The next day went like the first. Everyone slept until late morning, and Pearl made a huge breakfast of runny eggs with sourdough toast. Constance demanded another servicing at noon. Carson, already starting to feel like an old man, voiced complaint.
"What's this?" Constance said. "I try to spring a stallion and get a brokedown nag, instead? You can't be tired so soon."
"Lady, I only got one scrub-stick. Let me give it a rest."
"You'll rest when I tell you to, and not before. Twenty goddamn years I had to suffer being married to a man who could get it up every full moon. Well, those days are over. You'll perform, or I'll haul you back down to the hoosegow and have the cops lock you up again. I've got pull with them, you know."
He didn't care to test her threat, so he grit his teeth and did as he was told.
Anna still hadn't shown by late afternoon, and Constance's mood turned black. She muttered about the loss of revenue. Sensing opportunity, Carson volunteered to go looking around the Chinese district for her, but not before he'd used a bent hat-pin to open the lockbox in Anna's room and steal a silver dollar. He figured he could pay her back if and when she returned.
Reluctantly, Constance granted him leave. "But don't be gone too long, lover. I get lonesome real fast."
He hustled out the telegraph office without a backward glance.
* * *
Once free, there was the immediate temptation to bolt as far from Constance's influence as possible. But it being February, he opted to stick with a warm place to sleep for now. Not that he'd be getting much sleep.
He'd learned a few things about oriental culture from his father, God rest him. One of these was the efficacy of certain herbs. Carson Lowe Sr.'s missionary zeal had concealed a hankering for Chinese strange, which existed in abundance around Kwangchow. While his wife taught hymns and administered medicine to sick children, Mr. Lowe would sneak out to the city's various fleshpots. But he always paid a visit to the local apothecary first.
Carson Jr. had a need for those special herbs now.
By asking passersby, he obtained directions to Dupont Street, and from there crossed an invisible barrier into Chinatown.
The first thing that hit him was the smell of rancid cooking oil. The crowd got a whole head shorter, and he found himself surrounded by Asian faces. All were male, and they wore what looked like comfortable pajamas, with their hair trailing in long queues to the waist. Some hauled baskets by way of a pole balanced across their shoulders. Everyone moved with brisk purpose; no wandering, no hands-in-pockets daydreaming. All was commerce and efficiency.
He noticed preparations for the New Year were underway, which brought a twinge of nostalgia. Scarlet banners with gold characters hung in windows. Workmen strung red and yellow lanterns across the street. Maybe this was what had drawn him to San Francisco. The knowledge that somewhere in the boomtown existed a nugget of his childhood, intact, waiting for him to stroll through again …
He passed an enormous laundry that seemed to take up a whole block. A series of butcher shops, with their inevitable gutted carcasses of duck and chicken. Turning on to Clay Street, he found a tiny corner store displaying the Chinese character 'Yao,' or medicine.
A bell jangled as he stepped inside. Cabinets divided into hundreds of square drawers lined the walls, each stamped with a character denoting their contents. Bunched herbs hung from the ceiling. A decrepit specimen hunched behind the counter, his skin flaking like pie-crust and his hair in sparse, yellowed strands. He did not conjure the traditional Chinese image of health. Nevertheless, Carson strode up to the counter and slapped down a silver dollar.
"I need yang root, grandfather," he said in Cantonese. "As much as you can spare."
The man's withered lips drew back in a smirk. Doubtless, many a desperate gweilo had come here to make the same demand. Without comment, he turned and reached into a drawer to extract a fantastically gnarled root, the same color and texture of a dried turd. This he placed on the counter, and with an old meat cleaver began mincing into tiny portions.
While the old man worked, Carson glanced through a window at the establishment across the street. A nice restaurant, with a circular archway and fenghuang bird perched atop the pagoda roof, alongside a sinuous dragon. Customers came streaming in and out. Those going in looked hopeful, excited; those exiting seemed dispirited and spent. The more he watched, the more a suspicion blossomed.
"Say, grandfather," he said, trying to conceal his own excitement, "there wouldn't happen to be a pai gow game going on nearby, would there?"
The old man didn't look up from his chopping. "Not for you."
"I'll be the judge of that." Carson snatched up the silver dollar. "Be right back."
The apothecary gave him a rueful look, but he was already backing for the door.
Halfway across the street the fever hit. He had managed to dodge it two nights earlier in Gillooly's, but now the impulse came on like a physical need. His fingers itched. His palms tingled. Pai gow had been Carson Lowe Sr.'s other vice, and he'd introduced his son to the game on his tenth birthday. One time was all it took.
His heart was already pounding as he joined the back of the line. Up a short flight of stairs, and the doorman, a broad-shouldered Mongolian, stepped in front of him.
"Not for you."
"I didn't come here to eat," Carson said, answering in Cantonese. He held up the silver dollar.
The doorman scrutinized the coin. He nodded towards a nearby alley. "Use the back way. And don't cause any trouble."
"I won't."
Semi-delirious, he entered the narrow alley. At the end a green-painted door hung open, spilling clouds of oily smoke and the clatter of plates.
A bustling kitchen lay beyond, but the cooks and their labors barely registered. Carson's attention seized on a low table surrounded by Chinese. He shoved until he glimpsed the red and white pips of dominoes. The fever had him fully, now. He sought the dealer, exchanged his silver dollar for a handful of bamboo chits. There was no space at the table initially, but after a few minutes of frustrated playing, the man next to him gave up. Carson took his place.
What happened next unfolded in the febrile haze of an opium dream. Time lost all reckoning. Carson's concentration fixed to a narrow point. There were only the four tiles in his hand, and the four tiles of the dealer. He immersed himself in the pips, looking for the right combination of gongs and wongs. His pile of chits steadily declined as he lost hand after hand. Then his luck started to blow the other way, and his pile grew. The players next to him cast envious glances.
Had he stopped to count, he might've realized he'd already won enough to pay off his bondage to Constance.
He didn't stop.
"You've got it bad, don't you?"
The voice came from somewhere beyond his narrowed scope of vision. It spoke English. That much managed to penetrate.
"They're not going to give you a line of credit, and they don't like white men. It would be best if you cut your losses now."
Losses?
With great force of will, he took his eyes from his current hand. One bamboo chit remained in front of him. He groaned.
"Time to leave, friend."
The voice belonged to a young Chinese man, chubby, wearing a cook's stained apron. His queue had been pinned in a tight circle around the top of his head.
"I'm going to win it all back," Carson said, hoarse.
But the dealer had just slapped down an unbeatable pair of nines. Carson pushed his last chit into the betting circle. "Wish me the luck of the toad," he told his new companion. "Mr.—"
"My name's Liang Man."
"Here goes nothing, Manny."
And that's what he won. Nothing.
Hands pushed him away from the table. Only people with money were allowed to take up precious space. Carson tore off his oversized coat and tried to get the dealer to give him a couple chits for it. Then he remembered the gun inside and tried to pawn that. Cries went up at sight of the derringer. The heavys
et Mongolian appeared, and promptly put Carson in an arm-lock.
"I warned you not to make trouble, gweilo."
"No trouble." Carson looked around for Manny, to beg intercession. But he must've gone back to work.
"Out." The Mongolian guided him towards the back door. A shove, and Carson went flying. He managed to get his hands in front of him before his head could smack the alley wall. Small miracles.
He let himself slump onto a pile of rotting cabbage leaves. Fast as it had come, the fever drained away. He was no longer outside some fantastic temple to luck and wealth, but sprawled in a filthy alley. Time resumed its usual crawl. How long had he been playing, anyway? A glance upwards showed starlight in the gap between buildings. It must've been hours.
He'd have to slink back to Constance, sans any yang root. He'd have to—
Something blotted out the stars. A figure swathed in black silk, leaping across the alley's rooftops.
A masked figure.
Carson picked himself up and rushed out to the street. Yes, that was him, the same intruder from two nights before, moving across the pagoda roof with reckless speed. He'd be heading to Kwangtung temple to consummate his duel.
But the next building wasn't so close; it lay across a side street some twenty feet away. Impossible to jump. The masked man would either have to climb down or change direction.
He did neither. Without slacking his pace, he reached the roof's edge and leapt.
Carson's mind reeled. Somehow in defiance of gravity, the figure floated, as if tugged by invisible wires, and shot across the twenty-foot gap.
CHAPTER FOUR
Carson plunged down darkened streets in pursuit of the black-clad man. Twice he almost lost the figure among the rooftops. As he ran, the wiser part of his brain urged him to return to the telegraph office, where the worst he might expect was a sore groin. But curiosity was riding roughshod over his sense of safety.
With only paper lanterns to see by, he finally lost the masked man somewhere along Kearny Street. A heavy fog had come rolling in from the bay, obscuring the crowded Chinatown buildings. Carson leaned against a storefront to catch his breath. He spied a two-story structure in the mist nearby. It had a portico flanked by guardian lions, and marble steps leading up to an open doorway. Could this be Kwangtung Temple?
Closer, and he saw an old Chinese stooped over the portico floor, dressed in the black and yellow robes of a Taoist priest. It had to be temple of some sort.
Carson slipped off his shoes. In stocking feet, he crept up the cold marble steps. The priest was too absorbed in his work to notice; he bent over the flagstones, painting with a long-handled brush. Only he wasn't using paint. The Chinese characters he traced out were formed by water, dipped from a bucket close by. It seemed pointless work, but Carson was grateful for the distraction.
He snuck past into the temple proper. The reception area opened onto an atrium, with a shrine to the Eight Immortals at the center. A shoal of red candles made the painted wooden figures shift and glower in the flickering light. No one else was visible, but taut hairs on Carson's nape told him otherwise. He pressed himself against a shadowed wall and began to creep towards the open space. His ears caught the sounds of hushed breathing, somewhere nearby. Behind the jade vase? In the darkened corner? For all he knew, there could be a dozen people hiding in here.
But he had to watch.
He waited, crouching until his ankles hurt. The priest eventually came inside and set down his water bucket. He extinguished the candles around the shrine using moistened fingers, bowed to the Immortals, and whispered a hoarse prayer before exiting through the main door and closing it behind him. The sound of the lock turning echoed through the temple.
It was a signal to commence.
The black-garbed man appeared at the edge of the atrium's roof. He leapt down, seeming to float rather than plummet like a dropped rock, the silk sash and short cape of his costume rustling. He landed next to the shrine.
"Show yourself, Nine Serpents Hsien," boomed the voice behind the mask.
A pair of curtains parted, and out stepped the snake- tattooed man. He wore his own black tunic that bared a muscular shoulder. Moonlight made harsh angles of his face.
"No weapons," the masked man said, showing empty hands.
"No weapons."
"Are you ready to honor your obligations, after you lose?"
Hsien laughed softly. "If I lose. Which I won't"
"Prepare yourself, then."
But Nine Serpents had already launched himself forward, his feet moving so fast he seemed to glide across the atrium floor. He aimed a series of knife-handed blows at his opponent's neck, chest, and groin. The masked man swatted them aside and countered with a sweeping punch. Hsien ducked it easy. His right foot lashed out to crack against an ankle.
Carson sensed the fight might be over quick as it had started. But the masked man surprised him by somersaulting backwards. Just as his feet touched the floor he pistoned both legs and shot straight into the air, floating up and over his opponent. Before Hsien could respond, he reached down and struck him on the forehead with the heel of his palm.
Nine Serpents hurtled backwards into the shrine. Red candles scattered. Two of the Immortals toppled, and paper prayer-charms fluttered like cherry blossoms. Despite the obvious power of the blow, Hsien leapt back to his feet. A hand-shaped purple bruise already glistened on his forehead. As Carson watched, the mark became an angry red, then pink, then faded altogether.
Hsien smirked. "The Thunder-Pealing Palm. You've studied at Wudang, too."
He snatched up a can of joss sticks from the altar. A flick of his wrist sent the bamboo slivers blurring through the air like tiny spears. The masked man had already torn the cape from his back, and snapped it out in front of him. For a moment the silk went rigid. Instead of tearing through the fabric, the incense-coated sticks splintered into puffs of fragrant powder.
"And the Iron Cloth technique, as well," Hsien said. "I'm impressed."
He inclined his head. At the signal, a man leapt from concealment behind a gong. He wore a black skullcap with a jade lozenge affixed to the front. Shrieking, he swung a saber at the masked man, who vaulted up and over his stroke. A second palm-blow sent the swordsman crashing against the gong, senseless.
"You dishonor yourself, using such tricks," the masked man said.
Hsien shrugged. "I'm just not comfortable having another kuo shu expert in the same city."
The large vase five feet from where Carson hid rattled. A second figure straightened behind it. He wore the same type of jade skullcap as the first, and made ready to hurl a small hatchet at the masked man's back.
Carson's own actions startled him. He yelped out a warning as he clawed for the derringer in his pocket. The hatchet-man turned, mute surprise showing on his face. Carson's finger brushed the trigger before he could haul the pistol free. The report deafened him, and the high-caliber bullet, angled down through his pocket, shattered a chunk from the bottom of the vase.
He chambered a second round. The hatchet-man froze when he saw the smoking barrel pointed at him.
"Interlopers!" Hsien called from the atrium. "We leave, now."
Carson risked a sidelong glance. He saw Hsien land a high kick that tore the mask from his opponent's face. Not pausing to press his advantage, he crouched low and leapt straight up through the atrium to the roof. Apparently, he knew the floating-trick as well.
The hatchet man took a more mundane exit via the front door. Carson made no move to stop him.
He half-expected more figures to come bursting out of hiding. The smell of burnt black powder stung his nostrils, and for some reason his right hip was growing unbearably hot. He looked down to see orange flames curling from his coat pocket.
Laughter. A voice said in English: "You must've followed me from the restaurant."
Carson turned, patting at the scorched fabric. The now-maskless man knelt by the shrine. He'd been cradling his head, and when he l
ooked up Carson felt a shock of recognition. It was the chubby cook who'd tried to save him from pai gow. But how could …?
"Loose black silk has a slimming effect," Liang Man said, anticipating his question. "Thanks for warning me, by the way."
"Wasn't nothing." Carson finished patting out his pocket-fire.
"You look familiar. Have I seen you someplace other than a gambling table?"
"I was in the next cell, that night you freed Hsien. I overheard the whole conversation. When I saw he was going to double-cross you, after you went to all that trouble, well, it just didn't sit right."
"A sense of honor. That's good."
Carson spied the black silk cape lying on the floor. He felt along the lining for hidden metal plates, but found none. "How did …?"
"There's not much time. Your shot will bring police." Manny glanced at the unconscious swordsman, lying face down a short distance away. "We'll have to leave him."
"Who is he?"
"A Green Turban. One of Twin Fury Xue's lapdogs. But as I said, we don't have much time."
He started for the open door. Carson caught his sleeve. "At least explain—"
"Look, we can talk over tea, alright? I suppose I owe you that much."
* * *
The pai gow game was still going on in the kitchen, despite the hour. Carson decided San Francisco was one of those cities that never really sleeps. He had to grit his teeth when he heard the slap of the tiles, the cries of delight or defeat. The gambling bug's bite still itched.
He sat with Manny at the back of the restaurant, 'The Phoenix and Dragon,' behind a folding screen depicting Imperial peacocks. Manny had explained the screen was for their privacy, but Carson understood its true purpose. Restaurant-goers did not want to see a gweilo eating in the same establishment. Manny, however, tried to make him feel at home, first hustling out a bowl of fried cabbage with fat dumplings, and pouring endless cups of peony tea.
"My great-granduncle owns this place," he explained. "Also the apothecary shop across the street."
"I think I met him. Very old man, right?"
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