Foxy led Jessie through the first two dens, and into the third and last of the chambers. The rooms were connected railway-fashion. The last room had no back exit. To leave the dens, one had to retrace one’s steps. A feeble current of air—a draft from the stairwell, perhaps—tended to push all the excess smoke into this last room. Here the still, sweet clouds seemed to hang the thickest. Jessie did her best to take shallow breaths, but the fumes still got to her. Her head began to spin, and her fingers began to feel thick and clumsy.
Foxy snickered as Jessie stumbled against her. “Easy, girl! You could sink into a nice little dream of your own if I left you down here and forgot to come fetch you.”
The madam clamped her pudgy hand onto the back of Jessie’s neck and steered her roughly into the far comer of the den. A short, fat man sat on the carpet with his knees drawn up, and his back propped against the wall. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his soiled tie was askew. His vest and suit jacket lay in a crumpled ball next to him. The man’s thinning, reddish-brown hair dangled in greasy strands across his forehead. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. He kept stroking his clipped mustache, either out of nervous habit or to furtively sniff the scent of the opium that had stained his fingers.
“Commissioner!” Foxy Muscat impatiently nudged the man with the toe of her slipper. “Commissioner Smith, open your eyes!”
Commissioner Smith? Jessie thought, startled out of her own stupor. The waterfront commissioner himself?
The man opened his bleary, bloodshot eyes. “A woman?” he slurred. “Don’t want a woman ...”
Foxy scowled. “Come on! Snap out of it for a moment, you—” She stopped, catching herself in time. “Lucky for me he’s too out of it to hear,” she confided to Jessie. “Kneel down before him.”
“Commissioner?” Foxy tried again. “What do you think of the girl?”
Smith shook his head adamantly. “Don’t want a girt—”
“Not for you!” Foxy warbled. “Not for you—”
The commissioner stopped his spastic movements and peered first at the madam, and then at Jessie. He squinted his red eyes, doing his best to bring them into focus. “Who, then?”
Before Foxy could reply, the answer evidently dawned on him. He threw back his head and let loose a high, wheezing laugh. “Wonderful, Foxy. Wonderful!” He stared at Jessie, and stretched out his hand to chuck her under the chin, but he underestimated the distance and ended up tickling the thin air six inches in front of Jessie’s nose. “Does this one know yet?”
Foxy shook her head gleefully. “Nope! And not a word from you about it, understand?”
Smith nodded, still laughing to himself. “Wonderful! Lots of money. For you, for me ...” His eyes fell upon Jessie. “Poor little thing ...” Once again his loon laugh echoed off the cellar walls.
Jessie fought to suppress her anger. No wonder this waterfront official who was making things so difficult for the Starbuck concern was accepting bribes to let opium enter the city. He himself was an addict!
Smith, meanwhile, was fumbling at his tray. He came up holding his empty pipe.
“Very well, this one here will bring you more,” Foxy chuckled. “More and more, as much as you want, my dear Commissioner.” To Jessie she hissed, “Get to your feet!”
“Yes, ma‘am.” Jessie did as she was told.
“This little fellow happens to be very important,” Foxy whispered. “Never you mind why, for the time being. You’ll see a lot of bigwigs in my house, but if you should ever blab to anyone about what you see, I promise to cut your tongue out! Understand, girl?”
“Yes, ma‘am.” Jessie couldn’t believe her good fortune. She was being ordered to serve the one man who could supply her with the information Jordan Moore and Ki would need to intercept and destroy the expected opium shipment.
“I’ll come back for you in a bit,” Foxy was saying. “Nobody but these damn smokers can stand it down here for long,” she wheezed, rubbing at her eyes. “Bring him what he wants. I’ll clear it with Lee.”
“More opium!” Smith muttered as Jessie knelt before him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to rest a bit, Commissioner?” Jessie suggested as soon as Foxy was out of earshot. It wouldn’t do for Smith to pass out before Jessie got the information out of him.
“I want it now!” Smith demanded.
“Yes, sir!” Jessie rose and hurried through the front dens to Lee, the Chinese man in charge of the drug supply. Several other smokers were patiently waiting for their ration, but Lee waved them aside to let Jessie come to the front.
“Lucky that Smith is an important fellow,” Lee said, his sunken eyes greedily gazing at Jessie’s proud, jutting breasts, naked beneath the sheer gauze of the chemise. He had the waxy yellow complexion and the brown-stained, rotting teeth of a long-time opium user. “You smoke with me later, okay?” the Chinese leered.
Jessie merely snatched up the penny-sized chunk of opium on its little plate, and hurried back toward Smith. Lee’s lewd chortles followed her. Jessie thought the opium smoke must be getting to her. She could actully feel the man’s eyes hotly devouring her body. Never had she felt so helpless!
“What took so long?” Smith whined when she’d reached him. “Hurry up!” His hand went into a tremor, tapping a staccato rhythm upon the lacquered tray.
Jessie did as she’d been taught the previous night. She squeezed the opium between her fingers in order to warm and soften it, and then pinched off a bit and packed it into the thimble-sized bowl of the pipe.
She held the pipe to his lips, the bowl pointing downward. He sucked at it the way an infant sucks at its mother’s nipple. She took up one of the wooden tapers, held it to a glowing charcoal ember, and then held the flame beneath the bowl.
There was a wet, gurgling sound as the opium melted and began to bubble. Smith sucked in a lungful of smoke and held it until Jessie thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. Then he exhaled, the smoke coming out of him in a hissing billow.
“Good!” the commissioner babbled, his red eyes half closed, his blissful smile stretching from ear to ear. He reached out tentatively, even a trifle shyly, to fondle one of Jessie’s breasts.
No! she thought, as her spirit rebelled. It was too much! She was a person, she was not some pet to be slapped and fondled at any man’s whim. Let Smith squawk to Foxy, or even Mrs. Fitzroy! Jessie no longer cared. She was fed up with being manhandled. She was not a whore! She was not! If necessary, she would go upstairs, tear out the gun she’d hidden in the mattress, and show them who she was: Jessica Starbuck!
She deflected Smith’s hand, and then waited for the roof to cave in on her. But nothing happened. Smith was so deeply under the influence of the opium that he literally couldn’t remember what he was doing from one moment to the next.
The realization calmed Jessie. It allowed her to regain control of her outraged sensibilities. She was locked into this demeaning role for a reason, and would only be here for a little while longer. Right now she had a chance to ferret out what she was seeking. Smith couldn’t remember what he was doing. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to remember what he said, either.
Jessie filled the pipe. “You do like this stuff, don’t you, Commissioner?”
“Need it,” the man replied. “Makes me happy, makes me dream...”
Once again he sucked greedily at the stem of the pipe as Jessie lit it. While he was inhaling, another tremor overcame him. Sparks flew from the bowl, to rain down upon the bare skin of his chest, where his shirt gaped open. Jessie quickly brushed away the burning ashes, marvelling at the man’s obliv iousness to pain. He’d felt nothing.
“Commissioner, the opium comes on ships, doesn’t it?” Jessie asked quietly,-at the same time glancing over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn’t being overheard.
“Big ships!” Smith slurred dreamily. “I sign in every one. Nobody questions me!” he boasted happily. He started suddenly, giving an involuntary shiver. Slapping at himse
lf, he muttered, “Bugs on me. Bugs down here.”
“There are no bugs, Commissioner,” Jessie promised. Her time was growing short. Smith could lapse into unconsciousness at any moment, and Foxy might return to fetch her.
“More!” the commissioner demanded.
“More opium is coming,” Jessie whispered into his ear. “When is it coming?”
“More!” Smith moaned.
“There isn’t any more here,” Jessie told him. “When’s the next shipment due in?”
“Week, maybe...” he mumbled, his head sinking down to his chest.
Jessie slapped him across the face. Then she slapped him twice again. They were short, light blows; she wanted to wake him up, not knock him out.
“Sooner,” Jessie corrected Smith as his eyes fluttered open.
“More opium—” he began.
“Tell me when it’s coming,” Jessie hissed. “There’s a shipment due any night. When?”
Smith stared stupidly into her eyes. “Tonight? But that’s not opium, coming tonight...”
Jessie had the pipe loaded and ready. She jammed it between his teeth and held the burning taper to the bowl. Smith sucked in reflex.
“Not opium,” he said as he exhaled the smoke. “Slaves! Ol’ Chang’s bringin’ in coolie slaves! Fella wants ‘em for his daddy’s lumber business, in Oregon—”
“Smith!”
Jessie almost jumped out of her skin. The pipe fell from her fingers. She looked up to see the rage-flushed, garishly made-up face of Foxy Muscat. The fat woman was literally quivering with anger.
Foxy Muscat’s glowering eyes were fixed not on Jessie, but on Smith. “Damn fool!” she spat. “What’d you babble about? Answer me, you damned addict!”
A loud, rasping snore escaped from Smith. The waterfront commissioner slowly slid down the wall, to end up with his chin coming to rest on his chest.
“Bah!” Foxy grumbled. “He’ll be out for hours. First come the sweet dreams, then the nightmares.” That last thought seemed to bring her some pleasure. The tension went out of her as she fixed her gaze on Jessie. “There’s always the nightmares,” she remarked jovially. “Terrible things, opium nightmares.”
“Horrible!” Jessie gasped.
“Yeah, yeah...” the madam sighed wearily. “You’ll see worse,” she promised. “Now, on your feet with you!”
Jessie rose, only to begin to black out. “Got up too fast, I guess...” she mumbled as Foxy supported her.
“Too much of this damned opium smoke is what it is,” the madam said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
They were out of the dens and halfway up the stairs when Foxy paused to give Jessie a shake. “What else did that fool babble to you about?” she demanded.
“He kept talking about slaves, and he did mention that he was in charge of getting you opium.” Jessie innocently widened her eyes, and then shrugged. “Or something like that... it was awfully hard to understand him, ma‘am,” she finished.
“He’s in charge of the opium!” Foxy laughed. “Oh, that’s rich! That fool may just have hung himself this time. Wait until—” She stopped, realizing who she was talking to. “Well, you never mind, Annie.”
“Yes, ma‘am,” Jessie replied with genuine relief.
“You can go upstairs to your room,” the madam said. “Sleep off the effects of the opium for a bit.”
As Jessie hurried past the madam, Foxy clamped her strong fingers about Jessie’s wrist, jolting her around and almost yanking her back down the steps.
“And if you’re smart,” Foxy threatened, “you’ll forget everything you heard. Understand?”
“I promise!” Jessie exclaimed.
“Go on, then.” Satisfied, Foxy waved her off. As Jessie scooted upstairs, the gargantuan madam gruntingly made her own lumbering journey up to the first floor.
Once Jessie had reached the relative safety of her little bedroom, she breathed an exhausted sigh of relief. She flopped down on the narrow bed. Right now it felt ten times more comfortable than the big, soft, expensive bed that the Palace Hotel had so recently supplied her.
Well, she thought to herself. She had the information she’d wanted. Now all she had to do was figure out a way to get it to Jordan and Ki.
But first she had to sleep. Her eyelids felt as though somebody had attached lead weights to them.
She prodded the mattress until she felt the reassuring bump of her revolver, and then began to drift off. Need clothes, she mused. Can’t go dashing about San Francisco with nothing but a gun and a swatch of sheer gauze wrapped about me ...
The thought made her giggle. She nestled her head into the pillow, thinking that her wisp of a chemise was as insubstantial and useless as the wisps of purple opium smoke fogging the basement air...
She sank swiftly into a deep slumber. The residue of the opium swirled through her system, pulling her deeper, ever deeper, into darkness.
Chapter 12
It was just a bit after nine at night when Ki arrived at the bordello. He gave its front and side entrances a wide berth, jumping the high board fence that separated the house’s back-yard from a neighbor’s property, then flitting like a phantom from tree to tree and shrub to shrub, until he’d reached the rear of the house.
Ki peered up through the darkness at the bordello’s exterior. The architect who’d designed the place must have done his work while high on opium. The style was an ill-conceived mess of gingerbread: there were ornamental eaves, scroll-sawn window frames, and what appeared to be half-rotted-away, Ital ianate neo-classic balusters.
Ki shook his head, muttering in disgust. He’d take clean, tidy, clapboard anytime. It was true that the building’s excesses offended his Japanese-born sense of simplicity, but his objections were more practical than esthetic.
What it looked like was beside the point. It was going to be very difficult to climb.
Ki was dressed in worn denim jeans, a collarless cotton twill shirt, and a loose, many-pocketed well-broken-in brown leather vest. He was barefoot, but the sharp-edged litter of the city’s streets was no threat to him. His feet were callused, their soles tougher than any shoe leather.
He’d memorized the layout Moore had sketched. The detective had also told him that Jessie had most likely been assigned to a room somewhere on the second floor of the house. That was the procedure followed for all the other girls, so there was no reason to think it had not been followed for Jessie.
Assuming that her cover has not been broken, Ki thought as he stared up at the row of narrow windows, each barred with a scrollwork grating. And assuming that she is not somewhere else in the bordello.
There were ten windows on the second floor, which meant that there were ten rooms. None of the windows were lit.
Where to start? Ki wondered. The logical thing to do would be to begin at either comer of the house, and then progress in an orderly fashion from one end to the other. But to climb at a comer would expose him to view from the sides of the house. That was too risky. He would have to start in the middle and work his way along to one end, hoping he’d see her through one of the windows on that side. If he didn‘t, he would have to retrace his steps, leaping from ledge to ledge until he could begin to peer through the windows making up the other half of the floor.
Throughout it all, he would have to avoid being seen by any other of the girls who might be resting, and, of course, if he didn’t find Jessie in any of the rooms, he would have to enter the bordello, start at the top, and then work his way down until he did find her. Without being seen, of course.
Ki was slightly worried about that last part. It would be very nice to find Jessie in one of those second-floor rooms. Yes, that would be quite excellent...
If he had to enter the bordello, the chances of his being seen were greatly increased. There were armed guards inside; Moore had said so. If he was spotted, Ki knew that he would be forced to begin something of a rampage, killing his way through the house until he’d found Jessie, and then killing h
is way out of the place, with Jessie safely tucked under his arm.
It was not the killing that bothered the samurai. He would be merciful. Everybody who ran away from him would be spared. It was confronting Jessie’s anger that concerned him. She would be distressed over the fact that his clumsiness in being spotted had spoiled her plan to infiltrate the enemy.
Oh, well, Ki thought. One’s karma is one’s karma. One learns to live with it, and live it out ...
He remembered what his honored teacher, the master samurai Hirata, had drummed into his brain when he was only a youth: A samurai never makes mistakes; other people do, when they cross his path at an inopportune moment...
Ki felt himself smiling. Perhaps it was the hot Yankee blood of his father coursing through his veins, and most certainly his soul would pay for it in sume future incarnation, but oh! how he preferred action, or even the thought of action, to thinking serene thoughts in a flower garden!
From one of the pockets in his vest, Ki removed a tightly wound spool of cord, similar in its thickness to fishing line, but many times stronger. Attached to one end of the cord were several razor-sharp hooks of tempered steel. Ki stepped back several paces, unwound a sufficient length of cord from the spool, and began to twirl it in an underhand motion until he’d built up enough centrifugal force to send the hook flying upward. It rose to land on the sloping, shingle-covered roof of the bordello. Ki tugged the hooks along until their barbs caught. He gave the line an experimental tug, to make sure that the anchor was a secure one.
Ki went into the position known as the “horse stance.” His legs were bowed, as if he were straddling a horse, while his head, neck and back formed a straight line, even with the heels of his feet. He gazed at the dangling cord, just a foot in front of his face, and focused the energy of his body, in preparation ...
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