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Below is my
short story Cat Street, which originally appeared in The Orchard
Press Online Mystery Magazine in 2002.
Cat Street
By Paul Davis
They say that anything stolen during the
night in Hong Kong will be on sale on Cat Street the next morning.
I
heard that saying many years when I visited Hong Kong as a young sailor and it
recently came back to me at a reunion with an old shipmate.
I
knew Salvatore Lorino before we served together in the U.S. Navy, as we were
both born and raised in the same South Philadelphia neighborhood. He was a
minor hoodlum who dabbled in all of the rackets at the time. He was about six
feet tall, lean, with dark hair and rugged features. He had a long face and a
perpetual lopsided grin that served to alternately charm and menace.
Although
he was several years older than I, we both entered the Navy in 1970. I enlisted
at age 17 in a patriotic fever, coupled with a strong desire to see the world.
Lorino told the judge he had a strong desire to avoid a term in the state
penitentiary. So when the judge gave him a choice between prison and the
military, he chose the Navy.
After
boot camp we both received orders to report to the aircraft carrier USS Kitty
Hawk. Both of us avoided mess cook duty, an awful job that all new seamen
experience when they were first assigned to a carrier in those days.
Thankfully, one of the petty officers in personnel was a Philadelphia native
and he spared us the ordeal by assigning us to Special Services instead.
In
Special Services we performed a number of odd duties - which included my
covering the San Diego scene for Kitty Hawk sailors in my first published
pieces in the ship's newspaper, The Flyer - but our main job was to help run
the shipboard TV and radio cable throughout the ship. The Kitty Hawk was the
first warship to have cable TV and radio.
After
three months I was reassigned to the radio communications division and Lorino
was reassigned to the deck department. In November of 1970 the carrier sailed
from San Diego to the Gulf of Tonkin in Southeast Asia.
Lorino
gained quite a reputation aboard the ship in a very short time. He was an
aggressive and energetic predator. He conned naive and gullible sailors out of
their pay. He gambled, cheated, hustled and stole. A large ship like the Kitty
Hawk allowed Lorino to constantly be on the move, like a shark. I often
followed in his criminal wake, sadly informing his victims that he was not
truly representative of South Philadelphia.
Despite
his criminal activities, he was a popular guy throughout the ship. Even the
chiefs who failed to get much work out of him could not help but like him. He
was gregarious and amusing, and most of the ship reluctantly accepted his
larcenous bent.
His
military career ended in 1971 when he left the ship in the Philippines,
handcuffed and escorted by special agents from the Naval Investigative Service.
So
when after all these years, I heard his rapid-fire, raspy voice on my voice
mail, I was taken aback.
His
message said he happened to see my column in the local paper and called the
number listed. He suggested we meet somewhere for a drink and he left his
telephone number. I was curious, so I called him back and agreed to meet him.
We
held our reunion at a small bar in South Philly. The bar was typical of South
Philly, friendly and unpretentious with relatively inexpensive and good Italian
food. We ordered a bottle of wine and quickly dispensed with what we’ve done
with our lives since our Navy days.
After
the Navy, I went to Penn State for a year; he did two at the state pen. I went
to work for the Defense Department as a federal civilian employee; he went to
work for Federal Prison Industries as a federal prisoner. I was happily married
with children; he was happily divorced without children. I went on to cover
crime for the local paper; he went on to commit crime for the local mob.
We
eat, drank and launched into swapping sea stories and reminiscing about our
time in the Navy with boyish enthusiasm. Lorino, like most con artists, was
very entertaining.
He
had not changed all that much, it seemed, in character or looks. His once dark
hair was now mostly gray, but he appeared to be the same old Lorino. After
consuming several glasses of wine and a large serving of baked Zitti and
Italian sausage, I sat stirring my cup of coffee and waited for his pitch.
Lorino
looked about the bar and then leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. He
offered to tell me a story that would make both of us rich and famous. A tight
smile was my only response.
Lorino
asked if I remembered Nichols and Johnson from the ship and I replied that I
remembered Johnson very well. An amiable Northern Californian who grew up on a
ranch, he was the only person I ever met, over the age of ten, who wanted to be
a cowboy. He was murdered in a robbery in Hong Kong. Nichols, I recalled, was a
sad sack who deserted the ship in Hong Kong with his new bar girl bride.
Lorino
did not contradict my recollection, but his grin widened above the rim of the
glass as he drank his wine. If I agreed to write his peripheral tale of the
Vietnam War, Lorino said he would confess his involvement in a three-decade-old
case of kidnapping, espionage and murder.
The
USS Kitty Hawk sailed into Hong Kong Harbor in February of 1971. The 80,000-ton
aircraft carrier had just completed 70 days on "Yankee Station" in
the South China Sea, performing combat operations off the coast of Vietnam.
During that time the ship’s 90 aircraft dropped a record tonnage of ordnance on
North Vietnamese and Viet Cong supply routes, which were collectively called
the "Ho Chi Minh Trail."
During that period on Yankee Station a Communist Chinese
minesweeper came dangerously close to the carrier. The Chinese warship was
adorned with oversized white propaganda banners in Chinese, so most of the
American sailors couldn’t read them, but our captain had an intelligence
officer translate the banners.
The captain announced over the ship’s public address system that
the banners read, “Down with U.S. Imperialism,” “Down with Nixon” and “Down
with U.S. Navy war criminals.”
The captain informed us that he had sent the Chinese a message in
response to the banners, “Since you are so down with everything, up yours!”
The carrier's crew worked long, hard hours during flight
operations and the radio division stood eight hours on watch and eight hours
off watch continuously. We lost track of all time until the upcoming visit to
Hong Kong was announced.
When
the carrier dropped anchor in Hong Kong Harbor, a loud cheer rose from the crew
and carried across the water. Heads must have turned towards the roar for at
least ten nautical miles. Sharing the harbor with the American warship that day
were freighters, ocean liners, British destroyers, Soviet cruisers, commercial
speed hydrofoils, sampans and junks. The contrast between the splendid modern
ships and the ancient and decrepit fishing boats was striking.
Visible
from the carrier’s flight deck was Victoria City, the capital and business
center of the then-British
Crown Colony. Dark clouds circled Hong Kong’s famous peak mountain. Looking
down from the flight deck we saw the approaching Chinese motor launches, which
were called Walla Wallas. The water taxis lined up along the starboard side of
the ship and waited to take the eager American sailors ashore.
Those
of us who were fortunate enough to have liberty that first day in port were
ordered to assemble on the hanger bay prior to our departure. A third of the
division would remain aboard the ship in the event of an emergency and the
watch bill would change two days later.
Chief
Petty Officer Lionel Shaw stood sandwiched between the noses of two chained
down F-4 Phantom Jet Fighters. As security officer for the division, he was
tasked with presenting a briefing to the first batch of sailors preparing to
leave the ship for the exotic streets of Hong Kong.
The
chief radioman truly loved the Navy. He left a poor family and a bad
neighborhood in Chicago when he enlisted in the Navy and there was no going
back for him. When he entered the Navy black sailors like him were restricted
to orderly duties and he was enormously proud of the trust the Navy now
bestowed upon him. He held, as did all of the men assembled before him, a top-secret
security clearance.
Shaw
was only 5’6" but appeared to be much larger due to his muscular torso,
his ever-ready fighter’s stance and a great, booming voice. A model sailor, his
khaki uniform and black boots were immaculate.
He
briefed the crew on-route to Hong Kong as well, advising them not to wear their
uniforms when they went ashore. Adorned on the left arm of their uniforms were
lighting bolts, the distinctive occupational batch that identified them as
radiomen who handled highly classified war information. This was bad OPSEC, or
operations security. Now that the sailors were about to go ashore, he was
pleased that they had heeded his warning. The concept that none of the men
wanted to wear their uniforms in any case, was alien to a proud sailor like
him.
"Listen
up," Shaw bellowed. "Hong Kong is the Goddamned spy capitol of the
world, so don’t be yakkin’ about your job or what the ship does, or what we’re
goin’ to be doin’ next month.
"Remember
that we’re only a few miles from Red China, the ally of our enemy, and ain’t
nothing better them communists would like, then to haul your drunken, silly
asses over the border."
He
paused for breath, and perhaps for dramatic effect, and then added "And if
one of them barhogs ask you what you do on the great, big ship, tell em’ you’re
a Goddamn cook!"
The
people of Hong Kong were given the impression that American sailors lived
really well. On a ship with 5,500 men, 2,000 of them were cooks.
Not
known to Shaw or any of us at the time, another Navy radioman, Warrant Officer
John Walker, was feeding the Soviets a steady diet of vital information on Navy
communications. Communist Chinese intelligence was also
in the market for a source of information. They wanted a U.S. Navy radioman to
call their own.
Petty
Officer Third Class John Nichols was one of the men assembled before Shaw. He
had been in the Navy for more than three years and this was his second combat
deployment aboard the carrier. Returning to the combat zone was common for
carrier sailors during the 12 years of the Vietnam War. Many of them made two
or three 11-month-long Western Pacific (WESTPAC) combat cruises during their
four-year enlistments.
During
the war there were always three 7th fleet carriers in Southeast Asia. Two remained
off Vietnam, taking turns pounding the enemy in support of ground combat
troops, while the third carrier went on R&R or made a port-o-call to Subic
Bay, the American naval base in the Philippines.The carriers went to Subic Bay
to take on weapons and supplies, do repairs and to release the bent-up sailors
who went wild in the wide-open sin city of Olongapo. After ten or eleven months
in Southeast Asia, a stateside carrier would relieve one of the 7th Fleet
carriers in rotation.
There
was an unwritten rule that there were only two ways to get off a carrier during
the Vietnam War: one way was to be discharged from the Navy, and the other was
to die. Unlike other men who resented not being reassigned to shore duty or a
non-combat ship after their initial cruise, Nichols was thrilled. It meant that
he would be seeing Hong Kong again.
Originally
from a small town in Ohio, Nichols joined the Navy after graduating from high
school. An only child, Nichol’s father had deserted the family when he was an
infant. An alcoholic and inattentive mother raised him.
He
had been a below average student, a poor athlete and he had few friends.
Looking forward to the great Navy adventures that lay ahead, he was soon
disappointed when he discovered that he was as unsuccessful with women in San
Diego as he had been in Ohio.
Nichols
was of average height, but his poor posture made him appear to be much shorter.
With stooped shoulders, a slight paunch, balding brown hair and nondescript
facial features, Nichols was certainly not a matinee idol. No clothes horse
either; Nichol’s uniforms and civilian attire were always unkempt and
unflattering. While looks aren’t everything, Nichols also lacked what one would
call a personality.
Nichols’
disappointing young life changed one night in 1969 while he was on his initial
cruise. On leave for two days in Hong Kong, he met a girl named Nancy Chen in
the Wanchi District. The red-light district was made world famous by Richard
Mason's fictional character Suzy Wong.
Like
Suzy Wong, Nancy Chen was alluring in her black silk Cheongsam, a long slit
rising invitingly up her left leg. Her long straight black hair, sleepy black
eyes and doll-like figure were intoxicating to Nichols.
In
her limited English, she told him that her family had escaped from China and
came to Hong Kong when she was a young girl. As the family had no money, she
was forced to work the bars. Touched by her story and madly in love, Nichols
spent three months pay romancing her in two days of liberty. As he prepared to
return to the ship, he grew bold and asked her to marry him.
"You
crazy!" was her curt response to his heart-felt proposal. Undeterred, he
said he would come back for her when the ship again visited Hong Kong during
the next WESTPAC cruise.
A
little more than one year later, the Walla Wallas pitched and rolled across the
choppy, blue-gray water as the boats carried the Kitty Hawk sailors ashore.
Nichols’ wedding party was aboard one of the boats. His wedding party sat on his immediate right and left. Nichols had invited the entire radio
communications division to his wedding, but only Seamen Dennis Johnson and
Lorino accepted.
Nichols
was not popular with the crew. It was well known that his request to marry a
foreign national was denied by the Navy. She still had family behind the
"Bamboo Curtain" and that presented a security risk. Nichols didn’t
care what the Navy said, he was getting married. He talked of nothing else
since the cruise began. His shipmates constantly ridiculed him. Sailors in
close quarters aboard a ship can be crueler than children.
Johnson
was Nichols only friend and that was due primarily to Johnson being everyone’s
friend. A cheerful 22 year old, Johnson was a real "cowboy" who
amused everyone with his tales of growing up on the range in California. He
enlisted in the Navy to avoid being drafted in the Army.
Lorino,
who often visited me in our berthing area, accepted Nichols' invitation as he
had no other plans. I passed.
Nichol’s
wedding was set to take place above a store in Hong Kong’s commercial section.
The happy couple would spend the night in the Hong Kong Hilton. Nichols had
been informed of these arrangements by his bride-to-be in a letter.
The
trio of sailors piled into a taxi at the pier and were driven to Ladder Street.
Ladder Street was not really a street in a traditional sense, but rather a
series of wide steps spread out between rows of shops. At the bottom of Ladder
Street lay Morlo-Gai, or Cat Street. The area was locally known as the
"Thieves Market."
Cat
Street was a bustling market where tourists and locals alike were herded
through the ubiquitous shops and wooden street stands. Under colorful Chinese
banners and signs, the merchants screamed out the praises of their wares and
haggled over prices with their customers. Trinkets and inexpensive products,
mostly manufactured in the People’s Republic of China, were laid across
counters and tables. Pickpockets, beggars, prostitutes and lunatics fought
openly over territory.
Passing
through the crowd, store touts and street urchins frequently accosted the
sailors, but they brushed them off in good humor. Nichols paid a small boy to
take them to the address written in his letter. They were led up a set of back
stairs and into a room where the Americans faced the waiting bride and her
Chinese "family."
Music
from the American band Chicago blasted from an elaborate stereo system. A
ten-foot wooden bar, amply stocked with bottles of liquor, stretched across the
room. Three round tables were set up to create a small dance floor. On the
tables were dishes of crabmeat with sweet-corn soup, fried prawns, crabmeat
Fu-Young, sweet and sour pork and fried garoupa. Two young women huddled with
Nancy Chen and giggled. Three Chinese men stood in the center in the room.
The
sailors stood in the doorway, momentarily overcome by the sights, sounds and
smells of the scene. Nancy Chen walked towards Nichols and embraced him. He
began to cry and she laughed at him, making a comment in Chinese to her
girlfriends. One of the men announced in English that he was Jimmy Lung and
that he was the bride’s brother. He introduced the women as Lucy and Wendy.
The
two lean and gaunt men in white shirts and dark slacks were introduced as the
Woo brothers, cousins to the bride. They were also serving as the bartender and
waiter for the affair.
Lung
was as thin as a child’s crayoned stick-man. His hair was a dark mop and
sunglasses hung precariously on his skeletal face. He wore an open collared
silk shirt under his expensive suit and his silver snakeskin cowboy boots drew
Johnson’s envy.
When
Nichols stopped crying, they all took seats at the tables and began to eat and
drink. The women danced seductively with Johnson and Lorino. During the
festivity, Nichols put his arm around his future brother-in-law and asked him
why he and Nancy had different last names. "Chinese custom," Lung
replied bluntly. Nichols did not question the dubious explanation.
The
party ended abruptly when Lung leaped up and screamed "No one move!"
Swiftly
extracting a foot long knife from his left sleeve, Lung placed it roughly under
Nichols’ chin. The waiter also drew a long knife and the bartender vaulted over
the bar holding a long barreled revolver. The three women huddled into a
corner.
"We
are moving this party across the Shumchum," Lung announced. The Americans
didn’t know that this was the name of the river that separated Hong Kong from
Red China, but they got the idea when Lung added, "My friends on the other
side want to talk to you about your little American Navy secrets."
Johnson
sat still and cursed to himself softly. Lorino casually crossed his legs and
took a long draw from his cigarette, trying to look as cool as a South Philly
gangster ought to under these extreme and unusual circumstances. Nichols was
frozen and bug-eyed in Lung’s grip.
To
Lorino, who had personal experience in the field of armed robbery, Lung made
two critical mistakes. The first mistake was that he took time to brag to his
captive audience.
Lung
told them proudly that he was a member of the Nine Dragons Triad, one of the
oldest secret criminal societies in Hong Kong. He explained that in addition to
routine criminal pursuits, he also gathered information that his girls
extracted from American servicemen and passed it on to the Red Chinese. The pay
for the information was generous, considering that he was dealing with
communists.
Lung's
second mistake was that he took his eyes off Lorino for just a second when he
turned his head towards a crash.
Johnson
caused the noise when he jumped up from his chair and tackled the Woo brothers.
All three men slammed into the bar, causing it to split down the middle as if
hit by a giant karate chop.
Lorino
leaped from his chair, hit Lung with a solid and hard overhand right, and
without losing momentum, bolted through the door. Lung collapsed from the blow
and dropped to the floor with Nichols still in his grip.
Like
the thief that he was, Lorino jumped down the stairs, ran out into the street
and quickly waded through the crowd for several blocks. He later stopped at a
bar, had a drink, and hooked up with a bar girl for the night. He returned to
the ship the following day and kept his mouth shut. Lorino was a survivor.
I
recall that next day on the Kitty Hawk vividly. Nichols was reported to be UA,
unauthorized absence, which surprised no one. The news that Johnson was
murdered in a robbery was a surprise and the story quickly spread throughout
the ship.
There
was much talk of "dungaree liberty," a time-honored naval tradition
in which sailors donned working uniforms, armed themselves with knives, pipes
and clubs and went ashore to wreak havoc on an offending liberty town.
The
captain wisely canceled all water taxis. A British police inspector came aboard
and addressed the crew over the ship’s public address system, known as the
"1MC."
"I
wish to inform you that your Seaman Dennis Johnson was indeed found murdered
last night on Cat Street," The inspector said in an accent most of the
sailors found familiar from old movies.
"A
known criminal, one Jimmy Lung, was apprehended and I assure you he will be
prosecuted to the full extent of the law."
The
crew’s anger was quelled. Johnson was given a memorial service and the carrier
returned to Yankee Station and the war. After 30 days, Nichols UA status was
upgraded to AWOL, absent without leave, and he was declared a deserter. The
paperwork was processed and Nichols was forgotten.
As
I write this and reflect on the unhappy life of John Nichols, I hope that he
escaped with his bride and lived happily ever after. But my guess is he was
taken to Red China, where they drained him of his classified information and
then shot him. My source for this story, Salvatore Lorino, was unable to
furnish the story’s ending.
I
recently received a letter from my source, who is now incarcerated at the
Federal Prison in Lewisburg, PA. A simple case of interstate theft, he assured
me. Still the survivor, Lorino claims he can handle the prison stretch.
"I
get along in here," he wrote. "I wear a uniform and I’m told when to
work, eat, sleep and shit – just like the Navy."
©
2002 By Paul Davis
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