Chinatown - Part 3 - Throwing Stars, Feeling Pain

I spent much of Thursday night watching the webcam feed from Natalie’s apartment on my computer. I was in the middle of writing an update to this site to say that the idea hadn’t turned in any results when I saw movement on the screen. The door in Natalie’s apartment opened, and a figure came in. Someone of Asian descent, though I couldn’t see his face clearly. The person was rummaging through the mess of Natalie’s apartment, apparently looking for something.

I rushed out to my car and gunned it down to Natalie’s apartment, running a whole slew of reds and nearly killing a bum that refused to get out of the street, even when the light was green. I pulled up, parked in front of a fire hydrant, and ran up the stairs to her apartment. The door to her apartment was open slightly, and a dim light was streaming through into the hallway. I took out my gun and pushed my way through.

At first glance, the room was empty and everything was silent save for the hum of the computer running in the corner. Then I was staring at the bottom of a Nike running shoe as it made its way through the air toward my face. The kick met its mark, smacking into my nose and sending me backwards. I still held the gun, but before I could get balanced, the assailant had an arm wrapped around my throat and what felt like a very sharp knife pressed against my jugular. The person wasn’t going out of their way to be gentle, and I could feel the blade break the skin. A person can bleed to death in about 10 to 20 seconds from a wound to the jugular.

“Why are you here?” the person asked from behind me. Raspy, but definitely a female voice. Her body felt small yet very powerful.

“I’m just the neighbor. Natalie asked me to watch her cat while she was gone.”

“One more time, then you bleed. Why are you here?”

I stayed silent for a moment, then I felt her draw up her arm. “I came here to find what you’re looking for.”

“What am I looking for?”

“What Natalie stole.”

The attacker eased up momentarily on the knife, maybe in surprise, and I used this to my advantage. I sent an elbow into her gut, and as she doubled over, I smacked the knife hand away and trained my gun on her. She had a long face with thin lips and dyed-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. No one I had seen before. She stared at me with contempt, but dropped the knife knowingly.

“My turn for questions,” I said, rubbing my bleeding nose and keeping the gun trained on her. “Who are you, sweetie?”

The eyebrows lowered further than I thought possible. She said something that I imagine is very derogatory in Japanese.

“One more time, then you bleed, sweetie,” I said, and cocked my gun for effect. “Who do you work for?”

She was fast, and in my memory, her movement is a total blur. Suddenly, her hand was down by her waist, then there was a burning pain in my arm and she was out the window onto the fire escape. I looked down and saw what looked to be a throwing star sunk deep into my arm. Without thinking, I yanked it out, pulling along some strands of flesh I would have much preferred to keep apart of me. I ran to the window, but she was on the street level. In the time it’d take me to get out there, she’d be long gone.

I stared down at the bloody star in my hand, and realized immediately that the broken blade I had removed from Mr. X’s wall was an exact match (this roughly resembles it, from an online weapons store):



I found some rags under the kitchen sink and tied up my wound, which was bleeding pretty bad. From my brief conversation with the woman, it sounded like she still hadn’t recovered what was lost. Maybe she works for Mr. X. Maybe she’s another Voice girl. No clue. She definitely wasn’t either Ruby or Natalie, for anyone who was wondering.

I sat down on the couch and called Ruby. The next necessary step to take would be to find Mr. X, and I wanted to know whether it would make more sense for me to go to the escort service myself or for her. She said she had an idea, and would get back to me.

On Friday, I took both the throwing star and the broke throwing star blade down to a martial arts supply shop in Chinatown. The walls were hung with swords, though the $15-$100 price tags suggested that they weren’t anything more than for show. A few foam nunchucks were lying around, but nothing looked too dangerous. In fact, it almost seemed like a costume shop.

I showed the clerk the stars and asked where I could buy them in New York. He immediately began pointing at a sign, which detailed what was illegal in NY, and thus what they didn’t carry. There’s a whole array of weapons that cannot be sold legally in Massachusetts, New York, and California, including (among many, many others) throwing stars.

Then again, we’re in New York, the city where everything can be bought if the price is right. Just last year, for example, a Queens business was busted by the cops for selling tons of illegal weapons, from butterfly knives to canes with concealed blades. It only took a few minutes of hounding and bribery before the guy wrote down the address of a place a few blocks over that could give me more info on what I was looking for. He also gave me a line to say in Chinese to get in, and I wrote it down in my notebook phonetically.

I left and walked over through the bustle of countless pedestrians and arrived at what looked like a trinket shop. This type of store riddles Chinatown, and they usually all sell the same crap: faux-antique vases, cheap furniture, small statuary, and many other goods that can all be classified under junk. I made my way into the store to the back counter. A young man was there, and I tried to pronounce the line. He looked at me suspiciously for a second, probably trying to determine if I was a cop, then nodded over his shoulder. I realized he was directing me, and I walked around the counter through a pair of curtains into the backroom.

The backroom was not what you’d imagine. There were no knives, swords, nunchucks, throwing stars, bos, or sais decorating the walls. Just boxes. Countless non-descript brown boxes carefully arranged on shelves. An older man was back there, and I held out the stars.

“Where can I get these?” I asked.

He took a quick glance at them and seemed to size them up immediately. “These are custom made. Hard to find. Well-balanced. These cost much.”

“Do you have them?”

He shook his head. “These are unique, not mass-produced. Only one person I know of in Manhattan, and he won’t see you unless you are the type of person he will see.”

Nothing beats circular logic. “Am I the type of person he will see?”

“Depends on whether he will see you.”

Goddammit. “Where can I meet him?”

“Give me your name and phone number. I see if he’s taking orders now. If you don't hear back, answer is no.”

I wrote it down for him, and he put it in a pile of papers, then stopped paying attention to me. Our meeting was over, I took it, and left.

Saturday has been an ugly day, and I’ve been sitting around at Natalie’s apartment waiting to hear back from Ruby regarding Mr. X, or from the weapons guy about the stars. No one has shown up to wreck this place any further, though I don’t think that’s possible. Sounds like her neighbors just came home, so I’m going to go ask them a few questions.

This case has become a pain in the ass. Or arm, to be accurate.