Atticus Riot was neither impassive nor calm. While emotion was regrettably commonplace, unrest was not, and consequently troubling to Ravenwood.
“The deck will remain the same no matter how many times you shuffle. It will still contain fifty-two cards.”
Riot stopped his restless shuffling. He looked into the humorless eyes across from him. The light from the fire danced in their dark reflection. As always, Ravenwood’s words held deeper significance. Riot tapped his abused deck square, stood, and placed it on the mantel.
“You are angry,” Ravenwood noted dryly. The severe man interlaced his long fingers in thought. “We solved a case, brought a murderer to justice, and yet you appear dissatisfied. Usually you are eager to celebrate, while I am not. I need no company, my boy, go do whatever it is you do—I suspect women.”
“There’s no cause to celebrate,” Riot murmured.
“As I have been saying these past twenty years.”
Riot bestowed annoyance on his partner. “With this case,” he clarified, knowing full well that Ravenwood knew it too. “As you said, no matter how many times I shuffle the deck, it won’t change the cards.”
“Not my precise words but—”
“We haven’t changed a thing, Ravenwood. Those children are still dead!”
The large man in his throne was unruffled by Riot’s frustration. “The dead have been avenged.”
“It doesn’t change a thing,” Riot repeated, running a hand over his face. “I’m tired.”
“Sleep would remedy your ailment.”
“Of this? Finding the killer after the fact?”
“We have, on occasion, prevented a crime—including murder.”
Riot closed his eyes briefly. There was truth in his words, but today, of all days, truth wasn’t enough. He took a calming breath and resumed his seat.
“You will recall, I am sure, the day we met.”
“Don’t patronize me, my boy.”
“I had a certain reputation as a gambler: The Undertaker’s Friend. You said if I was a friend to death, then you were his avenger. Well, I’m tired of avenging. I’d rather save people while they’re still breathing.”
“We took a brutal murderer off the streets. He’ll soon hang because of our efforts. Preventable measures have their own rewards.”
“And what of the others?” Riot asked. “All those children being peddled like cattle.”
“You can join Father Caraher’s war and attempt to blockade the brothels and cow yards. You’ll be the first ex-gambler, ex-detective, turned preacher.”
“Don’t mock me, Ravenwood,” he warned.
“We are detectives, we see to justice. We don’t change the world. That’s a job for the preachers, police, and politicians.”
“They’re not doing their jobs.”
“Have they ever?” Ravenwood asked, gripping the armrests and leaning forward. He resembled a snowy owl about to swoop on its prey. “You are allowing emotion to cloud judgment. As I have often reminded you through the course of our partnership—that is never wise.”
“I’m tired of finding mutilated corpses of children thrown into the bay.”
“While I admit this last case had a number of unpleasant aspects, balance has been restored. The rest of this…” Ravenwood waved an impatient hand at his partner. “…is clearly a personal vendetta.”
“It’s not personal.”
“Your history strongly indicates otherwise.”
“My mother has nothing to do with this,” Riot said through his teeth.
“Did I mention your mother?”
If there was ever a man to get under his skin, it was Zephaniah Ravenwood. Riot stared at his partner, resisting the urge to pummel him with his walking stick. Instead, he stood, recovered his deck of cards, and resumed his shuffling. This time the cards whispered in his skilled hands.
“I’ll humor you, Riot,” Ravenwood stated, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s consider your proposal. The Tongs run the slavery and opium markets. Both lucrative, both supported by politicians and police officials who benefit from graft. Chinatown’s own Six Companies have long worked against both the slave trade and vice, providing the police with needed information about criminals. But the police only make token raids, as money finds its way into their pockets.”
It was the bitter truth, and Riot had no answer.
“I’ll say again, we are not lawmen; we are detectives. Have you forgotten why we left Pinkerton’s?”
“This isn’t about strike-breaking.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Sever the head,” Riot stated coolly.
“It’s a twelve-headed beast. Sever one and another will take its place.”
“Then I’ll bring them all down.”
“Alone?”
“I’ll find honest patrolmen.”
“It’s a dangerous game.”
“Life is full of risks.”
31
A Severing of Heads
Tuesday, September 15, 1896
Ten men in grim suits stalked down an alleyway. They were armed and in a hurry. Heavy sledges rested on their shoulders, or axes in hands. The Chinatown Police Squad was on a mission. Sergeant Price led the pack, and Jim Mason, former lumber yard laborer, was the first to slam his sledge against the reinforced door. It shuddered, shattering the stillness, echoing through the Quarter like a gong.
It was also a signal. Riot climbed a fire escape, and Tim followed on his heels. Their ascent ended at the third story. Riot sheathed Ravenwood’s stick through the back of his waistcoat, and climbed a drain pipe that took him to the roof. A skylight gaped. He dropped through.
The booming thunder of a barrage shook the walls, reaching to the roof of the building. Riot stood in an attic. Dingy pallets and bunks filled the space, but it was empty of the living.
A tumult of boots and slippers scurried under the floorboards, abandoning the sinking ship. Riot rushed to an access hatch. A hatchet man appeared through the hole, dragging a slave girl. Riot swung his stick. The heavy knob connected with the hatchet man’s chest, but it hit mail and padding, and the man drew the weapon for which he was named. He leapt into the attic, swinging with fury. The blade chopped, Riot leaned back, caught himself, and thrust his stick into the man’s face like a spear. Blood blossomed. Quick as lightning, he delivered two more blows to his opponent’s head. The hatchet man fell to the sagging planks.
Riot left the girl to Tim, and rushed down to the next floor. Through the walls and thudding feet, he heard the front door burst open. A mob of boots flooded the tong headquarters, and the racket pushed a knot of men up the stairs.
The lead hatchet man made a familiar motion. Riot reacted. He drew with his left hand, and fired. The hatchet man’s neck bubbled with blood, but he still managed to squeeze off a shot. Fire raced along Riot’s arm. In return, he swung his stick at the man’s hand. The revolver clattered to the ground. But Riot didn’t stop there. The heavy silver knob hit a man’s head, and another crumpled to the floorboards.
A silk-clad man carrying a satchel raced away. His eyes were wide with fear, and Riot ran after him in time to see the man toss the satchel out of a window. The scribe followed his load, climbing onto a rickety balcony.
As the scribe climbed down to the next balcony, Riot folded himself through the window. Wood groaned, and sagged, and rusty nails pulled away from their anchors. Riot scrambled down the death trap as it gave. The entire thing splintered, and he fell. The ground came fast, and he landed with a squelch, hitting muck and God knew what.
A movement caught his eye. Gritting his teeth, he drew his spare revolver, but mud splattered his spectacles. Gunshot barked against the bricks, and Riot threw himself to the side. He calmly wiped his sleeve across his spectacles, and, squinting through the streaked lens, returned fire. His bullet pegged the scribe, but the man kept running.
Riot grimaced. Mud was only so soft.
“You all right?” Tim called from
the window.
Pain laced his thigh and upper arm as he slowly extracted himself out of the muck. His feet held. “Only a graze, I’d wager,” he called back.
Riot plucked the abandoned satchel from the ground, and limped around to the front of the building. The front door gaped, hanging on its hinges. Sounds of destruction echoed in the alleyway. The police squad was inside, smashing everything in sight—every piece of furniture, every decorative mirror and fragile vase. All was rendered to splinters and dust. They intended to send a message to the peddlers of flesh, loud and clear.
Atticus Riot sat in the Consul General’s office, nursing a cup of tea. His arm stung, his bones ached, and he was fighting to stay awake after the early morning raid. Ravenwood sat with an interpreter, and Consul General Chang politely looked over their shoulders as they sifted through the contents of the satchel that Riot had recovered.
“I’ll say one thing for the tongs, they keep excellent records,” the Consul said. Chang was a prim man in his late fifties. Veins of silver gracefully streaked his black hair, and threaded down his long queue. He adjusted his spectacles.
It was an odd assortment of records. The receipt for a bag of rice was listed with the sale of a slave girl—a casual buying of flesh that was given no more thought than the purchase of rice. Their rackets were carefully recorded in a long list. Protection money paid to the tongs by honest shop owners and free prostitutes. Anyone in the Quarter who refused to pay was generally found in pieces.
Chang sighed. “But I’m afraid none of this is new.” His face was impassive, but his eyes held anger and frustration. San Francisco pinned the tongs to his shoulders, and rendered him powerless to do a thing.
“Is there any mention of where the selling takes place?” Riot asked.
Chang pointed to a series of characters. “The Queen’s Room. It moves from place to place.”
“How do the buyers know where to go?” Riot asked.
Chang interlaced his hands behind his back. He stood ramrod straight, and although he was the same height as Riot, he had a presence that filled a room. “The turn of a teacup, the placement of a vase in a window, the tilt of a mirror, the braid of a queue… these criminals have a complex system of symbols and signs. When we learn one form of code, they change it.”
“Have you tried trailing the buyers?”
Chang nodded. “The highbinders are careful. Very careful. There are eyes everywhere. We suspect that many on the Chinatown Police Squad are still accepting payouts. In the past, they even acted as guards while the bidding was taking place, barring everyone from an alleyway.”
Ravenwood looked at Riot. “Perhaps we should concentrate our efforts on stopping the flow of cargo.”
Riot gave a slight nod. He knew just how to do that.
Atticus Riot leaned back in his chair, and pulled his hat low. He was a patient man. In his mind’s eye he imagined William Cook placing one chip after another as the dealer surreptitiously fed cards from a rigged box. Swift bets were placed, counters moved on the abacus, and a flurry of deft, cheating hands flew over the table.
An honest game of faro was as rare as an honest politician.
It didn’t take half the night for Riot’s bait to lure Cook from the tables. It barely took an hour. Madeline was a woman who knew men, and the prospect of luring one upstairs in exchange for a full night’s wage was too tempting an offer to let pass. Or maybe it was the simple fact that Riot had asked her politely. Politeness, in his opinion, should never be underestimated.
The door to the room opened with a woman’s giggle. Madeline pulled in a man who looked more than eager. Cook followed the prostitute like a bull to the slaughter, giving a wild little whoop in response to her laugh. Madeline fell back on the bed, and Cook tossed his hat aside, his eagerness pressing at his trousers.
Riot waited, wondering when the man would notice him. But men weren’t known for their perceptiveness when a woman had her legs spread wide. Cook was half undressed before Riot decided to clear his throat.
Cook jerked in surprise, and swiveled around. His face turned varying shades of red with anger and shame in equal parts.
“Hello, Mr. Cook.”
Cook was transfixed by the gun in Riot’s hand. He raised his hands. And Riot frowned. “You can button yourself up.”
The man hastily did as he was told, and Riot looked to Madeline, who was playing her part of innocent surprise. “I think you should leave, ma’am.” He nodded towards the dresser, and she took the payment as she hurried out, but not before she threw him a wink and a smile. The door closed.
“What the damnation are you playing at?” Cook asked. His hands weren’t raised now, but Riot wasn’t worried. Madeline had skillfully persuaded Cook to remove his coat and therefore his revolver.
“I only want to talk.” Riot slid his No. 3 into its holster. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? You can sit on the bed.”
Cook did as he was told. “What do you want with me? I told you everything I know. That murdering fellow is set to be hanged.”
“I’m here to avert a disaster.”
“Of what sort?”
“Your imminent arrest.”
Cook shot to his feet. “My what?”
“You’ll find a squad of patrolmen and a ruined headquarters when you go to collect your payouts tonight.”
The color drained from Cook’s face.
“Your money has fled.” Those three words knocked Cook back onto the bed. “Your wife’s savings, too. Now I’m not a married man, never have been, but I wager she’ll be none too pleased when she finds out you spent all her hard-earned cash. She’ll leave you, I’m sure. And make her own way just fine. You’re a piss poor gambler, and the women you’ve been buying won’t want a thing to do with you once your cash flow disappears. Your playing days are over, Mr. Cook.”
Cook gave a nervous sort of laugh. “Are you here to gloat, or do you have a proposal? If you think I’d be fool enough to testify against the tongs, then you’re dead wrong.”
“Nothing so dangerous,” Riot purred. “I’ve something else in mind.”
“What might that be?”
“I want names. Names of all the custom agents and quarantine officers accepting bribes.”
Cook shook his head.
“Fair enough. I don’t much care that you’ll go down with them, because that is exactly what I’ll see is done.”
“You don’t have proof.”
“I can be a persuasive witness in a courtroom,” Riot said with a smile. “The photographs will help, too. The Kodak is an amazing invention, don’t you think?”
“Are you blackmailing me?” Cook asked with outrage. As if a man who helped sell girls to slavers had any moral ground on which to stand. He didn’t even question Riot’s bluff.
“Think of it as letting things play out,” Riot said smoothly. “Once the money runs dry, so will your lifestyle. Tell me what you know, and I’ll see to it that you’re offered a bargain, because you’re just one replaceable cog in the scheme of things. What I really want is the people who run things.”
32
The Visit
Monday, November 23, 1896
Thoughts of court cases and witnesses flew through Riot’s head as he climbed the steps to Ravenwood’s house. The Quarantine Station and Customs Office Scandals were proceeding nicely. The main players had been charged, and proof hadn’t been hard to come by. If all went as it had been going, the tongs would lose their advantage.
Riot opened the door, and walked inside. His hand went straight to his revolver of its own accord. Two effigies hung from the chandelier—one white-haired, and the other black-haired. There was a noose around each neck, and a Chinese poster hung from their ankles.
Riot walked right past the straw representations of himself and Ravenwood. He hurried deeper into the house, searching each room. The door to Ravenwood’s consultation study was open. Broken glass lay on the floor, and Ravenwood was stooped over a chair, plying
his long-time housekeeper, Mrs. Shaw, with whiskey. The old woman was pale, but she looked more irritated than anything else. Ravenwood, on the other hand, fussed over the woman with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“Only a warning—no damage done,” Ravenwood said without glancing his way.
Tim poked his head through the jagged door. “Some warning.” He brandished a half dozen sticks of dynamite. “Set to blow half the house off its foundations.” The old man cackled.
Riot failed to find any humor in the situation. He stalked back to the effigies, and tore the posters down. Each was a classical chun hung bearing their respective names.
Hip Yee proclamation. The members of Hip Yee tong (the Temple of United Justice) offer a warning to Ravenwood Detective Agency. If you continue to interfere with our business affairs and murdering honored men of our association, you will not only be killed but you will bring death on family, fathers, brothers, and sisters. We will offer $500 to any able man for taking the life of witnesses who testify in the Customs Office Case. And $1000 for the killing of Atticus Riot and Zephaniah Ravenwood. We write this notice and seal by us for certainty.
Riot felt a presence beside him. He was about to turn, to tell his partner that this was his fight—he’d involve his name no more, but Ravenwood’s voice drawled into the entryway.
“I look nothing like that. My beard is not so wild.”
Riot looked at the man. His blue eyes danced with amusement.
“I’ll be sure to let them know.”
“I don’t think that’s wise. I’d hate to bury you, my boy,” Ravenwood said.
“You know I’m a careful sort.”
Ravenwood harrumphed, and Riot moved to cut down the straw men.
Steel shutters slammed shut, doors were barred, and the streets of Chinatown emptied with uncanny speed as a man walked through the maze of alleyways.
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