by Megan Chance
“The Dead Slow? Who are they?”
“Miss Sullivan hasn’t enlightened you? I’m surprised. They’re up there with the Conservative set, but duller. Senators’ wives and such. Very old school.”
I knew none of this. “And the Conservative set?”
“Hoffman, Oelrichs, the McKays . . . the top one hundred families.”
“Old San Francisco families,” I guessed.
“Old money, such as it is.” He leaned closer. “Very respectable. But not that fun. Where you really want to be is the Smart set, the Ultras. Never a dull moment, and not such parvenus as your Sporting set.”
Parvenus. Goldie’s talk of the Hoffmans and the Oelrichses, the Cotillion Club . . . It all jangled uncomfortably in my head. I think I must have been gaping. “I had no idea.”
“Your education’s been lacking.” He lit another cigarette. “How did you meet Farge?”
“He’s working for my uncle.”
“Jonathan Sullivan,” LaRosa intoned. “Builder, member of the board of supervisors. Has a mistress with Very Important connections, a wife who is ill, and a beautiful daughter.”
I was taken aback. “Do you always do this when you meet someone?”
“Do what?”
“List everything you know about them?”
He shrugged. “Best to have things out in the open.”
I was uncertain how to take him. I had thought of the Bulletin columnist as belonging to me somehow, but now I realized that I had only been reading into the writer the friend I wanted to see. Humor, yes, and cleverness, and he had an arresting charisma. I had no idea how I’d never noticed him before. But his bite held a keener edge than I’d thought. “Perhaps not everything should be out in the open.”
“Secrets.” He exhaled the word on smoke. “My stock-in-trade. Which brings me to the mystery of you. Why are you at Coppa’s instead of skating with your cousin at the Pavilion or wrapping poor Edward Hertford into knots?”
I barely remembered him. “Oh, Jerome’s cousin.”
“You seemed very close the other day at the Cliff House.” He offered the observation with an arch grin, an I know you better than you know yourself glint, and I remembered the article he’d written.
“During our jovial party, you mean?”
“I could have said drunken.”
“The champagne was very good,” I said with great dignity.
He laughed. “You’re no coward, Miss Kimble. I’ll say that for you.”
“How is it you manage to remain so anonymous, Mr. LaRosa?” I asked. “It seems frankly impossible.”
“It’s a skill.” He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth and met my gaze. “I do hope I can rely on your discretion. I don’t think you want me to write about your visit here.”
I was startled. Why should his writing about my visit here matter? But it was clear that he thought it would, and his words about slumming, and society not frequenting Coppa’s, and Ellis Farge assuring me in our phone conversation that he would make sure it was all respectable came together, and I realized that these were the kind of people my mother had warned me about. Of course society would not come here. “Artists are interesting, but they are only for show, May. One must never actually consort with them, not and remain above reproach.”
Yet, Ellis Farge was here, and had brought me with him, and Goldie had not raised a brow at the mention of it.
“Come, come, LaRosa, you’re monopolizing our guest,” objected Gelett Addison.
“Just getting acquainted.” Dante LaRosa flicked the ash from his cigarette into the glass serving as his ashtray. “Given how odd it is for our friend here to bring such a woman to Coppa’s.”
Ellis Farge’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just a joke.”
Again that palpable tension between them. Then Wence rose and Blythe Markowitz asked, “Whence goes Wence?”
“To order some food. I’m starving.”
After that, the conversation began again, and Ellis Farge relaxed. LaRosa put out his second cigarette, only half-smoked. “Well, I’m off.”
“Nose to the ground, as always,” said Addison. “What scent are you following today, oh, newshound? And why haven’t you written a piece about us? Aren’t we interesting enough?”
“If I wrote about you, people would actually read your reviews, and you’d lose your bohemian bona fides.” Then Dante LaRosa said something in Italian that made Blythe laugh.
“What? What did he say?” Addison demanded. “Damn you, LaRosa! It’s not fair when you speak that peasant tongue.”
“A little respect please, Addison. That ‘peasant tongue’ once ruled the world.”
“I do respect your people. I give thanks every day for spaghetti and a glass of good chianti.” Addison raised his glass in salute.
“Tell us what Dante said, Blythe,” urged Edith.
Blythe said, “It was quite vulgar. Something along the lines of not shitting where you eat.”
“Language!” LaRosa admonished her, but he was laughing. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kimble.” Then he was gone, and Edith Jackson moved to take his place.
The conversation raced along; at some point plates of spaghetti came; everyone treated them as communal dishes, and certainly there was enough on the two plates to feed a crowd. The entrée of roasted chicken, the salad, the loaf of crusty French bread—it all disappeared almost before I could do more than taste it. The play of their talk and laughter, and my excitement over my new role as my uncle’s liaison with Ellis Farge, made it hard for me to pay much heed to my revelation about who they were and their place in society. This was the most engaging crowd I’d encountered since I’d been in San Francisco. I told myself my mother’s warning was just another one of her old-fashioned ideas. I was vaguely aware that the crowd was waning, then waxing again, and the light outside fading, windows darkening, streetlights being lit. It only made our company feel more cozy and intimate, and I hated to see the evening end. I had enjoyed myself, which was so refreshing after the balls and entertainments I’d attended, and I didn’t want to leave. Or perhaps it was only my giddiness at possibility and purpose that put such a roseate light on the gathering.
The others, one by one, were drawn away by other obligations, until only Wence and Mr. Farge and I remained at the pushed-together tables at the back of the restaurant.
“I’ll order another bottle of wine,” Wence said, but as he raised his hand to summon the waiter, Farge said softly, “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Wence?”
Wenceslas Piper lowered his arm and glanced hastily at me. “Actually, I do, and I just realized I’m late. Good evening, May. I hope you will return.”
I was alone with Ellis Farge again. He grinned. “I’m sorry for all that.”
“Don’t be. I had a wonderful time.”
“They’re scoundrels and wastrels, most of them. And they’ve left me with the bill, again.”
“You obviously enjoy them.”
“Sometimes. It’s nearly nine. Let me see you to your carriage.”
“Nine?” Later than I’d thought. “How quickly it went. I suppose because everyone was so interesting.”
“You’ll grow tired of Coppa’s soon enough once we’ve started work on your uncle’s building.” Farge put money on the table to pay the bill and rose. “Do you mind leaving your sketches with me? I’ll look at them tomorrow.”
“Not at all. But I would like to hear your opinion.”
“I’ll be glad to tell you. Soon, I hope.”
It wasn’t until I left the table that I realized how much wine I’d drunk. Ellis Farge said goodbye at the carriage, and I watched him walk off, my bag of sketchbooks bouncing at his thigh, and the night seemed so beautiful. I wasn’t tired at all, but invigorated.
And so, when the buggy began its slow way home, and we came again to the street in Chinatown where I thought I’d spotted Goldie earlier, it did not seem foolish at all to ask Pet
ey to stop. Inspired by the evening spent with artists and a glimpse of a new future for myself—and by a bit of drunkenness too, more than a bit—I felt brave and daring enough to jump down. I ignored Petey’s protest as I passed the store on the corner with its carvings and clothing in the windows, the closed market stalls, and the smiling Buddha at the neighboring joss house. I paused at the door where Goldie/not Goldie had disappeared.
I saw nothing to indicate what this place was. The door, dark and heavily carved, was just a door. It was not menacing. The woman who might have been Goldie had walked inside without a knock, without hesitation. But then again, it was hours ago that I’d seen that woman going through this door. What did I want? To learn that it was not Goldie? Or to learn that it was? What would I do once the question was answered? What did I hope for?
I heard Dante LaRosa’s voice in my ear: “You’re no coward, Miss Kimble.”
Go forth, I told myself. I opened the door.
It opened onto stairs—one flight up, another down—and a gloom that seized my drunken bravery and flung it into dread. The haze was fragrant with incense and the stink of tobacco and something else, heavier, sweeter, nauseating. There was light above, sounds of life. Below was quiet.
I swallowed hard. I had no business here. Suddenly I remembered Goldie telling me about tongs and how Chinatown was dangerous at night, and my foreboding increased, yet even so I found myself going up those stairs, into a warehouse-like room even more heavily clouded with smoke. Everywhere were tables filled with men and women. Many were Chinese, but there were plenty of others too. There was no one I recognized. I didn’t see Goldie, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed at that. At least she would have been an ally in this place. I felt my strangeness keenly as people glanced up with curiosity. Too many eyes, too little talk; clicking tiles, shuffling cards, clinking coins served as the common language.
I should not be here. Time to go, and quickly. I turned, but before I took a step, a heavy hand on my arm stopped me. A Chinese man with an angular face and a long braid—a queue, Shin called it—said in heavily accented English, “What will you play? Faro? Poker? Pick what you like.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
“Ah. What you want is downstairs.” He pointed toward the stairs.
“No. No, thank you. I—I’m going now.”
His gaze sharpened. “Who are you? Who brought you here, rich girl?”
“No one.”
His frown deepened, and he raised his voice, speaking in Chinese. My mouth went dry. I wished I hadn’t come. Another man, a white man this time, heavyset and squat, with a grim expression, rose in response.
“I—I was only looking for someone,” I explained quickly. “I only came because—because . . . my cousin. Goldie Sullivan.”
The Chinese man waved off his lackey and regarded me with interest. “Ah, Goldilocks.” The nickname, his tone, raised a different kind of fear. “Yes, yes. Go downstairs. You want Joe. He knows what she likes. You will like it too.”
But I liked that tone no better, and I had no wish to go downstairs into that darkness.
“Go now,” he said insistently, gesturing to the squat man, who rose again.
In dread of escort, I muttered, “Thank you,” and hurried off.
I was here now, after all. I would not have the courage to come back again. And if Goldie was downstairs . . . I did not want to think what she might be doing there, but I could not leave her in this place. What if she was in danger? I kept my hand to the wall, down and down to a small, battered foyer, each step raising a panic I could not swallow. Don’t let her be here. Let it all be a mistake. A curtain blocked off a doorway. Beyond glowed a soft and rosy light.
“Hello?” I stepped to the curtain, gently pulling it aside.
The room was lit only by a lamp covered with a red scarf. Hats and coats on hooks polka-dotted the dingy walls. Pallets were strewn about haphazardly; nearly every one held someone lolling in dreams. A woman drooled onto her pillow. A rough-faced man murmured restlessly. The words of the Bulletin column came back to me, Alphonse Bandersnitch’s—no, Dante LaRosa’s words . . . Devotees of the long pipe . . . mentioned in the society news . . . That debutante (everyone knows her name) . . .
Goldie.
A man with a gray scarf bound about his black hair looked up from where he and another bent over a small flame and a long pipe. Their eyes glittered in the half dark. I stepped back and heard myself answer their silent question with a bare whisper. “Joe?”
The man with the scarf called something, and a curtain at the back was pushed aside. Through it came another Chinese man. I could not tell his age, not in the rosy light, which flattered everything it touched. He had the kind of sculpted face one saw on statues, chiseled cheekbones and skin stretched so tautly over them it looked as if it might split with any movement. His hair was thick and straight and he wore no queue. The man upstairs had frightened me, but this man’s menace thickened the air. It was already quiet—now the room became deadly silent.
He spoke quickly to me in Chinese—that face was remarkably mobile after all—and I shook my head, trying not to appear as frightened as I was, and swallowed hard. “They told me upstairs to ask for you. Goldie. Goldie is my cousin. Where is she?”
The same remarkable change came over him that had come over the man upstairs, but his smile was more disturbing, and more possessive too—he not only knew Goldie, but knew her better than I could ever hope to. And there was more to it too, something darkly threatening. I had never before been afraid of a smile, but his was terrifying. When he said “Goldie,” lingering over her name, polishing it like a smooth stone in his mouth, I knew suddenly and completely that this man had a relationship with my cousin that I did not want to understand. Involuntarily, I stepped back.
He noticed. He noticed every move, I thought, every flicker. His eyes narrowed. “Goldilocks is gone, but she will be back. She always comes back. Tell her when you see her that I expect my money this time.” Again that horrible smile. His voice fell to a husky whisper. “If you remember.” He gestured to me, a cupped hand, come, but I was done with this. My cousin wasn’t here. I let my fear take me, and I shook my head and ran, racing up the stairs so quickly that I tripped on my skirts and slammed against the door.
I stumbled out into the night, taking a great, deep breath of the scented air of Chinatown, woody and fishy, stinking and sweet. I went unseeingly to the buggy. Petey took my arm.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked.
“Take me home,” I ordered.
I was still undone when I arrived. I was so desperate for a reasonable explanation, for reassurance, that I did the most stupid thing possible. I went directly to my cousin’s door and knocked. Her “come in” was sleepy and soft.
She lounged on the chaise in the half light of garden lamps glowing through the windows and a lazily burning fire. The porcelain shepherdesses dancing across Goldie’s marble mantel were shadows. She wore only her chemise and her dressing gown.
“There you are.” Her voice was barely a murmur. “Where have you been? Oh yes. With Mr. Farge.” She sat up, blinking. “How late is it? You were gone so long.”
“On the way home, I stopped—”
“What time is it?”
“Goldie.” I pulled a chair close to the chaise and sat. “I stopped in Chinatown afterward.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because I saw you there earlier.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I saw you go into an opium den. I paid a visit there myself. I saw it all. I met Joe. He’s awful. I don’t know how you bear him.”
Goldie frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Goldie, how often do you go? And he said—Joe said—that he wants his money. How much do you owe him?”
Goldie’s expression shuttered.
“You must tell me the truth. I’ve seen you sneak out. I know it must be where you go.”
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“You mustn’t tell Papa.” She was wide awake now. “He mustn’t hear a word of it. Do you understand me, May? Not a word.”
“You cannot tell me he doesn’t suspect—”
“Not a word, May!” Goldie lurched from the chaise. “I’ll be destroyed if this gets out.”
“But—” I thought of LaRosa’s column. The debutante (everyone knows her name). “Are you certain no one knows already?”
“Of course not! I’ve been very careful.”
She was so adamant.
“Oh, I’ve been such an idiot. You must promise me, May. I need you to help me. Please.”
“However I can.”
The glistening in her eyes became tears. Her loosened hair brushed my arm. “You must help me keep it secret.”
Again, I doubted that it was as unknown as she believed, but it was obvious that Goldie had not seen herself in LaRosa’s words, and I remembered how oblivious she and her friends seemed to be when it came to his jabs. I thought I should inform her, but then she said, “I’m going to stop. It’s no good for me, I know. You must help me stop.”
If she did stop, the column would be a fiction, and it would only distress her to think that society had suspected her predilection. And anyway, perhaps I was wrong. It could have been anyone in LaRosa’s column, any debutante. Surely Goldie was not the only one with a liking for opium.
“I will,” I assured her with relief, until I remembered Joe. “But you should give him the money you owe him. How much is it?”
“You mean China Joe? Oh, hardly anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“It seemed to matter to him. He told me to tell you to bring it next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Yes, but perhaps it’s best to pay him.”
“Why would I do that? He’s just a Chinaman. What can he do to me?”
I remembered his smile, his menace. I did not understand how she could be so glibly unconcerned, how we saw this Joe—China Joe—so differently. Goldie grabbed my arm; China Joe loomed so in my head that I jumped.
“I’m trusting you with my most important secret. You mustn’t tell anyone. I have needed a friend like you for so long, May. You cannot know how hard this has been.”