Rebecca Hagan Lee

by A Wanted Man

  He’d spent the past three days making discreet inquiries all over town to no avail. Will had made a personal call at the mission in his guise as a respectable officer of Craig Capital, Ltd., and made a sizable contribution to the mission’s indigent fund in order to inquire about Miss Parham, but no one seemed to know where Miss Parham had gone or recall exactly when they had last seen her. It was as if she’d fallen off the face of the earth. And Will was very much afraid that despite his best efforts to prevent it, she had done just that. Lifting the whiskey bottle, he poured a healthy shot into his coffee, then recorked the bottle, got up from the table, and carried it to the bar, where he handed it to the barman.

  “Put this away for me, will you, Jack?” He gave the other man a rueful look. “We’ve a busy night ahead of us, and I’ll need a clear head on me in order to deal with Madam Harpy.”

  “If you say so.” Jack flashed a smile. “Personally, I wouldn’t blame you for downing the whole bottle. Madam Harpy is right. Her screeching can peel the paint off the walls, that’s for sure. And she looks at us as if she’d relish cutting our livers out with a spoon and serving them to us as mince on a plate.”

  “I had a more obvious bit of anatomy in mind,” Will said.

  Jack snorted with laughter. “That, too.”

  “I don’t think she has a very high regard for men in general, and she holds a particularly low opinion of us white devils,” Will continued. “Fortunately, she uses chopsticks. I wouldn’t trust her with cutlery.”

  “I wouldn’t turn my back on her chopsticks, either. I’ll wager she sharpens the ends.”

  “You’d win that wager,” Will told him. “But not the ones she uses to eat; it’s the ones she wears in her hair. I’ve heard they’re deadly.” According to local gossip, a stab through the jugular was Li Toy’s favorite method for dispatching troublesome girls.

  “Saints preserve us,” Jack muttered, hurriedly crossing himself for the blasphemy before replacing the whiskey bottle on the mirrored shelf behind the bar. “Just looking at the woman gives me the willies. She’s cold.”

  “It’s her inscrutable face,” Will replied, enjoying the familiar banter.

  “There’s nothing inscrutable about Li Toy’s face. It’s got hatred, cruelty, and greed written all over it.”

  “Let’s hope her greed is stronger than her hatred or her cruelty.” Will walked over to the table and retrieved his mug of coffee.

  “Amen to that,” Jack seconded. “Drink your coffee, boss, before it gets cold. You’ll need it to keep your blood pumping if you don’t want to lose parts of your anatomy to frostbite wrangling with Madam Harpy.”

  Will chuckled in spite of himself, then did as his head barman and trusted friend ordered and took a sip of his coffee. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention pumping, willies, blood, and Madam Harpy in the same sentence.”

  Jack laughed out loud. “Done, boss.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Will paused long enough to glance around the room. There were few customers this time of day, and they were occupied at the billiard or poker tables. Nobody was paying close attention to the conversation between the saloon owner and his head barman. But it never hurt to be cautious. Will swallowed another mouthful of whiskey-laced coffee. “Is everything ready for tonight?”

  “The rooms are made up and ready, and the old man sent word that they will be here tomorrow night in time for the evening performance. What about you? Are you ready?” Nobody expected new girls to go to work the first night—not at the Silken Angel—but by tomorrow night, everyone in town would know there were new girls on the second floor of Will Keegan’s saloon.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Will sighed.

  Jack nodded. “It’s a nasty business we’re in now. Not like Craig Capital, where everything is aboveboard and tidy and the numbers all add up at the end of the day.”

  Will stared at him. “Any regrets about leaving that world for this one?”

  Jack O’Brien had followed his older brother, Murphy—a detective with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency—to America. As the youngest son of a devout Irish Catholic family, Jack had been destined for church life, but found he and the priesthood didn’t fit. He’d left the seminary at St. Patrick’s College in Dublin before taking his final vows and made his way from Ireland to the Comstock Lode in Nevada, where Murphy was working a case. Jack had been hired by the Pinkertons’ Denver office and had spent several months helping his brother by working as a barman in a saloon in Queen City before moving on to San Francisco. Will had met him while on business in the city and hired him as his personal secretary at Craig Capital, Ltd. Jack spent four years working there with Will and proved himself time and time again. He was smart, ambitious, hardworking, and entirely trustworthy. He’d thrived at Craig Capital and would have been the de facto manager of the San Francisco office in Will’s absence instead of Peter Malcolm, but he had jumped at the chance to work with Will on his latest venture.

  Jack smiled. “I knew those few months of tending bar and managing the rowdies at the Queen City Saloon and Opera House would come in handy.” He met Will’s serious look with one of his own. “Truth is, I don’t like the idea of you going into the dragon’s lair on your own. I’d feel better if I was going with you.”

  “I would, too,” Will admitted. “But we don’t want to change the way we do things. You’ve never accompanied me before. And I need you to handle things here.”

  “I know,” Jack agreed. “Just as I know that what we’re doing here is worth the risk.”

  “If we’re lucky and Madam Harpy proves greedy enough, we should have a half dozen or so new girls to fill those upstairs rooms and keep the troupe busy.”

  “And speaking of upstairs, why don’t you head up there and catch a few winks, boss? It’s going to be another long night for you, and you look like the devil.”

  Will squeezed his eyes shut. His eyes felt dry, gritty, and bloodshot, and the idea of grabbing a few hours of sleep before the auction was tempting.

  “I’ll keep watch over the saloon and an ear out for any word about our little grain-gathering missionary,” Jack said.

  Will shot Jack a cautioning glance.

  Jack acknowledged the warning look by reassuring Will that he wasn’t telling tales out of school. “The word is out all over Chinatown that our little friend spent her first two weeks in town poking her nose into the saloons, parlor houses, and boardinghouses, asking questions and trying to incite rebellion among the China dolls.”

  Will choked on his coffee.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Not that she had progressed from psalm singing to inciting rebellion in Chinatown.”

  Jack frowned. “That’s the word going around. But I think the rebellion claim is exaggerated.”

  “Oh?”

  Jack nodded. “I think the owners are claiming she’s inciting rebellion in order to get rid of the little psalm singer.” He looked at Will. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. She’s made quite a name for herself in the short time she’s been in San Francisco.” Jack shook his head in bemusement. “I’m amazed she hasn’t paid us a return visit, despite the fact that her month isn’t up yet.”

  “If only she would,” Will muttered. What he wouldn’t give to hear her singing “Bringing in the Sheaves” and banging on her tambourine about now.

  Jack laughed. “Why? So you can pay her another thirty dollars to go away again?”

  “So I’ll know she’s alive,” Will told him.

  “What?” Jack was taken aback by Will’s matter-of-fact statement.

  “Li Toy hired a policeman to quiet the missionary girl going about town singing ‘Bringing in the Sheaves.’ And she’s not paying for a month of silence. She’s paying for permanent silence.” He looked at Jack. “And I’d rather not have that guilty knowledge on my conscience.”

  “Jaysus!” Jack’s broad County Clare brogue came through loud and clear when he swore. “What are you going
to do?”

  “Nothing until the auction ends and we take possession of our merchandise.” Will shook his head as if to clear it. “Business has to come first. Once we get the ladies settled in, I’ll do what I’ve been doing for the past two nights.”

  “Which is?”

  “Prowling the streets and alleys of Chinatown after we close, poking my nose where it doesn’t belong, looking for information as to the whereabouts of our little Salvationist,” Will told him.

  “No wonder you look like hell.”

  “Yeah, no wonder.” Will raked his fingers through his hair, then crossed over to the bar and set his empty mug on the polished wood. “As far as I can tell, our little songbird isn’t at the mission.”

  “Aw, no . . .” The brogue was broader.

  “Oh, yes,” Will said. “Nobody has seen her in three days, and I have no idea which of the policeman on Li Toy’s payroll was paid to quiet her.”

  “What are you thinking?” Jack asked.

  “I’m praying I can come up with some answers, and that they don’t come too late.”

  “She’s not your responsibility,” Jack reminded him.

  “She’s an innocent, Jack,” Will retorted. “A babe lost in the woods. I’ll stake my life on it.”

  “You start asking questions about Madam Harpy and corrupt police and you will be staking your life on it.”

  Will shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t be helped.”

  “What about the Salvationists?” Jack demanded. “Are they doing anything to find her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jack frowned. “But she’s one of their own.”

  “And they sent her out to minister to the needy,” Will replied. “As far as they’re concerned, she’s in the city performing missionary work. God will protect her.”

  “But you feel differently. . . .”

  “I feel responsible.”

  Jack nodded. He was well aware of his boss’s resolution. The Silken Angel Saloon was the product of that resolution. “Watch your back,” Jack warned.

  Will gave a genuine smile. “That’s why I have you,” he retorted. “I can’t do everything. Watching my back is your job.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Wrongdoing can only be avoided if those who are not wronged feel the same indignation at it as those who are.”

  –SOLON, 6TH CENTURY B.C.

  Julie peeked out from beneath the burlap sacks stacked atop two large beer barrels in the far corner of the cellar of the Jade Dragon. The room was dank and dusty, filled with the pall of cigar smoke, the scent of exotic oils, and the sickly sweet-smelling residue of opium that clung to the clothing and hair and skin of the recent visitors to the Washington Street opium dens. The cellar was large by San Francisco standards, with a raised dais illuminated by footlights at one end and a small bar, a concession to the white men attending the auction, set up along the western wall. The remainder of the space was taken up by tables and chairs.

  The room was packed with men of all shapes, sizes, ages, and nationalities. The sound of deep voices, the shuffle of feet, and the scraping of tables and chairs sent the mice sharing the cover of the burlap sacks with her scurrying for newer, safer hiding places. She did her best to bite back a squeak of dismay when one of them crawled over her hand, and failed.

  The man sitting alone at the table closest to her turned in her direction.

  Julie clamped a hand over her mouth, sank down on her bottom, pressed her back against the wall, and willed herself to become invisible. She was playing a dangerous game, and while she hadn’t suffered the consequences of her actions yet, she knew there would be consequences. There always were. And they could be deadly. Struck for the first time by the enormity of what she’d done, Julie wriggled up the wall just far enough to take another look around. She gritted her teeth against the sharp prick of pins and needles in her feet. She’d been huddled on the floor in the cold, damp corner so long her feet were numb. Running was impossible, walking unlikely. If discovered, she feared she’d be reduced to crawling past the guards at the entrance and praying for divine intervention.

  There was no other way out.

  She’d discovered that unpleasant truth when, acting on impulse, she’d hefted a box from the bed of the wagon parked in the alley and followed the two men carrying identical boxes into the cellar of the Jade Dragon.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to darkness inside the cavernous room, but once they did, Julie quickly realized she was trapped. Her heart pounding at her foolhardiness, Julie set the box on the nearest table, whipped off her straw hat, replaced it with a man’s black cap she’d kept tucked in the waistband of her trousers, and slipped behind two large beer barrels in the darkest corner seconds before Li Toy’s henchmen returned to the wagon for more supplies.

  She hadn’t been able to see what they were doing from her hiding place, but she knew from their conversation that they were tasked with the chore of setting up a makeshift bar on the near wall. She’d listened to the two men arguing over who had left the box of whiskey sitting on the table and cursing white foreign devils whose sense of entitlement demanded that they be able to drink.

  With their tasks complete, the two men withdrew to the entrance to stand guard at the doorway.

  Unable to escape with Madam Harpy’s hatchet men guarding the door, Julie settled into the darkness to wait for what came next. She closed her eyes, intending to rest them for a moment, but she must have dozed, because she was awakened suddenly by the sights and sounds and scents of people filing into the room.

  Horrified by the thought that she’d allowed her exhaustion to overtake her good sense, Julie held her breath and took another peek at the action in the cellar. She was rewarded with her first look at Li Toy, the infamous madam whose name struck terror in the hearts of Chinatown residents—especially the laundry girl, Zhing Wu, and the girls trapped in Li Toy’s brothels. Julie was surprised to find that the woman in the long yellow silk cheongsam was tiny—tinier than Su Mi, and Julie stood head and shoulders above her best friend. Seeing Li Toy up close and in the flesh, Julie found it hard to believe the small, middle-aged woman a few feet away was lethal when crossed. She looked like someone’s kindly aunt or grandmother, and she dressed like Lolly in the traditional mandarin-collared, narrow-skirted embroidered silk dresses slit up the front to allow easier movement. Julie studied the embroidery on the yellow silk. It was well-done, but it didn’t bear any of the hallmarks of Su Mi’s exquisite needlework.

  Julie exhaled. That didn’t mean Su Mi hadn’t come in contact with the notorious madam, only that she hadn’t decorated the madam’s cheongsam. She turned her attention back to the woman wearing the dress. If worse came to worst and she was discovered, Julie believed she could hold her own against Li Toy, provided she could overcome the uncomfortable sensation in her feet and legs. The guards were another matter. But if everything followed the plan she’d formed after finding herself trapped in the cellar, she’d pick up a tray of dirty cups and glasses, keep her head down and her eyes averted, and slip through the crowd when the auction ended. That was her plan. Julie hoped it worked. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She had to focus on the matter at hand.

  The auction.

  Li Toy stepped onto the dais, clapped her hands. “Gentlemen!” Her voice was a high-pitched shriek. “Now business time.” She clapped her hands together again, and two of her minions lit the footlights along the perimeter of the raised dais, raised the wicks to their highest positions, then stepped back as another underling led a young Chinese girl onto the stage.

  Julie couldn’t swallow her gasp at the sight of the poor girl. During her fortnight in San Francisco, Julie had seen many shocking sights. She’d seen the inside of brothels and girls imprisoned in cribs. She had seen Chinese females with bared breasts call out in broken singsong English at all hours of the day and night, “Lookee, nice China girl. Come inside, please.” She had witnessed men and women openly engaged in sexual
congress before the uncovered windows of the establishments lining both sides of China Alley between Jackson and Washington streets—a sight that convinced her that spinsterhood had much to recommend it and intimacy with a male had none.

  None of those horrors prepared her for the sight of a young Chinese girl standing before a crowd of rapacious men and two or three seemingly heartless women; the girl wearing a short opened blouse and nothing else, her hands bound at the wrists behind her back so that she was unable to cover herself and preserve her modesty. Julie’s heart went out to the poor girl. She fervently prayed Su Mi hadn’t had to endure this public degradation.

  “Bid now for number one girl!” Madam Harpy ordered the men seated at the tables. “Ah Fook, handsome young virgin from Kwangtung province.” Using a polished black-lacquered walking stick, Li Toy poked the girl in the thigh. “Stand up straight,” she snapped in Cantonese, before turning back to the audience. “Bid start at five hundred American dollars.”

  Julie pressed her face against the beer barrel, unable to watch as several men rose from their seats, walked to the dais, and began intimate examinations of the girl.

  “Five hundred dollars!” came the first bid.

  “Six hundred!”

  “Eight hundred!”

  “Eight hundred twenty-five!”

  Seated at his table near the back corner, Will jotted quick notes in a ledger by the light of a small lamp as the bidding grew feverish: Girl number one, Ah Fook, virgin from Kwangtung province. Approximately sixteen years of age.

  “One thousand dollars.” The sound of Will’s firm voice carried above the din.

  Li Toy grinned. “One thousand one time. One thousand two times. One thousand three times.” She clapped her hands. “Sold. Mr. Will Keegan, the Silken Angel Saloon.”