The Scorpion and the Strange Black Bag

My sixty-two cent dinner crawled up my throat as I whipped the 32 Marmon, cutting off the wounded Ford. Both vehicles came to a metal grinding stop. The Greek festival parade was passing a block or so behind us, oblivious to the whole thing. Its music, cheers and fireworks covered the noise of the conflict. The driver of the other car jumped out and ran for a nearby alley; the black bag clutched to his chest. I jumped out of my car, twin Tokarevs in my hands. I had him. The art dealers he murdered would be avenged by the Scorpion, one screaming bullet at a time.
     I brought the pistols to bear on the killer. Automatic fire erupted from the passenger side of his abandoned car. He had a partner–hidden, until now; a Thompson dancing in his hands. Hails of bullets tore into the Marmon, reducing it to scrap. I ducked down. Breathe boy. Easy. Wait. Now. I fired. The Tokarevs did their trick and the gunner made a truncated scream and fell into the street. He bought his partner enough time. He reached the alley. I ran after him. Vagrants, prostitutes and hustlers ran for cover.
     As I reached the alley, a wretched cry rang out from the darkness, I found the driver dead. The bag—gone. His cheeks and neck were swollen black. Something in his mouth. Rice paper, expertly brushed with the symbol of an oriental dragon.