At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Aw, son‑of‑a‑bitch."

  Before the fire, Chinatown and the Barbary Coast were the places to go for a taste of life in the raw. Sodom and Gomorrah could not have been more completely destroyed than those two districts. But sin proved more resilient in modern times. The men strolling up Washington Street had heard all the stories of elegant gambling dens, cribs and Spanish Kitty. Women represented one of the highest forms of currency, and one of the lowest forms of human degradation. This was a place where a white man could order a Chinese girl to strip in public if he didn't like her service. Also home of the "golden girls," who lived in sumptuous 'parlor cribs'‑‑the local euphemism for brothel‑‑and could command up to $250 a night (meals included). Many of the prettiest girls were slaves, kidnapped in China. Their sad plight acted as an aphrodisiac to many customers. Certainly, the thought of these helpless victims stirred fantasies in the minds of the liberty party.

  Yet the first representative of sin to approach them spoke with the voice of a tiny angel. No more than nine or ten, she was a China doll in size, speech and appearance.

  "Sailor‑man want puff‑puff?" she asked in a calm, other‑worldly voice. The semi‑shocked expressions of the black gang did not seem to amuse her. There was a curious blankness about her expression. Perhaps she was a wind‑up doll, too. "Sailor‑man come long way. Puff‑puff go farther."

  "Run on home to your mammy, or whatever you call them around here," said one of the more deeply offended men.

  "Why do you keep treating them like humans?" Gilroy moaned. He nodded for the girl to come over. "'Lot of these Chinks were shipped down from Canada in crates marked 'Freight.' That's all they are to the law. A man is how he's treated, and what the law says he is."

  To hear Gilroy speak of the law in so portentous a tone was like listening to a preacher praising hellfire. A moral split formed in the party. But since none of them really knew Gilroy very well‑‑no one did‑‑the offended fireman was able to draw the others with him. "Let's get a drink," he said, replacing one sin with another. It was the only way he could win. "Something that'll take the edge off. Something you can taste."

  "Go ahead." Gilroy saw them off with a scornful wave. "The boarding house sharks love flatheads like you."

  As he turned to the girl, one of Washington Street's gaslights popped into life, catching his eye. There it was, his one true companion. Constant and faithful in the pain it invariably caused.

  The golden scarab.

  It reached with one of its molten claws directly into his head and snipped off its share. Then the scarab dimmed, leaving a talisman‑shaped afterglow.

  The girl watched him with strange, bland comprehension. "Puff‑puff take it away. Puff‑puff make you better."

  He followed her down a dark alley. Oddly, it was safer for him here in Chinatown than it was for many Chinese. The underworld of the Quarter was dominated by the tongs, rival warlords of vice. Their warriors were the highbanders‑‑through practice, skilled assassins. Sometimes there were pitched street battles between highbander armies. The municipal authorities were not so much indifferent as powerless to stop them. Ten or twenty years ago, many of the gang wars hinged on who would possess various royal women in the Quarter. They were celestial beings, who molded their glossy black hair into dragon‑tail shapes, wore exquisite jade bracelets on their wrists and ankles, kept their hearts visible with puckered carmine lips‑‑and tottered like drunks on tiny, crippled feet, their parents having practiced the high fashion of foot‑binding.

  Times had become harsher, though, and there were some things even more fundamental than beautiful women. Most of the clashes in re‑built Chinatown resulted from disputes over the gambling trade, the drug trade, and trade in general. Tense, sharp affairs, the cobblestones were frequently splattered with blood. Yet if Gilroy had gone towards the bay and the Barbary Coast, there would have been an infinitely greater chance of being rolled, robbed or murdered. He might not have much in the way of money, but he had more than a lot of others. No Chinaman would have assaulted him for it because it was well understood by the tongs that if whites became fearful of entering the Quarter, the tourist trade would dry up. Excepting whatever ills he might visit upon himself, Gilroy was better off here than among his own kind‑‑or in the boiler rooms of the Florida.

  The child guiding him was a coolie girl. Her feet had not been bound. She wore plain baggy pants which seemed to shift like black seaweed whenever she turned to make certain he had not slipped her leash. Some of the storefronts they passed threw forth a rich, baroque complex of sights and smells--not an inch bereft of ornamentation or items for sale. It was while passing through the heavy scents of a joss shop that the seaman caught a flicker of movement down one of the alleys. Something familiar about it. He stopped to investigate.

  "Sailor‑man come."

  "Just hold your pants on, girl."

  The buildings were so densely packed the passages between them were more like halls than alleys. Gilroy now knew the familiarity that had caught his eye: there was a sailor down there. There could be no question the man thought he was hidden in shadow‑‑not knowing that light from an overhead window provided a hazy, revealing glow. He was speaking to a coolie girl. Not as young as the one leading Gilroy, but not much older. She had her back to a wall. Unlike most of the coolie girls, she wore a Western‑style dress; at least, as far as the voyeur could tell that was what she was wearing. Because whatever it was happened to be pulled up above her waist.

  The way they were chatting, one might have thought they were discussing the best sauce for chop suey. Yet the sailor had his hand up her crotch, was fondling her pudendum so thoroughly it was as if he was trying to tie a knot one‑handed. A far more lurid scene than any of the wicked stereopticon slides sailors brought home from foreign ports. It was the damnedest thing Gilroy had ever seen, next to the death of his mother--and, of course, the scarab. When the girl leading him noted the couple Gilroy did not attempt to cover her eyes. She probably saw this kind of thing all the time.

  "Puff‑puff..." she said.

  "Wookie‑nookie. What's that? No, not them. Them." He pointed at a pair of men further down the alley. Though they both wore black blouses and trousers, one of them was obviously better off. He held out his hand and the poor man put something in it‑‑the small cupped movement that said 'money'. Gilroy at first thought he was witnessing a transaction between landlord and tenant--until he saw a small pouch handed over to the poor man, who bowed away.

  "What he selling, girl?"

  "Nothing. Come."

  "Nothing? Stay. No puff‑puff until you tell me."

  For the first time, a trace of emotion appeared. It was annoyance. "No important."

  "If no important, you can tell."

  She dwelled on this for a moment, then said, "Ashes."

  "I said no puff‑puff until‑‑"

  "No. The man, he sell ashes."

  "You mean that poor sod was paying good money for... naw, tell me the truth, girl."

  "I tell truth."

  She was so matter of fact Gilroy concluded she was indeed telling him the truth, though only in part. Shrugging, he set out with her again. They came to a niche between two stores. There were no lights. Gilroy did not see the heavy oak door until the girl gave it a distinctive rap. Nor could he see who the girl spoke to, nor the slit through which he knew he was being observed. When the door swung inward, a warm wave of incense spilled out.

  "Come‑come," said a voice.

  The girl did not enter with him. Now that the catch was secure, she slipped back into the street, looking to hook more customers for the opium den.

  After passing through a series of lovely, patterned screens, Gilroy found himself in a tiny, windowless room bare of all but a wooden chair and table.

  "Ten dollar," said the ancient seated at the table, his skullcap orbiting a moon of white hair.

  "Ten dollars!" Gilroy protested. Damn, if he hadn't been neatly snookered. He had
little doubt that if he walked out now, the Chinese would make no move to stop him. Yet by bringing him this far, through darker and darker veils, his voluntary entrance became, in stages, voluntary imprisonment . Through another hall came alluring aromas that made him aware of enticing visions, of things sought and things gained. "You have a heavy pocket, sailor. You can trust us. Ten dollar all we ask. We do not cut throat or leave you in sewer."

  "Yep, I bet not," Gilroy sneered. There was no one else in the room with them, but he had the impression a dozen strong hands would stretch out for him if he made any kind of threatening move at the old man. The inviting smell was too much to resist. He reached into his tight pocket and warily pulled out his greenbacks. All the money he had in the world. "Don't spend it all on fancy women, you old bandit."

  Another man appeared and took Gilroy through the enticing hallway. What was at the other end of that passage was as seedy and depressing as he could have hoped never to imagine. Bunks were packed tightly against every inch of wall space. It was like a forecastle, only a thousand times more cramped and smoky.

  "Lay here."

  Half a lifetime of taking orders at sea made him loath to obey them on land. A curd of protest formed in his stomach. Since he had money on the line, however, acquiescence came more readily than usual. He looked at the soiled bunk the Chinaman indicated, then shrugged with the conclusion that he'd spent nights in worse. It creaked with a hundred small moans as he curled up on his side.

  The Chinaman took out a small vial. "'Bye‑bye juice,'" he smiled at Gilroy as he delicately placed a small thick drop on a steel shaft much like a hatpin. Holding the head of the shaft over an oil flame, he heated it into an ocher‑colored globe. He added more raw opium from the vial, until a pellet the size of a pea sat on the hot pinhead.

  A long‑stemmed pipe elaborately carved to form a dragon's neck, with a fiery snout at the mouth, was brought out. The man expertly flattened the cooked opium across a tiny opening in the bowl. Holding the bowl over the flame, he swung the stem over to Gilroy's head. The sailor fastened his lips to the serpent's mouth and inhaled.

  They were singing 'She Was Bred in Old Kentucky, But in Boston She Was Beans' when Ensign Garrett led six men of the Beach Patrol into the bar.

  The Beach Patrol was a new arm of the Navy, established by none other than Roosevelt himself. For too long, American seamen had run amuck in the various ports of call. A jackie staggering drunk back to ship was a sight too often seen by the public. The president knew this would never do on a voyage of prestige, more a political campaign than a military one, so the Beach Patrol was charged with the task of reining in rioters and drunkards before they got out of hand.

  It had met with some success, but also with one spectacular failure. In Rio, a large patrol comprised of men from several ships went in to break up a bar brawl. When the fight escalated dramatically, the Beach Patrol itself joined the fray, knocking Brazilian heads with gusto.

  Not many enjoyed the duty. But there were exceptions.

  It was during their stopover at Santa Barbara that Ensign Garrett realized he'd reached his limit for parties and entertainment. Attending the Dance of the Flowers at the Plaza Del Mar, he'd watched dancers dressed as narcissus, white lilies, daffodils, tulips, California poppies, and God knew how many more ludicrous floral arrangements hop and dance for a thousand sailors and politicos. Certainly, the female dancers had shapely legs--when you could see them through their costumes. But at the announcement of each number, the ensign found himself increasingly overcome by despair and boredom.

  Other men already had their itineraries for San Francisco. The historically-minded could visit Mission Dolores; the litterateur could view the Robert Louis Stevenson commemorative statue; the artistically-minded could admire the famous statue of Saul; astronomy could be had at the Lick Observatory; and Mt. Tamalpais stood ready to be scaled by the athletic. The YMCA Naval Clubhouse offered the usual spectrum of sober pastimes, while the Naval Pavilion set up extra cots for the men who chose the less sober ones.

  Having no desire to surfeit himself further on local amenities, Garrett approached the Master-at-Arms and volunteered his services.

  "It'll be a lark," he said.

  Snorting, the Master-at-Arms handed him a brassard, then said, "You're officially a part of the Beach Patrol. Now let me tell you why it won't be a lark."

  Garrett was appalled by his next words. Everyone had read the reports of the typhus epidemic that had broken out in San Francisco after the fire. It had been brought under control for the most part--but something else had reared its brutish head.

  "That's right, ensign. Plague."

  "You mean... like the Black Death?"

  "You got it."

  So much for his fantasies of taking on drunks, and perhaps cracking a few heads in the line of duty.

  "I want you to go to Fillmore Street to meet with Dr. Blue."

  "Dr. Blue?"

  "Really quite an honor for you. Rupert Blue is the foremost expert on plagues in the country. President Roosevelt sent him out here when the Board of Health wired for assistance."

  Garrett was so honored that he was tempted to rip off the brassard on the spot. For which the Master‑at‑Arms would have had him up before the Mast in two shakes, the last thing the ensign needed. He was trying to keep a low profile around Captain Oates, who gave him an evil, jaundiced eye whenever they passed each other. So Garrett saluted the Master‑at‑Arms and headed out for Fillmore Street.

  An hour later he found himself in front of a long gray warehouse. Hundreds of rats were piled out front, some dead, others only wounded or dazed. The piles squirmed.

  Men in low hats walked up with more, cheerfully swaying their inverted bouquets. Noting Garrett's expression, one of them swung his half dozen in the ensign's face.

  "Oh, no-no-no!" said Garrett.

  The man they were paying court to stood at a side door, handing out sums of money for each rat added to the heap.

  "Ah, brought us some brown rats, did we Tom? Mus rattus, not very common these days. But there's one of our fine, fat friends in the middle: Mus Norwegicus. Those gray Norway rats are conquering our quiet little Indians, I'm afraid." He paid off the rat catcher, who strolled happily down Fillmore counting his bills.

  "Dr. Blue...?"

  Dr. Rupert Blue tipped his hat. "You must be Garrett. Your boss telephoned to say he was sending you up here. I guess he wanted you to see what you're all up against. Scout out the enemy, so to speak."

  "That was the Master-at-Arms."

  The doctor nodded at the pile. "I suppose you already knew about the yellow fever epidemic that hit San Francisco after the earthquake and fire. But the city fathers have managed to keep this quiet. Up to now at least."

  "What? Rats?"

  "Plague."

  The Black Death, after all.

  "If you'll step inside with me, I can show you--"

  "Well actually, sir, if you can just show me your map. The Master-at-Arms said there were some districts off limits."

  "Nonsense!" Blue held up his hands. "Medical science has come far, Seaman Garrett. You must come in and see. Except for the regulars, we don't get very many visitors."

  Workers emerged from the warehouse and began picking rats out of the piles. Following them in, Blue and Garrett passed large vats of bichloride of mercury, used to finish off the rats not already dead.

  "I try to get the catchers to bring them in alive. If they're killed beforehand and the body grows cold, the fleas abandon ship. Best to dispose of rats and parasites all one go."

  The stench was unspeakable. Dr. Blue inhaled and exhaled as though bracing himself in clean mountain air.

  "Damn fleas are what you have to control," Blue went on. "They get the disease off the rats, then bite humans--boom! Bubonic plague. Sand fleas, rat fleas, mouse fleas, dog fleas, even Indian plague fleas--all of them found on our crew. The rats, I mean. The prime culprit is ceratophyllus fasciatus, found on the Norway rats.
Sixty-nine percent of the ones we've counted have been of that variety."

  "You count fleas?"

  Garrett was just able to stomach the impromptu tour--until Blue took him into the annex. Six men stood over a long table wielding sharp surgical instruments. Several were whistling to the accompanying clink of a white porcelain dish that was being passed around.

  "This is our 'Ratatorium,'" Blue announced proudly. "Once the rats are tagged, they're brought here so they can be skinned, preparatory to microscopic examination for infection. Each one of my boys can clean five hundred specimens a day."

  There was a dull splash as one of the workers scooped out a rat's entrails with his bare hand and tossed the bluish mess into the dish.

  "Oh!"

  "I knew you'd be interested, Seaman Garrett. It's too bad President Roosevelt can't see this. He's the one who sent me out here, you know."

  "Oh!"

  The men at the table glanced up at him.

  "Is there something wrong?" Dr. Blue inquired.

  "The men. From the Beach Patrol."

  "Did you want to bring them in here, too?"

  "No! I'm supposed to meet them."

  "If it's urgent--"

  "Yes!"

  Dr. Blue took him into his office and showed him a map of the city. "By no means let any of your men enter the Lobos District. That was the site of one of the larger refugee camps after the fire and some of the worst outbreaks. If any sailor wanders in, do not let him back on board his ship. I have the backing of your fleet commander on this. If someone carried infected fleas onto a battleship, every man on her might be dead in two weeks."

  "Understood."

  "We're still finding infection on Telegraph Hill. And in the Mission District south of Market Street. Any of your men go in those areas, you'll have to scrub them brighter than a beet. And their clothes will have to be burned. And... my advice is to keep everyone out of those areas, also."

  Garrett and his men were posted along Market Street. They patrolled the blocks between Stewart and Fremont. Any bluejackets they encountered coming down from the north were turned back. If they protested, Garrett would stand aside.