Solomon McKay: The Case of the Penance Cult (Unfinished, WIP)

It was humid afternoon in the city. The air was heavy and thick with heat and sweat. The office plants did little to help, choosing to instead thrive in the near tropical conditions. I don’t know why the chief, Hols, insisted on keeping them around if they weren’t gonna pull their weight. I was only in the local station because I had to sign some paperwork—Hols doesn’t like it when I start shooting at junkies in the middle night while rescuing a stolen dog. Such is the life of a private detective.
 It was that time of day when the sun hit the windows at the perfect angle that it seemed to illuminate the entire office in a sticky wash of yellow and fading Texan orange. Nobody bothered with the office lights. I stood over the form I was signing at the front desk, twisting my head to see the damn paper in the dark. I notice a figure move into frame on my left, giving it a side-long look I notice the figure is a Chinaman—well, Chinawoman to be precise; Hols, more than once, said I needed to get with modern sensibilities. She pulled out a crisp stack of A4s, laid them out on the front desk, stood back, and then started hitting her chest and back with her fists. What an odd bunch the Chinamen are; been here longer than anyone, before the anglos, spics, and micks showed up. No one else raised an eyebrow at this modern form of self-flagellation. These people and their modern sensibilities…
 After a minute, she stopped, deposited her papers in some collection box on the side, and left. I gave Marisa the form and paid the fine with a couple Georges, grabbed my hat, and rushed out of the office. I could hear Marisa calling my name—I have that effect with women—but I didn’t have time to entertain her when I could smell a new case and the trail was already going cold. The Chinawoman hadn’t gone far, only a hundred yards down the block. I hung back and followed her. After twenty minutes she arrived at some old-looking warehouse near the river. It had a faded coating of white paint that was peeling indiscriminately over the facade. It hardly had a stable frame supporting it, seemingly held up by metal walls all around that would blow over if a strong wind swept through the city. The windows were as transparent as quartz. The air smelled of used cooking oil and rotting fish. I couldn’t read the moon-rune signage the Chinamen had scrawled over the building—it was all Greek to me.
 The Chinawoman opened a door and entered. I hung back for a minute watching to see if anyone else would ingress or egress from the building. I checked my watch, it was 4:24 PM. Casting one last quick glance around, I walked up to the building. When I got closer I noticed a sign next to the door. Finally, some English. ‘R.F. Chiang’s Red Panda, 88 Marlowe Way, — City’. The window on the door wasn’t much better up close. I could barely make out the lights inside nor the vague shapes moving about. Opening the door insured a gust of warm air rushed out, culturally raping me with the smell, which was sevenfold times worse than the smell outside. The occupants didn’t seem to mind. I guess that’s what those silly masks they always wear are for.
 I immediately noticed that the room was full of sturdy, chest-high desks, arranged side-by-side in several rows, all occupied by a Chinaman working fastidiously over some stack of papers. Nobody paid me much mind so I occupied an empty desk near the entrance. The desk was made of old birch, and was slightly angled like a drafting table, flanked by a smaller, flat side table with papers stacked on it. The flat area at the top of the desk held a small bowl that burned incense. The writing surface had it’s own stack of papers piled up. I looked over the contents of one, it was some leaflet with a list of points, written in moon-runes of course:

 5:7除了我以外，你不可有別的神。
 5:8不可為自己雕刻偶像，也不可做甚麼形像，彷彿上天、下地和地底下水中的百物。
 …

 I looked over a few leaflets to see if I could find the first four points but the rest of the papers were the same. The sides were adorned with random animals: monkeys, horses, rats. Must be a meat processing plant, that would explain the smell. I heard the Chinaman ate dogs and cats, but monkeys and rats…? I flipped the page over and saw more text on the back:

 …
 監視 鎮壓 迫害 侵略 掠奪 破壞 拷問 屠殺 活摘器官 誘拐
 買賣人口 遊進 走私 毒品 賣淫 春畫 賭博 六合彩 天安門
 天安门 法輪功 李洪志 Winnie the Pooh 劉曉波动态网自
 …

 I had no idea what any of this Tangerine gibberish meant. What were these sneaky swamp rats planning? I took a look at my neighbour’s stack of papers but she slapped my hand away and started babbling something incomprehensible in what was undoubtedly a Guangzhou dialect. This got the attention of the foremen, who had otherwise been unaware of my presence, drawing them in as they started towards us.
 “You no belong here. Get out,” said the first one to arrive, his drawn out open vowels revealing his Shaanxi accent.
 He was fairly tall for a Chinaman, standing around five-foot-ten, dressed in an all black suit. The fact he wore triad-black sunglasses indoors made me think this wasn’t a meat processing plant.
 “I’m looking for someone. Left his robes at the local dry cleaners, someone by the name of ‘Mr. Con Fucius’. Cleaners asked me to find him.”
 “No someone named that here. You go now. No find anyone here,” he commanded, pointing to the door behind me.
 I could see more foremen dressed in suits approaching, one had started to raise his bamboo stick. Didn’t seem like I was gonna get any more information out of this encounter. I snatched a leaflet and shoved into my detective coat and then beat a hasty retreat, leaving by the door as I had come in. Those few minutes inside were enough for me to realize how much I appreciated the smell of slightly less nauseating fish guts. I left the area and went back to my office.
By the time I returned to the office it was nearly 6 PM. My Assistant was still in the office.
 “Oh, Solomon, you’re back? I got a call from Hols, he said you didn’t pay the fi—”
 “Shut up, Assistant. Listen to this: when I was paying that fine I got just for doing my job, a strange Chinawoman walked into the station.”
 “S-Solomon, you can’t call people that, it’s incredibly rude!”
 “Whatever. So this yellow person dropped off a bunch of papers in the station and I followed her back to a warehouse full of her own kind. They were all writing something on paper. Not sure what it all means. Look at this,” I said as I took out the leaflet I had grabbed earlier.
 Assistant looked it over saying, “Chu le wo yi wai… Solomon, I think this is just a religious pamphlet.”
 “So it’s a cult like Falun Gong, huh? I knew those shifty zipper heads were up to something! Like the Mongoloids say, Assistant, ‘where there’s smoke, look for the Han with fan,’” I said, pointing to the cult’s recruitment pamphlet to emphasize my point.
 “Um, Solomon, I don’t think the Mongol peoples say that.”
 “Listen up, Assistant, there’s definitely something going on. You’re gonna stake out the place tonight.” I grabbed a notepad and wrote down the address, handing the note to my Assistant. “I’ll join you in the morning.”
 My Assistant gave a sigh and walked out of the office with no enthusiasm. I shook my head. If he didn’t want to be a private detective than he shouldn’t have signed up for this job. He knew it would involve long hours.
 It was just after 8 AM when I rolled up to the stakeout location. The car was parked up the street, about two hundred yards away. My Assistant looked worse for wear but I was eager to hear his report. I tapped on the side window to announce my presence and then entered the vehicle.
 Stifling a yawn, he said, “Good morning, Solomon.”
 “Yeah, yeah. So, let’s here the report. What has the yellow menace been up to?”
 “You can’t… Whatever. A few men in suites went in and out over the night. Maybe around 3 in total. Nothing too descriptive about them. They wore all black suits and dark sunglasses. The only distinguishable person was a man who wore a beige suit. Normal cut of hair. Let me see… Yeah, he left the premises at 9:19 PM.” Assistant put down his notebook and stared absently out the window.
 “The man in the beige suit, huh? Looks like we have our ringleader. Assistant, keep watch, I’m going to borrow a disguise!”
 “What? Wait, Solomon—!” My Assistant shouted, but I was already out the door and back to the office before I could hear his costume suggestions.
 An hour later I returned, dressed in a Chinaman’s robes. It was the perfect disguise to blend in as a religious monk. I even had some leftover dope from a previous case that I could use to help add an air of authenticity. I knocked on the driver’s side window this time, fully prepared to enter the dragon’s den soon enough.
 “What the hell, Solomon!? Is that a changshan? And what did you do to your eyes!? Did you tape them? Do you realize how incredibly racist that is!? I don’t even know where to start.”
 “Relax, buttercup, this is part of the job description. Sometimes you gotta a little dirty, like a dirty Jap rat. And don’t call me Solomon, it’s Sun Lo Kwon now. Anyway, has there be—hey, is that him!?” I point to a man exiting a car that had just parked next to the cult building.
 “Huh? Y-Yeah, that’s him, that’s the beige suit man.”
 I started to walk towards the building. “Assistant, keep the car warm, I’ll think we’ll need to make a quick getaway.”
 With those parting words, I was off. A quick glance at my watch showed that it was 9:14 AM, the perfect time to commence some super sleuthing.
 I stole a quick glance through the window but the tape holding my eyes back caused my eyelids to obscure my field of vision. I think I finally understood what my Assistant meant when he told me to ‘see through the eyes of a racial minority’. I opened the cultish door and slipped in unnoticed with my disguise, taking up a position at an empty desk. The first thing I noticed was that it was unbearably hot in the building. Now that I was inside I had a bit of an easier time seeing. I could barely make out that there were torches lined up along the walls of the room leading up to the front where the beige suit man was standing on a podium. Him and a few of the black suit foremen were preparing a microphone; a Kool-Aid laden speech no doubt. Impeccable timing once again, Solomon.
 A short burst of microphone feedback flooded through the room followed by the beige suit man’s speech. “Welcome, everyone, to our day of festival. Everyday we are tested in our faith, and everyday we work through our faith. And so, it is on this day that we will experience a true test of our faith. When Abraham offered his son to the altar, he sought to do only God's will. An offering that would count as the last of his days, we too will sacrifice on this day, resolute in our faith, complete trust in God. He will—indeed He has—rewarded our efforts with a sacrificial lamb.”
 I felt my skin crawl at that last line—my skin has a bit of an allergy to undomesticated animals.
 The beige suit man then opened a book and read from it, “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for..”—he closed the book and clapped his hands—“BEGIN!”