Jessie handed him back his wallet. She was too polite to tell Shanks that a blind man could have spotted the big, badly dressed private eye. “I’m afraid all this has taken so much time that I’m going to be late for my appointment with Mr. Moore.”
“You just continue on down this alley until you get to Sutter,” Shanks instructed her. “It’ll be easy for you to hail a cab. Or you can walk, since you’ll only be a couple of blocks from the Palace. I’ve got to go back the way I came, to take care of some other business ...” he trailed off.
Jessie, not wanting to pry, thanked the detective, apologized again for accosting him, and turned to hurry off.
“Miss Starbuck!” Shanks called.
Jessie turned to see the man staring down at his feet, his silly little hat in his hands. “If you don’t mind—” Shanks glanced up bashfully. “Please don’t tell Jordan what happened.”
“Oh, Mr. Shanks, I can’t believe Jordan is the sort who might fire you for something like this—”
“No, ma‘am,” Shanks agreed quickly. “Anyway, he can’t fire me, as we’re equal partners in the agency. It’s just that I’d never hear the end of it.”
“I understand, Mr. Shanks.” Jessie smiled. “It’ll remain our secret. But next time be more careful,” she pretended to scold. “We are supposed to be the more deadly of the species.”
“Certainly the more charming,” Shanks muttered thickly, his big face turning pink.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Shanks,” Jessie laughed, and went off down the alley. When she turned, she saw Shank’s broad, blue-suited back disappearing into the traffic coursing along Pine Street.
Jessie walked quickly. She was half a block away from Sutter Street when she heard fast footsteps coming up behind her. She turned, expecting to see Shanks hurrying toward her with some message he’d forgotten to deliver. Instead, she saw a young, good-looking fellow dressed in dark wool trousers and a short leather jacket.
“Miss Starbuck!” the young fellow called.
Jessie slowed and waited for him to reach her. The man’s hair was black and curly. He had what seemed to be an apologetic smile on his handsome, open face.
“I won’t keep you too long,” he huffed as he reached her.
Jessie smiled and nodded. She remembered once again what Ki had taught her about tails. Obviously, Shanks was the decoy. This man must be an apprentice of the two older detectives. She wondered if what he had to tell her concerned her meeting with Moore—
The leather-jacketed man brought up his arm and hit Jessie across the face with the back of his hand. She went down hard, to stare up at a crazily spinning sky. The left side of her face felt numb.
Above her, seeming to tower over her like a giant, the man flicked open a straight razor. He still had that open, friendly smile on his handsome, hawk-nosed face as he crouched to grab her foot with his left hand.
The derringer was in her skirt pocket. She’d managed to get it out by the time he’d pulled her to him, bouncing and scraping her spine along the cobblestones.
Jessie aimed carefully, and shot him in the left shoulder. He shouted and let go of her foot as though it were a red-hot poker. His shoulder was bloody, and his left arm hung limp, but the razor was still in his right hand.
He went to swing the razor at her, and Jessie shot him in the face. A black-rimmed, red hole appeared between his eyebrows, and his eyes rolled up as if to look at the spot where the bullet had entered. Then, giving a little sigh, he folded to the pavement.
As Jessie’s heartbeat returned to normal, she turned and looked toward Sutter Street, half a block away. Business seemed to be going on as usual. No one seemed to have noticed the life-and-death battle that had just occurred in the midst of this crowded city on a sun-drenched afternoon.
Her face was no longer numb, but was painfully throbbing. She carefully moved her jaw from side to side, her fingers gingerly exploring the line of bone. Nothing seemed to be broken.
Her derringer had sounded like a firecracker, the twin, sharp reports echoing weakly against the thick walls enclosing the alley. Nobody had heard or seen a thing.
Get his wallet, Jessie ordered herself. Find out who he is—if he works for the cartel ...
Jessie heard two shrill blasts of a whistle. Was it a policeman? She did not want to become involved with the police. She wanted to go back to the hotel, to clean herself...
Before her, the dead man’s body twitched in some muscular contraction. The razor, still clenched in his right hand, moved—
Jessie turned and ran from the alley.
Chapter 5
Ki was about to leave the Embarcadero, but the clock tower atop the Ferry Building told him he had a lot of time to spare before he was to meet Jessie and the detective back at the Palace Hotel. He’d watched behind him, but it was obvious that there was no one at the cartel’s dock who was willing—or able—to follow him. He wasn’t worried about the cartel’s employees summoning the police. That was not likely while they had a hold full of opium.
He’d gotten away clean, and had been able to inflict some damage upon Starbuck enemies as well. Ki was pleased. It had all been excellent and honorable.
It was lunchtime. Several food vendors were pushing their carts along the Embarcadero in order to serve the longshoremen their midday meal. As Ki watched, laughing, hungry men—their baling hooks dangling from their shoulders, their work gloves tucked into pockets and belts—hurried to queue up in front of the food cart of their choice. Ki saw vendors selling sandwiches and fruit, milk and coffee. Several carts manned by Italians from nearby North Beach were doing a thriving business selling wine, food, and strong espresso coffee to those of their countrymen who had found their livings on the waterfront.
Ki felt hungry himself. He approached a cart being thronged by the few Chinese dock workers fortunate enough to be paid a wage that allowed them to purchase food. The cart was operated by an old Chinese man and a girl. The old man’s long pigtail hung down the back of his frayed, blue cotton tunic. His wide-brimmed bamboo hat looked like an inverted tray upon which the food he was peddling might be served. His pants were cut wide, and stopped just past his knees. Cork-soled, braided cotton slippers coverd his feet. A white apron protected his garb.
A charcoal brazier kept several pots steaming. The blackboard hanging from the cart’s side gave the menu and prices, but as the menu was in Chinese, Ki could not read it. He watched several workers being served. The aromas escaping as each pot’s lid was lifted, combined with the appetizing appearance of the food, told him all he needed to know. Being offered was a clear broth loaded with vegetables, noodles, black mushrooms, and chunks of seafood. The fish had most likely been purchased on this very dock during the dawn hours, while the dried mushrooms had come from the far side of the world.
Ki kept the brim of his Stetson low on his forehead as he stepped up to the cart and asked for some of the soup. The old man scowled and shook his head; clearly he did not understand English.
“I apologize most humbly for my grandfather,” the girl said in a lilting, lightly accented voice. “He has not learned the language of our new homeland.” She quickly took a sparkingly clean, white bowl from a shelf beneath the cart’s counter, and ladled into it a portion of soup. This she handed to Ki, along with a soup spoon made of white porcelain.
Now that Ki had noticed the girl, he could not stop gazing at her. She was exquisitely lovely. Her chin was small, so that the bottom of her face was full, but her cheekbones were high and pronounced, saving her face from the apple-roundness so common to those of her race. She wore no makeup, but there was no need for cosmetics. Her creamy skin was flawless. Her large black eyes sparkled and shone as if they had never seen misery. Indeed, what impressed and enthralled Ki most of all was the way this girl seemed untouched by the world around her. She glowed with serenity, with purity; this girl’s heart and mind seemed to be joined together in quiet enlightenment.
“Please!” she twittered. “Eat your
soup before it grows cold. Do not watch me so!”
“I must turn my back if I would eat. And I cannot turn my back.” He watched her blush. Her lips—like pink cherry blossom buds—parted in laughter to reveal her tiny, pearl-white teeth. She pressed her long, thin fingers to her mouth to hide her amusement, but not before her stem, scowling grandfather noticed, and chittered a reprimand. The old fellow may not have understood his words, Ki surmised, but he certainly understood their intent.
Like many Chinese people of her generation, the girl, unlike her grandfather, seemed willing to embrace her new homeland. Her English was good, and she did not bend and shuffle, but was ready to look an American in the eye and speak directly to him. Her clothing was well worn, but it was clean. She wore an ancient blue silk tunic, skillfully repaired many times, that could have belonged to her mother or even her grandmother, and beneath it a pair of ankle-length black cotton pantaloons; rope-soled cotton slippers covered her tiny feet. Her ebony hair fell in two long pigtails on either side of her head. By some wizardry, Ki noted, this plain clothing she wore only seemed to enhance her radiant beauty.
“If you will not eat your soup, please sample our other food,” the girl asked, spooning pork and vegetables into a bowl. She began to hand the food to Ki, but then stopped, her expression perplexed. “But we have no fork for you, sir! Only chopsticks!”
Ki had to smile. The irony of the situation was too much. They clearly took him for an American, a Caucasian. And he could not correct their assumption, not if he wanted to continue talking to this delightful female ...
“There you are, old man! You go ‘way! But we find you!”
Ki watched as two stocky Chinese men swaggered up. The other Chinese around the cart backed out of the path of the two. Whoever these men were, Ki thought, they certainly cut a wide swath through their own people.
“Please,” the girl hissed at Ki. “No charge for the soup. You go now. Quickly!”
The scowl had meanwhile left her grandfather’s face, to be replaced by an expression that was one part servility and several parts real terror. He began to speak to the two men in Chinese, but they cut him off abruptly.
“You!” one of them pointed at the girl. “Tell him we will no longer speak Chinese, but only the English language of our new country!”
The girl, as well, seemed frozen by fear. She said nothing, but only stared at the two men.
“Tell him!” the first man barked. Ki noticed that he had a long, thin, cinnamon-colored scar running from the upper lefthand corner of his forehead, down across the bridge of his nose, to the lower right corner of his snarling mouth.
“Quickly, girl. We have not got all day to spend with you,” the other Chinese said. His wispy, drooping mustache twitched whenever he talked.
The girl pressed her lips against her grandfather’s ear and whispered what had been said. Ki took the time to further examine the two newcomers. They were dressed in snug-fitting, dark-hued suits of identical cut and fabric. On their heads they wore identical derbies. Beneath their tight clothes, their arm and chest muscles bulged.
“Tell your grandfather that he not paid us for a long time,” the scarred one demanded. “We leave your restaurant alone. We make sure nobody else bother you. Where’s our money? You pay or you get much trouble. Where’s our money?”
The man had said all of this in a singsong voice, applying the vocal rhythms of his own tongue to his newly acquired English skills. The girl had seemed mesmerized by the rise and sway of his softly hissed threats. She was like some pretty little bird, grounded with a broken wing, forlornly waiting for the coiled serpent to strike.
“Tell him!” the scarred man suddenly shouted. Once again the girl jumped to do his bidding, desperately whispering to the deathly pale old man.
“And tell him that unless he pay us, Leno Alley lose one fine restaurant. Tell him unless he pay us, Gold Coin restaurant have bad fire. Be no more. His family go work in cigar factory. His grandaughter be a whore—”
“That is enough,” Ki said.
The scarred one, startled, turned to glare. He gave Ki a quick once-over, taking in his shiny black boots and fine suit, and the Stetson, which still shielded Ki’s face. The anger in the Chinese’s narrow eyes turned to amused contempt.
“He Mr. Smith,” he smirked to his mustached friend. “Mr. Smith, this no concern you,” he told Ki condescendingly. “This Chinese matter. Why you interfere in Chinese matter, eh?”
“You are offending the girl,” Ki said quietly.
“Ha! Ha!” Scarface’s laughter sounded like the shrill braying of a donkey. Each ‘ha’ was given equal, painstakingly careful emphasis, as if the man had studied how to laugh in English, as well as speak. “You like girl, eh? Ah so, Mr. Smith? Ha! Ha!” he nudged his friend. “She not for you, Mr. Smith. Ha! Ha ...” His laughter trailed off. “You go ’way now. This now for Chinese only, understand?”
“I think it is you who had better be on your way,” Ki warned. He pointed around and behind the two men. The Italians, Irishmen, and other dock workers had heard the scarred man’s loud taunts to “Mr. Smith.” There was no love lost between these groups and the Orientals during the best of times. Now the dock workers were forming a rough circle around the old man’s cart. They held their baling hooks pressed against their legs as they stared hard at these two Chinamen who had the audacity to dress in such finery.
“We go now,” the one with the mustache whispered to his companion. “We all alone here ...”
“All right, we go,” Scarface agreed, his tone surly. “But first we teach old man—and Mr. Smith—a lesson.” He turned to face the cart, bent his knees, and sprang up into the air, rising about four feet off the ground. At the apex of his hop, he kicked out with first his right and then his left foot, the steel-capped tips of his boots crashing into the wood paneling. The cart lurched, spilling red-hot coals and boiling food across the cement. There was the clatter of porcelain shattering as the shelves of bowls and spoons fell. The entire wooden side was stove in; the old man’s vending cart was ruined.
“We go now,” the scarred man said, smug and satisfied as he surveyed the slack-jawed, astonished looks of the surrounding dock workers. “And you, Mr. Smith,” he addressed Ki icily, “maybe we see you in Chinatown sometime. We show you a good time then, okay?”
The two sauntered on their way, leaving Ki to stand with his teeth gritted and his temper flaring white hot. How he’d longed to thrash those two bullies! But there was no way he could have done so without losing all hope of knowing this girl. If he had revealed his martial-arts ability, both she and her grandfather would have demanded to know how a Caucasian had come by such skills. They would have realized that Ki was partly Japanese, and then all would have been lost. Long, long ago, the Japanese had conquered the surrounding nations of Okinawa and China, demanding crippling tribute, and showing no mercy as they inflicted cruel humiliations on the vanquished. Ki knew that the girl’s grandfather would have preferred that she die rather than associate with a Japanese.
She was gathering up the toppled pots and their lids now, doing her best to smile bravely through her tears. “You were most brave to speak up for us,” she told Ki, her voice quavering. “But I wonder if you know how much you risked?”
“Who were they?” Ki demanded gently.
“They work for a bad man. A man named Chang. He is the head of a Tong.” Her large, dark eyes, still brimming with the tears she was too strong to let flow, gazed questioningly at Ki. “Do you know what a Tong is?”
“Yes,” Ki nodded.
“It is a sad thing,” she continued. “We left China to escape such things, and now we find that all the old sorrows have followed us here.” She shook her head. “Those men demand protection money from my family, or else we shall not be allowed to run our restaurant. You see how he smashed our cart? He and his friend are adept at Chinese boxing.”
Wu-shu, Ki thought to himself. He knew better than to reveal his knowledge to
the girl. In all, he didn’t think much of Scarface’s skill, but Ki was objective enough to know that two wu-shu adepts could give him a hard time.
“All of Chang’s men are so skilled,” she sighed. “They rule Chinatown.”
“What is your name?” Ki asked.
“Ah, sir, I cannot...” She trailed off, glancing at where her grandfather was picking through the shards of porcelain, muttering to himself, clearly hoping against hope that somewhere in the ruins he might find an unbroken bowl, or at least a spoon.
“I must know your name!” Ki persisted.
“It would just be more sadness. I could not bear it,” she whispered. “You are American. I am Chinese...”
Ki could see how she was trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes, so carefully shielded beneath the brim of his hat. If you could see me truly, how your beautiful face would curl with contempt and hatred, he mourned silently. “But you are an American too—” Ki stopped, realizing that what he was expressing was really his own heartfelt wish: that both of them could be together as Americans, and not as two lost and lonely foreigners, barred from each other by their nations’ histories.
The grandfather had finished picking through his ruined possessions. He muttered something in Chinese at the girl, who turned quickly to him, nodding and answering respectfully in their own tongue.
“I am a good girl,” she now told Ki, her voice even, but clearly wanting him to understand that she was saying all this on her elder’s orders, and not because she had misinterpreted Ki’s advances. “I am a virgin, and wish an honorable wedding to a Chinese man. I—” Suddenly her tiny hand darted out to grasp Ki’s. Her grandfather’s agonized voice reprimanded her sharply.
This time the girl showed her true spirit. She turned—still holding Ki’s hand—to confront her watchful guardian. Whatever she shrilly told him, it made the old fellow lower his glaring eyes and nod resignedly. When he next spoke, his voice had lost its harshness.
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