Blowing Off Steam

by Karen Mercury

  Calliope shouted to be heard over the din. “I saw many chickens for sale outside. Why do you need to come in here?”

  “I’m sorry we brought you,” Field agreed. “Rushy, this is no place for a genteel white woman! Why did we come in here?”

  Rushy regarded him with bulging eyes. “Because we need to, Field, if you don’t disremember! Hey, now, Maurice. Find Kwok Lee for us!”

  A few men turned to them with slight interest when Rushy uttered the kingpin’s name, but Calliope’s eyes were shining, and she inched toward a table. “What an adventure! I think I already see the logic in this game. The dealer removes four buttons at a time. They’re betting that the last four buttons might all be white or all black. Or see? That fellow is betting they’ll be a mixture of black and white.”

  Field fingered her sapphire silk sleeve. “You’re breathing in opium fumes, my puss.”

  He’d drawn so close to her that when she turned, she was nearly face-to-face with him. Her eyes already watered red from the smoke that permeated everything. She took on a knowledgeable, lecturing expression. “The largest group of opium imbibers is women with ‘female problems,’ of which I’ve had my fair share.” She wiggled her eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “I happen to know that the women of Sacramento would pay highly for such a soothing shipment. Especially if it isn’t squashed next to any chicken gizzards. My possum.”

  Was she calling him a…possum? Surely that word had erotic possibilities? A possum didn’t just indicate a smuggler, now, did it? They were being crowded so closely together by the milling, robed bodies, her cinnamon scent wafted up to him and even overpowered the musty library odor of opium that imbued his shirtfront. Her uplifted bosom was pressed against his abdomen, and if her lap wasn’t covered with layers of frilly satin, she would have definitely felt his bulging erection pressed to her hip.

  Field lifted a hand and touched a thumb to her lower lip, as though to smooth away a smudge there, although there was no such thing. “My puss…” he repeated, glad that the chattering voices that filled the room probably made it impossible for her to hear. Was it his imagination, or did her eyes shine up at him with emotion? It was probably just the smoke stinging them.

  “Field!” called Rushy, and Field had to bring Calliope up a rickety staircase to the next level.

  Here, they had to navigate a room lined with bunks, each containing at least one naked being. Some drew on their long pipes while others stared with barren, inanimate eyes. Some humans appeared quite dead, and they had to pick their way over an open central drain that was floating with indescribable filth.

  Rushy said, “I can’t imagine that this kingpin is such a big dog, if he runs such a shoddy shop.”

  Field was helping Calliope keep her skirts from touching the floor. “Yes, and these smokers are making me feel like I’m walking through a boneyard. Let’s just get this over with and get out.” To Calliope, he said, “I’ll buy you a whole new get-up when this is over. Some fine rig with all the latest Paris finery.”

  But Calliope was quite game, all things considered. A couple of well-attired buffaloes let them in the final pair of doors and things were looking up. Surely Kwok Lee would be a high muckety-muck and would serve them tea before exchanging their gold for the chickens stuffed with opium.

  That wasn’t to be, however.

  The big Celestial frog, although wearing grandiose robes with gold embroidery and having an especially long pigtail down his back nearly to the floor, was engaged in hammering away at an iron safe. The safe was nearly four feet tall and had the words “Excelsior Safe Co., Cincinnati, USA” emblazoned on it. Kwok Lee hammered with rage, using a sledgehammer that appeared to have been used to drive railroad ties, but hadn’t put a dent in the safe as of yet. Uttering all sorts of Celestial curses, his long moustaches flew as he pounded ineffectually at the safe, and the three Americans backed up against the wall. Of course no one would disturb him in his efforts, the only other person present being a majordomo sort of fellow who sat in a corner on a scarlet mat puffing away at an enormous jade pipe.

  Field asked Maurice from the corner of his mouth, “Should we come back later?”

  “No,” said Maurice. “Kwok Lee changes all the time. Next minute, he be friendly.”

  Sure enough, after a minute or so, Kwok Lee became disheartened with the safe and fell back onto a cushion with only enough energy to lift another pipe to his lips. Next to the opium layout of spirit lamp, needle, scissors, and scales also sat a large ominous bottle of some clear Celestial liquor that did not bode well. Field shared glances with Rushy, who stepped forward to catch the blasé fellow’s eye.

  “We have gold,” Rushy started, showing him one of the many eagle’s quills they had brought with them. “We come to exchange it for the chickens stuffed with opium. Ofuyung. Tobias Fosburgh?”

  Perhaps it was the mention of the headmaster’s name, but now the majordomo lurched off his feet and came toward Rushy with outstretched claws like some lumbering swamp creature. It was so unexpected when he started choking Rushy, Rushy dropped the eagle’s quill of gold. Kwok Lee picked it up.

  Field dashed forward to knee the majordomo in the testicles from behind, causing him to loosen his grip on Rushy’s throat. Luckily Kwok Lee noticed what was happening then and joined in, kneeing his majordomo in the face, so the fellow was getting it from both ends.

  “Pipie!” Kwok Lee said to his partner with disgust.

  “What is pipie?” Field asked Maurice in desperation.

  “Pipie is a smoker of ofuyung,” Maurice answered placidly, apparently accustomed to such fisticuff shenanigans.

  Pipie was not a good moniker, apparently, for the majordomo snarled and spat at Kwok Lee, swiping at the Celestial spirit bottle and chugging from it heartily.

  “If this is how they do business in this joint,” Calliope said to Field, “I’d say we should run like sixty.”

  “Yes,” Field agreed. “They appear to have a screw loose.”

  But Kwok Lee now had at least one of their quills and was shrieking at them to sit on some rancid floor cushions. Even odder, from behind a curtain came a wee nipper, toddling after a bug he seemed to be chasing. Neither riceman noted the kid’s appearance, and now Kwok Lee was yelling at Field.

  “Open safe!”

  Rising, Field inquired of Kwok Lee, “Is the o-fuyung in there? Stuffed inside chickens?”

  Maurice did some babbling and interpreted for Field. “He got safe from American store. He put ofuyung in there, and now he can’t get it out.”

  “Well,” Field told Kwok Lee. “That’s why it’s called a ‘safe.’”

  But they wouldn’t get their commodity just sitting around like this, and Kwok Lee was now bashing the majordomo over the head with a long bamboo stick, taunting him about being a pipie. Rushy was casually playing with the Celestial toddler and the bug. Field, figuring he’d be safer with a sledgehammer in his hand anyway, decided to give it a go, but his assessment had been correct—there was no way this was going to open the safe. He only succeeded in making sparks fly.

  Just as he was starting to think this was a losing proposition and that they could find many more ofuyung proprietors in Chinatown whose product wasn’t locked in an American safe—and who weren’t out of their heads—the two tussling ricemen knocked into a tall pillar-like table. One of the several lit spirit lamps was knocked to the floor and rolled toward Rushy and the toddler, where it erupted into flames three feet tall, not a foot from the poor filthy toddler.

  Everything happened all in a flash then. Rushy leaped to his feet, handed the baby to Calliope, and whisked a cloth from another pillar to smother the flames. Kwok Lee’s important decision was to stomp on the iridescent beetle with enraged glee, making the toddler cry.

  “Hey!” yelled Rushy, standing between Kwok Lee and Calliope. “Enough with these shenanigans! If we can’t make the deal, give us the gold back and we’ll leave!”

  This caused the
majordomo to start for Rushy again, his hands held out in the shape of Rushy’s throat. Field could have easily conked him on the head with the sledgehammer but had a sneaking feeling that would just set in motion an entire chain of actions that would end with an army of ricemen chasing them down the street with bullwhips. Luckily, Kwok Lee took action then, shoving the majordomo back so that he hit his head on the edge of the safe, and he was out like a light, his mouth open like so many of those pipies lying on shelves in the other room.

  Nobody tried to rouse him, and everyone breathed sighs of relief. Rushy tried afresh. “Listen, Kwok. There’s no way we’re going to get that safe open without the key.”

  “Or some dynamite,” Field suggested, logically.

  “No, don’t!” Calliope cried. “These ricemen love their dynamite. He probably has some around here somewhere.”

  Rushy spread out a calming hand. “OK, forget the dynamite. So give us our gold back and we’ll be on our way. Maurice, translate.”

  But when Maurice translated, Kwok Lee only became more enraged, staggering to the bottle of clear liquor and draining it, then ranting about fan quai, white people.

  “What is he saying?” Field demanded to know.

  Maurice listened intently. “White people have ruined Kwangtungmen. They force them to bring women slaves over here and only allow men to work on farms. Now you say you won’t do business with him and his ofuyung.”

  “That’s not true!” Calliope cried. “Those hookers came here because ricemen told them to, not white men! I’ve seen those poor girls who never leave those alleyways their entire lives.”

  “You know,” Field said. “The dynamite might not be a bad idea. I could light it, then we leave the room. I just need to make sure the charge is sufficient.” He chuckled. “Might wake up those stone-dead cadavers in the next room.”

  Rushy frowned. “Wouldn’t it also blow up the opium?”

  Field protested. “No, not if I set it just the right way to blow the door ajar, if I set it against the jamb of the iron—”

  “Possums,” Calliope said in a warning tone. Then, “Possums!” more stridently.

  The men looked. Kwok Lee staggered to the safe and appeared to be attempting to tip it over—upon himself.

  “What’s he doing?” Field asked Maurice.

  Maurice reported, “He says maybe if safe is turned sideways, on floor, we can open it more easy.”

  “Hey now,” said Rushy, halfheartedly shaking Kwok Lee by the arm. “That won’t help any.”

  “Besides,” said Field. “It’s facing the wrong way.”

  But the word came out “way—aaaaaaaay!” when Field realized the safe was tipping over on the Celestial big dog. Of course Rushy and Field darted over to prevent the giant iron box from smashing Kwok Lee. The phrase “squished like a bug” came instantly to mind when the safe teetered and slammed the riceman to the floor, only his arms emerging to momentarily flail. The fingers twitched as everyone stared dumbly down at him, then stopped.

  “Oh, my,” Calliope said blandly, with less emotion than she’d shown when Kwok Lee had stepped on the beetle.

  The safe door suddenly swung wide open, further bashing Kwok Lee’s dead fingers into the floorboards. A porcelain bowl rolled out, stopping against the toe of Field’s boot.

  Field looked at Rushy. Rushy looked at Field.

  Both men took a dive into the cavern of the safe, pulling out bowl after blue porcelain bowl. They were all lined with rows and layers of flower petals, and Field swiftly saw this was one of their methods of transport—the opium was rolled into balls and pressed into the bowls, separated by layers of petals.

  “Maurice!” Rushy ordered. “Hand me that burned mat.”

  They stacked the bowls up to a height of about two feet per stack, wrapping them in the layout mats, and when done, they had four stacks of the things.

  “Let’s take off before those guards come in,” Calliope begged.

  “What about that quill of gold Kwok Lee already took?” Rushy asked.

  Field replied, “It’s underneath the safe. Anyway, it’s a small price to pay for all of this opium.”

  “But,” Calliope said, “you just killed your opium supplier!”

  That wasn’t true. They hadn’t killed him. He had killed himself. Field continued stacking bowls. “Should we admit that we didn’t kill him?”

  Maurice said, “Killing Kwok Lee will make you big men. If you can depart this building without being killed.”

  So they departed the way they had entered. Rushy insisted on taking the poor downtrodden Chinese toddler in his arms. He said he intended on dropping the child with some Mormons he knew who could ascertain who the parents were, so Field and Calliope strode slower behind Rushy and Maurice, two stacks of bowls apiece in their arms. They wended past coolies swinging heavy loads at the ends of bamboo poles balanced on their shoulders and launderers who held their baskets of soiled clothing on their heads.

  Field regretted bringing Calliope to witness that scene. She hadn’t always been a hooker, and no lady should have to view a wallpapered riceman crushed to death by a safe, the other one knocked out perhaps for good. “Calliope,” he started to say, dodging around a huge hanging cloth sign that must have advertised goose fetuses for sale. He continued shouting over the heads of a few Celestials. “I’m sorry to have brought you there. We never should have involved you in our business. I really feel I must explain to you. I have a son—”

  But Calliope was nowhere to be seen. Field’s heart lurched, and he teetered this way and that, straining to find her. She must have ducked into that secondary alley draped with laundry, and Field followed, using his chin to prop the bowls.

  Yes, she was there. Her bowls were on the ground and she leaned against the wall wearing a foxy look, hands at her sides. “There you are! I was shaking in my boots when I saw you missing! Why did you duck down this alley?”

  Calliope nodded her head to indicate he should put his own bowls down. Only then did she say, “Because. This.” And she wrapped her long, satin arms around his neck, pressing him to the wall. Field was aghast. No woman had kissed him since his wife, and his mind suddenly went blank. Standing on tiptoes, she tilted her lovely head and kissed him like a wildcat.

  Her mouth opened, and she dined on his lips, sucking them into her mouth seductively. She squiggled her tongue about his and seemed to delight in making loud smacking sounds as she threaded her fingers through his hair. It occurred to Field, Calliope probably hadn’t kissed a man—properly—in months if not years. Hookers normally didn’t kiss their clientele. Had she ever been married? He made it his business to find out soon.

  He enjoyed licking her cinnamon mouth and dared to encircle her waist in his palms. When he heard feminine giggling, he knew Calliope had darted down an alley of hookers, but he didn’t want to let her go. Calliope sighed little girlish sounds into his mouth, and when he lifted one hand to her hair, he found it smooth as glass, soft as a rabbit’s fur. Although she pressed her pelvis to him, Field hoped her layers of skirts prevented her from feeling his bulging erection.

  She pulled back to sigh against his face. “Field, Field…This is what I wanted. You in my arms. Stealing from that damned riceman only excited me even more, and I just could not resist.”

  “Well.” Field sighed against her forehead. “We did pay him for some of it. Only the gold got smashed underneath the safe, too.”

  All of a sudden, they both laughed hysterically. Field kept his grip on her waist, but they pressed their foreheads together and laughed. “Ah, Calliope. So danger excites you.”

  She leaned her torso back and regarded him happily. “Doesn’t it excite everyone?”

  At that, Field had to agree. To excite her even further, he said, “If that fellow wakes up, he can identify us.”

  Calliope nodded briskly. “So we’d better run.”

  They ran, but now it was more of a skip, and they held hands while balancing their stacks of bowls, s
o they wouldn’t get separated.

  Chapter Eight

  They raced the side-wheeler Butte back to Sacramento.

  It was a foolish and reckless thing to do, especially with all those bowls of contraband opium aboard, but Rushy could not resist. Steamer racing had become quite the modern thing to do, with boats competing for passengers, income, and thrills. Passengers loved the excitement and would often shoot off their revolvers in the general direction of rival boats. The waters of the bay were crowded with river packets maneuvering, shrieking their whistles at each other for the right of way, and lining up north for races.

  There was no steamboat inspection service as of yet, and Field knew how to stoke his boiler to its maximum by holding an oar down on the safety valve. Just last week, a rival had exploded because they had their steam gauge on the hurricane deck for passengers’ amusement, and not below where the engineer could have seen he wasn’t relieving the pressure correctly.

  So the El Dorado beat the Butte back to Sacramento by a good forty minutes. Calliope had her first big challenge cooking supper for over a hundred guests, and Rushy and Field played the big dogs strolling about the dining room wearing frock coats with long tails and vaguely military bars on their shoulders, accepting congratulations. It wasn’t until about ten o’clock that Rushy realized he should talk to Field about the ofuyung in the bowls. They had been too busy racing to talk to Tobias, and he had snuck out when they moored, probably to go play “Headmaster” at a different bawdy house.

  Rushy found Field down in the engine room. It was well-nigh ninety degrees outside and even hotter in the engine room, so Field worked shirtless, a situation that always pleased Rushy. Field climbed down from the water tank where he’d been perched, grabbing a rag to wipe his dripping chest.