Mikhail stood and walked in front of the larger Tong, making sure he watched. He picked up the boy and placed him nearer the end of the stack of stones, well out of the way. He turned and walked up to the Tong, forcing him to back away and lose face. After a few seconds of eye contact, the Tong nodded. He would leave the boy alone.
The other Tong dipped his head and backed away.
In China, crickets were believed to foretell good fortune. Only bad could come from harming one of them.
Mikhail crossed back toward Pacific Street, thinking of brighter possibilities. With a good paying job, he could pay Tommy Chandler and repay Patrick. He could find a better boardinghouse. He would soon begin to save money—maybe invest or put up what was called a grubstake. With his knowledge of mining and minerals, he could certainly find a good partner to invest in.
Da, yes.
He would work hard and save money. He would invest. He would return to Russia a very wealthy man.
He turned down Pacific Street, crossed the dune, and walked onto the wood planks of the wharf. He hurried between long rows of tightly fitted wooden buildings on both sides, Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse only a skip away.
A very good day.
Chapter Five
Whenever Captain Boggs set foot on Pacific Street Wharf, Dink Watkins had a craving to be elsewhere. Scars from the captain's lash sometimes itched in the night. The man held no good will for anyone, maybe not even for himself. Dink would do anything to never sail under him again.
Dink kept his back to the man, desperate not to be noticed while he and Justin Murphy lugged Grigori's foot locker downstairs.
Tommy had ordered them to fetch the foot locker down, so Dink had no choice. They set it on the floor near the end of the bar.
Boggs smelled of sea salt. He didn't look up from Tommy's list of tenants, what they owed, and the price Boggs would need to pay Tommy to sign them on under the laws of the Landlord's and Seaman's Protective Association. He'd already taken some aboard, like poor Grigori.
A good chap.
Dink and Justin backed toward the corner table, eyes glued on the captain's broad back. No need to ask Tommy for a beer.
"Most of these looks okay, Tommy. There's this Justin Murphy. He owes you too much. Can't use him. I don't see Dink on your list." Boggs turned and stared at Dink. A dark, evil face it was.
The door stood wide open. Dink could still bolt.
Tommy opened Grigori's foot locker, ignoring Boggs. "Well, now." He dug out the fur coat the Russian dandy had worn when coming ashore. He rubbed the fur to his clean-shaved cheek and smiled. "I like this." He put it on and thrust his hands out the sleeves, checking the fit. He massaged the rolled cuffs and rolled his head back and forth against the fur collar, smiling at Dink, flexing his brows, asking Dink's opinion.
"Mighty elegant, you Tommy." For all his faults, Tommy carried himself upright and proper, trim and fit. He looked as proper a gentleman as had the Russian dandy. Maybe more so.
Boggs snorted and tossed the list onto the bar. "That makes only seventeen. You promised me a full crew."
Tommy smiled and dug back into the foot locker, still ignoring Boggs. He stood, smiled, and pulled the fur cap over his head with a wink at Dink. He plunged in again and pulled out the dandy's dress sword and sash. He stepped back behind the bar and laid the dandy's sword on top of the list, under the nose of Boggs, glaring into the eyes of the much bigger man. A show of disrespect, it was, daring Boggs to say a cross word.
A fighter was Tommy, no doubt of that, and itching for a fight right now.
Boggs said nothing.
Tommy opened a cupboard behind the bar and pulled out a quill pen with a small jar of ink. He dipped the pen in ink and scratched something at the bottom of the list, doing some calculations. "These seventeen total fifteen thousand, three hundred eighty-two dollars. That's nine hundred four dollars and eighty-two cents each. I supply a full crew of twenty, you'll owe me eighteen thousand ninety-six dollars and forty-seven cents."
Boggs braced his feet on the floor and puffed up, ready to reach over and grab Tommy. "I only got twelve crew on board."
Tommy smiled at Boggs. Confident, he was. "The rest of my tenants are short-timers, came in during the past two weeks. Dink and Justin know where to find these last five on the list." Tommy stepped away from Boggs and looked at Dink. What about it?
"That we do, you Tommy." Dink strolled up to the bar, a proper employee at Tommy Chandler’s Boardinghouse. "That we do." Dink and Justin would do whatever needed doing to fill the crew for Sunrise.
Boggs furrowed his brow. "What about the other three? You know we likes to sail out with a full crew."
"We'll Shanghai the rest." Tommy stared at Dink.
"That we will, you Tommy." Whatever needed doing, Dink and Justin would do.
Boggs stood and turned. His dead eyes stared through Dink to the back of little Dink's skull.
Dink said, "We'll pick up Billy Stiles on the way. Know right where to find him." Dink needed a beer, waiting for Tommy to finish with Boggs.
Boggs pulled his purse from a pocket inside his coat and poured coins onto the bar—the heavy sound only gold makes. "I already gave you ten. Here's five more. I'll give the rest to Dink when them others is aboard."
Tommy stepped from behind the bar and squared up to the much bigger man. "Captain Boggs, have I ever let you down?" Tommy had always been the cocky one, and was somehow more so, wearing the dandy's coat and cap.
"That's all I got with me."
Well, now.
The Russian strolled in, pink and smiling.
Tommy slapped Boggs on the shoulder and shook hands, friendly. They had reached an agreement.
Boggs took a step toward Dink and Justin. "Get them all on board by twenty-two bells. We need to catch the tide." He lumbered across the saloon and bumped the dandy aside on his way out.
The Russian took a step toward Tommy. "What are you doing in my trunk?"
"This here was Grigori's foot locker. Left behind in my house. It's mine, now."
"No. He gave this to me to look after. That coat you are wearing . . . this belongs to me."
"Well now, Count, let's talk about that." Tommy strutted up close to the Russian. Both were about the same height, the Russian being a bit thinner. "You been under my roof and sleeping in my bed for over a month. I know you don't like my food, you don't like my beer, and you don't like the women. But you still owe me a hundred dollars a week for lodging, food and beer included, whether or not you imbibe. Ladies are extra."
"I have work. I can pay." The Russian sounded sure of himself, not like he'd just made it up. "Take off my coat and cap and put the trunk back upstairs."
"How's that?" Tommy's voice snapped, itching for a fight.
"I will be a longshoreman in less than two weeks. I will pay all I owe in less than one month. Take off my coat and cap." The Russian looked at his sword and sash on the bar. "Put my sword and sash back in the trunk and take it upstairs."
Not smart, ordering Tommy about like that.
Tommy liked the coat. He slid it from his shoulders, careful not to let it touch the floor. He stepped away and folded it onto the bar, massaging the fur. Must feel nice.
Tommy set the cap on top of the coat and turned back. That sparkle in his eyes had turned cape-cold. "I'll just keep all this as payment for what you owe. You can check out of here right now. Don't want guests who don't like my cooking."
The Russian stepped around Tommy, circling toward his coat and stuff. "I do not dine with uneducated, unwashed peasants. I will pay in full within one month's time, with interest."
Tommy stepped between the Russian and his coat, bringing his hands up slow, turning sideways to the Russian, ready for blows. "I've already been paid in full, like I said." He bobbed his head in the direction of the bar and that fur coat and stuff.
The Russian stopped circling and studied Tommy's posture. "This coat was gift from my uncle. Is sable mink, very rare
. Is worth more than this building." He took another step toward the coat.
Tommy threw a jab at the dandy's nose.
The Russian stumbled back and grabbed his face with both hands. He caught his balance and looked at his bloodied hands. Bright red blood flowed from his left nostril. "I have no weapon for a duel. My sword is only for dress."
Dink had heard of European gentlemen fighting what were called duels. They were supposedly more civilized. How could slicing each other up or shooting holes into one another be more civilized than a bare knuckle tussle?
"I've got all the weapons I need." Tommy stepped into the Russian with a solid left hook under his jaw.
The Russian's head jerked back and Tommy threw a hard right to the side of his head. The Russian fell back like a slab of whale fat and the back of his head struck hard against the bottom riser of the stair.
Dink, Justin, and Tommy moved in slowly for a look.
The Russian's neck had been bent awkwardly. He lay as still as death.
"He's stopped breathing, you Tommy."
Tommy lowered his hands and stepped back, blinking, eyes wild with questions.
Dink dropped to a knee and bent down for a listen. Not a whisper. He pressed his ear to the Russian's chest. Nothing. "You've killed him, you Tommy."
"Come on." Justin grabbed the Russian's feet and dragged him toward the bar. Good old Justin. Always thinking, he was.
Tommy stepped back and shook his head, not believing what had just happened.
Dink helped drag the Russian behind the bar and pulled up the trap door under the stair, a dark and stinking place under there. With the tide out, the scum bottom looked more than twenty feet below, where hundreds of crabs fed on slimy slop.
Justin said, "Wait a minute. I like his boots. Look like my size."
Tommy stepped closer, waiting while Justin tugged off the boots. That done, Tommy and Dink slid the Russian through the hole. He fell for what seemed forever and finally slapped into the muck, face-up.
His body sank only an inch, and crabs scurried over it.
"What a stench." Dink closed the trap door.
Chapter Six
Six weeks earlier, upon reaching Weaverville, Chiang SuLin and Chiang Po had been told that her uncle, Mai WanSu, had been killed by one of the town deputies over a game of cards.
Wang LoFat, the elder of the Chinese community in Weaverville, had said he doubted this. Mai had not been known to have ever gambled. He'd been one of the few Chinese who'd moved out of the tent village and built himself a house on his own land. The Chinese community lived in fear here, afraid to publicly question the American town marshal and his deputies.
Her uncle's house in the forest had two rooms with a raised wooden floor, well away from the Chinese tent village along the main road. The larger room had a glass window near the door, a fireplace with cooking pots, and a table with two chairs. A blanket nailed over a wide doorway separated the larger room from the smaller with another glass window. This room was not much larger than the bed where she and Po slept.
When they'd first arrived, the furniture had been overturned, the cooking pots scattered, and some floorboards had been pulled up. Li ChinWok, the man who'd brought them up from the Golden City, had been filled with anger. Her uncle had used this hole in the floor to hide a sizeable amount of gold. Li had seen this.
After helping to clean and straighten the house, Li had gone to her uncle's gold claim on the Trinity River. Li had worked there before leaving for the Golden City. He'd returned an hour later to report that her uncle's claim had been seized by the marshal for unpaid debt. Two Americans now worked the claim.
SuLin had given him the money from her count to buy food and had asked where she could find water. Li had taken her down a steep slope to a fast-moving stream and had gone for food. Four days later, with the food nearly gone, Li had gone to work at the Chinese laundry in Weaverville.
Plenty of dry firewood had been stacked behind the house. At least they could keep warm.
Now, when darkness approached, she no longer lit the lamp. Their supply of oil had nearly been exhausted. Light from the fireplace was now their only light at night.
Buried in his inner thoughts, her father no longer noticed differences between day and night. If she sat near him, he didn't seem to notice. Without a purpose to fulfill, he'd lost face.
"We should never have left China," he'd once said before drifting back inside himself.
Maybe so.
A knock at the door caused her to jump. It was so loud against the quiet. She squeezed her father's hands.
He didn't notice.
She stood and cracked open the door. It was getting dark outside.
A tall, slender man in a gray tweed suit stood on the step, looking back over his shoulder, checking the snow-blotched footpath from town.
Nobody had followed him.
He said, "Evening, miss. I'm Dr. H. B. Davison. Herbert. Call me Herb. I own the pharmacy in town." He showed her a burlap sack. "Mind if I come in?"
"Come quick." She opened the door wide. "You let cold inside." He stepped in and she closed the door. It was pretty much dark inside. She led him to the table, pushed him into a chair, and lit the lamp.
Chiang Po looked through the man without seeing him.
She spoke Chinese to her father. "This man is the pharmacist." Chiang Po turned and watched the fire.
The American set the burlap sack on the table. "I knew Mai. We were kind of friends. He used to sneak Chinese behind my store at night whenever they needed medical help. I'm an apothecary doctor. The closest thing comes to being a medical doctor up here. That is, until your father got here. Mai told me all about you." He was talking to Chiang Po, thinking he understood English.
SuLin said, "He no speak English. I tell him." She explained everything to her father in Chinese, but he did not hear. She turned to the American pharmacist. "What you want?"
"Well, like I was saying, I used to help you Chinese right out in the open until Sheriff Randy Bartow showed up; him and his deputies. They like to keep a foot down on folks around here; heavy boots on you Chinese. That's why your uncle had to sneak into the back of my store. Somebody here had trouble, he'd bring them around. I'd do what I could and he'd pay me."
"We have no money. All gone."
"No, no." The American shook his head and stood. "You misunderstand." He opened his sack and pulled out a stalk of some kind of plant with tiny bunches of green berries. "There's some kind of germ infecting the workers at the laundry. They all got dysentery. They can't get their work done and they're making a mess of things. This here's blackberry. It grows wild up here, and plenty of it. The leaves and roots can be ground up or boiled into a tea. It's very effective for all kinds of stomach or intestinal problems. Early spring to mid summer, the berries are ripe. They're good to eat, with plenty of healthy benefits. My wife makes jam. It's delicious. She also makes pies, but you need to eat those right away or the sugar crystallizes." He smiled and shrugged. "I still like it."
He sat and looked at her father, maybe thinking about something else. "Some of us felt bad about Mai, the way he died. We don't know what can be done. Before Randy Bartow and his deputies showed up, we had no law at all. There were some claim disputes and folks got shot. Bartow promised to keep the peace, him and his deputies, and we agreed to pay them every month. Now, the way he runs things, most of us think we were better off being lawless than being subjected to his brand of the law. We'd like to get rid of him, but we don't know how."
She told her father what the American had just said about the law.
He watched the fire.
She poked his arm and found his eyes, telling him about the workers at the laundry. He heard this part and looked at the American, maybe waking up.
"Like I said, I can't be seen helping you people directly. No telling what the sheriff might do. He's mean as any man I've seen; just plain bad. Seems we traded random shootings for organized theft and murder."
SuLin had no interest in this sheriff and his deputies. Her interest was in helping her father, who was always at his best when helping others. She told him about the blackberries, how the roots and leaves could be used to remedy stomach and intestinal problems, how they could be boiled down into tea or ground into powder, and how the Chinese community here needed his help.
He heard every word.
The American reached back into his sack and pulled out some kind of mint with long-stemmed, light purple flowers. She'd already seen her father use mint as a tea for stomach sickness or for a running nose and cough. "This here's hyssop or Korean mint."
Chiang Po stood and took the leaves, crushed them with his fingers, and smelled them. He smiled at the American and nodded.
"Ah, you know this one. Good." The American pulled out another bundle with clusters of light pink flowers, with the smell of mint. "Here's another one grows up here, commonly called catnip. Apply this as a dressing. It'll slow excessive bleeding."
SuLin explained and Chiang Po nodded, suddenly very interested to know whatever the American said. He asked the American's name, but she'd forgotten.
The American somehow understood. "I'm Herb Davison." He laid two more plants on the table and described them—lady fern and feverfew, both effective remedies for cuts and scrapes as a dressing, and to reduce swelling and infection.
SuLin translated.
Herb Davison explained the uses for sage and wild quinine, both effective treatments for a wide variety of maladies or infirmities.
Davison turned the bag upside down and dumped golden flowers with heavy buds onto the table.
She recognized this one as a poppy, an opiate.
Davison said, "This here's a local poppy. Grows wild. All of these plants can be found locally if you know where to look. This here poppy buds a mild pain reliever if you boil it long enough. The tea from it is quite soothing."
SuLin explained to Po.
Chiang Po stood and bowed to Davison, a show of respect and gratitude. Po smiled for the first time since their arrival here. Maybe they would stay in Weaverville. Maybe he could be useful here. Maybe he could find his purpose and save face.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 5