobility."

"Which it isn't," interjected Max. "Although the males of the Royal Family . . ."

"True enough," interrupted Terry. "And I am sure that Shun knew that the Chiangs and the Chans were third and fourth generation Canadian born. Just as he knew that one of Michael Chan's grandfathers was a white man, a Scot. For all intents and purposes they had forgotten their Chinese roots. They were Canadians, assimilated into the culture of Canada. To their minds having your son circumcised was something that simply was done as a matter of course, and no big deal."

"But to Shun it was," said The Gunner.

Terry nodded. "He wanted to dissociate himself, and his family from the rest of the Tsangs. He wanted his family to be better than the other Tsangs. He might never become a Mandarin, but he was damned if his sons would be considered peasants."

"So he petitioned Uncle Henry," said The Gunner, his words more of a statement than a question.

"He did," confirmed Terry. "He asked that he be allowed to have his first son 'sealed' to Uncle Henry's service, thereby establishing a very special bond between master and servant. His sons would never be equals to the Chans, but they would never again be mere Tsangs. Uncle Henry agreed. Why, I do not know. Perhaps he was amused when confronted by a Tsang with delusions of grandeur. I like to think that Uncle Henry was a far-seeing, perspicacious man who saw in Tsang Su Shun someone destined for better things, someone who would add 'face' rather than take it away. I also think that the whole mess over Tzu and Xiang weighed heavily on his soul. For whatever reason, Uncle Henry agreed and made Shun, in some ways, his protégé, to the extent that later, after he had deposed his brother, Shun was made Viceroy in Victoria and was brought into Uncle Henry's Council."

"Did Shun . . ." asked The Gunner delicately.

"No, there was no question that Sheng would be harmed. Uncle Henry was adamant on that point. Sheng was locked in one of the flats in the Tsang compound and treated with respect. Guarded, but respectfully guarded. He was trotted out from time to time for decades thereafter to prove that he was still alive, but no one paid him any attention."

"A softer, gentler Tsang," scoffed Gil.

"You could not be more wrong!" snapped Terry. "You must never underestimate the Tsangs. Tsang Su Shun might be an assimilated Chinese. He might make his home a model of Chinese-Canadian life, and he might conduct himself in a calm, serene manner but never underestimate him!" Terry paused, and then continued, "There is a story. I cannot vouch for the veracity of it, but back in the early '60s . . ."

The Gunner paled slightly. He had heard the story, or at least that part of it that Joel Chiang was willing to tell him.

"One of Sheng's sons betrayed the trust of the Serenity back in the early '60s," continued Terry. "It is said that Shun did not hesitate to exact the Serenity's punishment on his nephew."

"Cousin Joey!" The Gunner muttered with a short, sharp gasp.

Terry's eyes widened. "You know the story?"

"Parts of it," replied The Gunner.

The other men in the room looked at each other, and then at Terry.

Seeing the inquisitive looks, Terry continued with his story. "Cousin Joey Tsang was appointed minder to the then young Michael Chan and his cousin, Joel Chiang. They were attending a very posh, very WASP public school in Vancouver, St. George's."

"I've heard of it," put in Teddy. "It has a very good reputation."

"That's as may be," responded Terry. "At the time, however, the school was insular, exclusive and prejudiced. Little boy Chinamen were not exactly made welcome."

"They are now," said Max. Then he added a caveat. "Provided their daddies can pony up the tuition. You'd be surprised how much prejudice and xenophobia forty grand can wipe away."

Terry laughed. "I know. My father sent my brother and me to De La Salle College. He was forever complaining about how much money we cost him."

"Sounds like my old man," muttered Shane. "The schmuck!"

Ignoring Shane, Terry continued. "Cousin Joey Tsang was put in place to keep an eye on Michael and to keep the bullies and the jerks in their place. Up to a point he did his job . . . so far as it pertained to Michael."

"You said there was a cousin . . . Joel?" asked Max.

Terry looked embarrassed. "Joel Chiang, whom I have never met, is the black sheep of the family. He is, um, somewhat promiscuous," he said delicately.

"Tell them the truth," said The Gunner gently. He looked around the room. "I have met Joel. He is a wonderful, kind, thoughtful man." He paused and sighed sadly. "He is also homosexual and at the time he was, as he puts it, 'enjoying life'."

"Putting the moves on anything with a dick!" translated Lester aloud. "I was 'there' when I was in high school!" He giggled. "You'd be surprised how many jocks wanted to 'study' with me!"

Knowing Lester's reputation, the others just shook their heads. Terry used the pause to continue. "Joey Tsang was to put the kibosh on Joel's activities. He was supposed to keep Joel on the straight - sorry - and narrow."

"Joel seduced Cousin Joey," The Gunner said flatly. "Joel had a good thing going and getting Cousin Joey in the sack guaranteed that the man would keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately for Cousin Joey, Uncle Henry found out and Cousin Joey ended up . . ."

The Gunner's voice trailed off, leaving the others with no illusions.

"And the . . . Tsangs went along with it?" asked Gil. "I mean this Cousin Joey, he was one of them!"

"And he failed in his duty to the Serenity," responded Terry bluntly. "He allowed himself to be seduced, did not tell anyone, and betrayed the trust placed in him. The Tsangs lost face, or so they thought." Terry looked seriously at the group. "I cannot emphasise too seriously how important 'face' is to a Chinese!"

Teddy could not help interjecting. "Terry, no disrespect, but from what I've heard the Tsangs had very little 'face' to begin with."

"Not so," argued Terry with a shake of his head. "Their 'face', their honour, lies in their faithful, dedicated Service to the Serenity, to the Chans. To betray the Serenity is their greatest dishonour. Cousin Joey betrayed that faith, and his uncle, Shun, who is a true servant of the Chans, restored the harmony between the Chans and the Tsangs. In doing so he proved himself to be just as ruthless in his service as the Tsangs of old."

"And this is the guy who started it all, the sealing I mean?"

"Indirectly, yes," replied Terry with a nod. He shrugged.

"But you are not a Tsang, are you?" asked Lester innocently.

"I am a third cousin, through marriage, to Michael Chan," returned Terry with a slight trace of pomposity. "My family has been Mandarin for eight centuries!" When he realized that he was overreacting, Terry continued. "When Shun's first born was 'sealed' he threw a hell of a huge party, and invited all the Viceroys. Uncle Henry attended, which in itself brought great honour to Shun's house. The other Viceroys, being Chinese, who were not about to lose face to a 'peasant', a Tsang, decided to follow Shun's lead."

"Hence your sealing," said The Gunner with a nod of his head.

"Yes, also my brother and all my male cousins. The Tsangs not only led the way in the sealings, but also in the ceremony and the party during, and after the sealing."

"Party? What party?" Lester asked.

Terry laughed heartily. "The Chinese love ceremony, and a party, and if you have money you daren't skimp on anything, for to do so would show meanness, and disrespect to your neighbours and family, whom you invite to witness the ceremony so . . ." Terry shook his head as he continued. "When a boy is born into a Viceroy's family he is never circumcised in the hospital. He is brought home with great ceremony - one Viceroy carried his son home on horseback! There's a band, a dragon dance, a lion dance, drums, the whole works. The boy is presented to the Elders - no women are present for some reason - and then laid on a special pillow - usually Imperial yellow in colour - on a special table that is only used for sealings. After much incense and prayers for the long life, good health, and prosperity of the baby, the doctor comes in. He circumcises the baby and is presented with a gift of jade and gold. The baby is then presented, again, to the Elders, and everybody smiles and nods and presents gifts of money and jewels and jade. Then there's a hell of a party!"

"There is? When's the next one?" asked Lester.

"When my sister-in-law gives birth, I suppose, if it's a boy. My brother is already making plans. There will be the best food, the best wine, special entertainment. There will be a street party for all the neighbours, who don't know anything other than that a son is born, and in a traditional Chinese family the birth of a boy is a very big thing. There will be red envelopes - stuffed with money - distributed - red means good luck - and a dragon and drums. The street in front of the house will be closed and tables filled with food and booze set up, free for all to take. No expense is spared! Firecrackers will be set off and when it gets dark, fireworks." Terry shrugged. "It's a hell of a party. I just hope they don't set fire to anything, as happened when I was sealed. A rocket went awry and slammed into my Uncle George's garden shed. The fire brigade was not pleased."

Terry's grin when he finished speaking proved infectious and no one heard the knock on the door. Lester looked up to see his lover standing in the small hallway leading to the door. "Brent!" he yelped and ran from the kitchen, almost leaping into Brent's arms.

While Lester bustled about fetching an iced drink and some cooling towels, Brent settled onto the sofa. He groaned from fatigue. His face bore the marks of a very tired man.

"You should be home, sleeping," suggested The Gunner. "Lester tells us you've been working."

"A murder," replied Brent. He ran his hand over red-rimmed, tired looking eyes. "I've been at it since two this morning and not only am I beat, I am frustrated as hell!"

Lester came into the room and clucked and fussed so much that Brent gently pushed him away. "Lester, I'm fine!" Brent snapped unintentionally. When he saw the hurt look on his lover's face he hastily added, "I sorry, but I need some space." He looked at The Gunner. "I should have taken some days off, and helped you."

"How so?" The Gunner asked.

"I would at least have a faint hope of actually getting somewhere. Right now I have a dead man, no witnesses, nothing, and if I know the people, I'll never . . ." Brent slammed the arm of the sofa. "You have no idea how frustrating trying to solve a crime in Chinatown can be, Steve."

Terry Hsiang's head jerked up. "Where?" he asked, his question not quite a demand.

Brent waved his hand in the air. "Not your problem, Terry."

"I remind you that I am the Viceroy. Everything is my problem," returned Terry, his face stony.

"Only on the west side of Spadina," said Brent without inflection. "The Circle K Boys . . ."

"Animals!" spat Terry dangerously. "They are drug dealers, pimps, scum!"

"And because they are all of those things we, the police, will never solve a murder," said Brent. He looked at Terry. "We know all about the Circle K Boys, and we know that you are not involved in their business." Brent lay back, resting his head on the back of the sofa. "We were called to the Grange Hotel . . ." he began tiredly, missing the startled look on Terry's face when the hotel was mentioned. " . . .Which was empty!" He laughed ruefully. "Here's a dump that rents out rooms on an hourly basis, yet the only person in the place was the desk clerk, who conveniently spoke nothing but Cantonese, and being behind the desk saw or heard nothing!"

Terry snorted his disbelief, but remained silent.

Brent caught the import of Terry's snort. "Yeah. No speak English! Nobody speaks English when the cops come around."

"The Circle K Boys will ensure that no one ever does," warned Terry.

"I know. But damn it, Terry, somebody had to have seen something!"

"True, but fear makes many mouths silent," replied Terry. "You have no suspects, I take it?"

Brent almost choked with bitter laughter. "Suspects? Hell, all we have is a dead body in a trashed hotel room." He looked at Terry. "You know what happened, of course."

Terry nodded. "The jackals descended," he said quietly.

"Stripped the room!" exclaimed Brent. "Here's a guy lying in the bed with half his head blown away and splattered all over the wall, and these . . . creatures come in and steal everything but the fillings in the guy's teeth!"

"Not to mention corrupting the crime scene," said Max, who had once thought of a career in law enforcement.

"We have fingerprints - thousands of them!" said Brent. "We have blood and semen and God knows what else from God knows how many months or years of people using the room! We have ripped open pieces of luggage, and a dead guy who just had to come all the way from Vancouver to get his cock waxed and shot in the head!"

The Gunner, who had only been half listening to Brent, asked casually, "Vancouver?"

"Yeah. When he registered he put Vancouver has his place of residence." Brent looked pensive. "Mind you, I think he originally came from England. The labels in what little clothing the ghouls left were all English. All I really have is one fucked up crime scene and the guy's name."

"You sound surprised," said Shane.

"I am. Usually when someone registers at the Grange Hotel they are all named John or Jane Doe. This guy just sighed 'Noel Aubery' and . . ."

The crash of The Gunner's chair as it tipped and fell to the floor shattered the air in the room. "What . . . what did you say his name was?" The Gunner asked, his face suddenly becoming ashen.

The Gunner's reaction to Brent's naming the dead man caused several jaws to drop. "Why, Noel Aubery," repeated Brent. "Do you know him?"

The Gunner waved the others away and sat down beside Brent. "I know him. He was a footman in Michael Chan's house. Are you sure of the name?"

"That's the name he used when he registered," said Brent. He looked curiously at The Gunner. "Is there something wrong?"

"I don't know," replied The Gunner slowly. He gripped Brent's arm. "You found nothing in the room?"

Brent shook his head. "Just what I told you. We think that the rest of the guests swooped down and grabbed everything they could find. All we really found was a body and some ripped up luggage."

"No papers?"

"No papers, no money, no jewellery, no passport," confirmed Brent. His policeman's instinct screamed into overdrive. "What do you know that you're not telling me?"

Taking a deep breath, The Gunner looked directly at Brent. "What I have to tell you, what I might ask you to do, could compromise your position as an officer of the law," he said quietly.

Brent shrugged. "Steve, I'm in the middle of a covert operation to root out a nest of paedophiles. I know where they live, I know how many boys they have." He smiled grimly. "I haven't reported what I know to my superiors, or to the Vice Squad. I would say that I am already compromised."

"All right, then," The Gunner nodded. "Are you absolutely sure that the dead man called himself 'Noel Aubery'? And he came from Vancouver?"

Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, Brent brought out a penny notebook of the type that could be bought in any corner shop. The detectives went through at least one of these books per case. Each entry was carefully written, as the books could be used in evidence in a court of law. Brent flipped through the pages and came to what he was looking for. He showed the entry to The Gunner. "Word for word what the guy wrote on the hotel registry card."

The Gunner read the address and nodded slowly. "Michael Chan's home address!" he growled low and then nodded. "Describe the body, please."

Brent left out no details. When he was finished The Gunner once again nodded. "From the description I would say that it is Noel." He stood and ran his hand over his face. "Damn!"

"Steve, if you know something you must tell Brent," Teddy advised. "If this Noel person is involved in what we are doing, he has to cover our asses."

"I know," agreed The Gunner. He turned to Brent. "Noel was, as I've said, a footman in the employ of Michael Chan, who is, amongst other things, the Grand Master of the Order. Noel was in a position to know certain things that, at least for now, I would prefer not become known."

"Steve, the forensics people were all over that room," assured Brent. "They found zip. Oh, lots of fingerprints, semen, and blood, but nothing that I would say would lead me to think that this is anything more than a drug deal gone wrong."

"What? Why would you say that?" asked The Gunner, more forcefully than he intended.

Brent shrugged. "One, there was evidence that the deceased was using drugs. There was cocaine residue on the night table. Two, the Grange Hotel is a known trading zone for drugs. Three, the hotel is in an area controlled by the Circle K Boys, and they control the drug traffic on the east side of Spadina. The way I'm looking at this is that the guy, Noel, came from Vancouver - for whatever reason - and went where he could safely buy what he wanted: a little bit of sex, and drugs."

"Sex?" asked The Gunner.

"There was fresh semen on the sheets, and his underpants were spotted with semen. He had sex before he was killed." Brent frowned slightly. "From the amount of seminal fluid the coroner figures that Noel had sex with a male. That will be confirmed at the autopsy, and by the blood and semen typing. The scenario all fits, Steve."

"So, Noel comes into town, checks into a roach hotel, hires a male prostitute . . ." began The Gunner thinking out loud. "Perhaps they get high together, perhaps not, they have sex and Noel runs out of drugs?"

"You can buy men, women and drugs, with no questions asked," said Brent. "The bottom line is that we think, the investigating officers, including me, that Noel did exactly what you think he did. Why he ended up with his brains splattered all over the place is the question I haven't found an answer for. He could have been a mule, bringing the drugs from Vancouver. He could have argued with the dealer over the price. I can think of several scenarios that might work." Brent shook his head. "Not that it matters. No witnesses, too many people using the room at one time or another . . . We'll go through the motions but this thing isn't going anywhere."

The Gunner listened carefully but still had to make sure. "And there were no papers, no notebooks, nothing of that sort in the room?" he asked.

Brent bobbed a confirming nod. "Steve, the people who use the Grange Hotel, they're the dregs of humanity. My guess is that the sound of the gunshot that killed Noel was still echoing when the scum descended. They ransacked the room for anything of value: money, passport, his watch and rings, anything. They stripped the room and ripped apart his suitcase and a small carryall, tore the linings of the bags looking for hidden valuables. Papers or notebooks have no value and if Noel had anything like that in his luggage it would have been tossed aside. We would have found them!" Brent shuddered at the memory of the venality he had witnessed. "Steve, they took his clothes - even his spare underpants!"

The Gunner breathed a small sigh of relief. He decided to tell Brent what he knew about Noel, and why he needed to know everything about the man's death. "Brent, Noel was in a position to know things about the Order. He was not a stupid man, and I would think that he would have covered his ass. He was in the service of the old Grand Master and had to have seen things, heard things, things that, to be honest, the Order would not care to have published."

Lester nodded. "Troubridge did that, covered his ass, I mean," he said, thinking. "He knew what Percy was up to, knew that he was implicated in some pretty sordid doings . . ."

Shane nodded his agreement. "Steve, the staff knows everything that goes on in the house. They see everything. There's an old saying that if you want to know a man, talk to his butler."

"I know it," replied The Gunner. He sighed. "Still, I can't help thinking that Noel would have kept some sort of a record. The old Grand Master liked little boys and I understand that he held wild parties at his house. Noel was there and he had to know what was going on."

"We'll never know, though," said Brent. "If he had any papers on him, which I doubt, they're gone." He snorted in disgust. "When we first came up with the idea that he might be a mule we examined his bags for false bottoms, which is the usual method of carrying drugs. None of Noel's luggage was deep enough to carry anything that we could see."

The Gunner was forced to accept Brent's professional expertise. "You're probably right, Brent," The Gunner conceded. "If Noel was keeping a record my guess is that everything he wrote is in some safe deposit box back in Vancouver. I also have to consider why he would even bring incriminating papers to Toronto. If Troubridge's notes and journal are anything to go by Noel would have needed a trunk!"

"I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill, Steve," offered Brent. "We went over what luggage there was with a fine tooth comb! Nothing about his suitcase or his carryon led us to think that there might be a hidden compartment."

The Gunner shrugged defeat. Noel had come to Toronto for some unknown reason. Why the man had left Michael's estate was a question that could be answered by a quick telephone call, which he would make. He would have to be careful with any information he might learn, but he was satisfied that Noel's murder would probably never be explained.

"The last I heard, Noel was preparing to become a Knight," The Gunner said, musing aloud. "I suppose we should think about giving him a decent funeral. I think we owe him that."

"Won't that risk some exposure?" asked Lester. "Right now he's in the morgue. Won't there be questions if someone shows up looking to claim the body?"

"We'll have the Vancouver PD notify the people at Noel's last known address," said Brent. "For all we know he could have family there."

"He doesn't," said The Gunner. "He was originally from Glasgow and so far as I know he has no one. Still, Michael is a gentleman, and a sentimentalist. I'm sure he'll think of something."

"Seems like a hell of a lot of trouble for a druggie," said Brent disdainfully.

"Brent, you don't know it, but the Order looks after its own. Noel was a candidate for knighthood and therefore one of our own. I don't know how far along in the process he'd gotten, but he was a candidate and that means the Order will see to it that he's not sent to a pauper's grave."

"Another funeral," groaned Max as he made to rise. The others joined and were filing through the doorway when Brent said, "You don't have to worry for a week or more. It will take at least that long for the coroner to release the body." He glanced at his watch, groaned and gave Lester a quick peck on the lips. "Sorry, but it's time I wasn't here. The lab boys are waiting for me." As he stood Brent looked at The Gunner. "The undertaker will have a job of making old Noel look presentable. The shooter made a hell of a mess. Almost as much of a mess as the jackals made of Noel's luggage."

"Must you go?" whined Lester. "I've hardly seen you!"

"I have to," replied Brent as he gave Lester another kiss. "I just have to drop off the luggage at the lab, and then I can take some time off."

"You have the luggage?" asked The Gunner, surprised. He had always thought that the police took great pains to ensure the chain of evidence.

"The forensic van was filled with stuff," replied Brent. "We took everything, including the mattress. There was no room left for the luggage so I was volunteered to take it to the lab. It's in the trunk of my car." He began walking to the door. "You can have Noel's body but the luggage will go into the evidence locker." He stopped and shook his head.

"What?" The Gunner asked.

"Whoever searched the luggage sure made a mess of it. It's sad, really. Noel had a very handsome carryall, all leather and what looks like gold hinges." He shrugged. "Not that it means anything. It will all end up as landfill sooner or later."

For some reason a memory stirred in The Gunner's brain. He recalled strolling through the alleyways of Cho Lon, the Chinese quarter of Saigon. "When I was in Vietnam I remember almost buying a carryall. It was quite handsome and very well made. It also had the added advantage of a hidden compartment, very shallow, and it could only be opened if you . . ."

Brent's eyes widened. "Are you . . . Can it be?"

The Gunner realized what he had said. "It's not possible! It can't be."

"Steve, if you know how to open the thing . . ."

"Brent, Noel was with the Royal Marines in Hong Kong. Those bags were made in Hong Kong, and sold throughout . . ." He reached out and grasped Brent's arm. "I need to see the bag," he said.