Dragon by the Bay Page 2

  Carson leapt from the stool. With an agility that belied his full tweed suit, he wove through prone bodies. The open doorway promised freedom.

  And he would've made it, too. If the stout fiddler hadn't stood and brought his instrument smashing down on the back of Carson's head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He remembered being carried at one point, and then made to walk. Every step required a concentration his throbbing head couldn't seem to muster. Angry voices milled close, bringing the white glare of lanterns, but their attention didn't seem directed at him.

  Consciousness ebbed. When he came to, he found himself face down on a hard cot. Iron bars threw shadows across the floor. Some five feet away, atop another cot, writhed a hollow-eyed man with a beard longer than a saint's. He reeked of bile and alcohol.

  "Goddamn midges," the man said, slapping at his sallow face. "They're a-crawlin' all over me…"

  He raked his undershirt with crusted nails. Rum fits. It could've just as easily been snakes tormenting him.

  Carson forced himself to sit up, bringing an avalanche of nausea. He lay back down. The claret he'd drank roiled in his stomach.

  He needed water. But there was no cup within reach. A glance beyond the bars showed another cell, with a lone occupant. A Chinese sitting cross-legged on the floor, his head bowed. Colorful tattoos in twisting, sinuous shapes covered his muscular frame. At least the parts Carson could see.

  Footsteps approached.

  "Well now, it looks like our tweed dandy's finally awake."

  The voice belonged to a gangly cop wearing a blue coat with brass buttons. He strolled up to the cell, an amused look on his face.

  "Water." Carson's voice came out as a croak.

  "I'll fetch you some coffee," the cop said, "just as soon as you tell me what you're doing in our fair city."

  "Job opportunity."

  "That old line, is it? Gillooly figured you as a sharper. See here, we've got plenty of our own ne'er do wells without having to import any. Soon as you're done paying your fine, we'll clap you on the ferry back to Oakland."

  The word 'fine' made Carson's head throb harder. He nodded towards the cross-legged man. "Who's he?"

  "Ah, just some poor yellow the committee hauled in. Several people claimed to see him come stepping out of the bay with a blonde woman in his arms. Think he kidnapped her off some liner." The cop shrugged. "No proof, of course. But if we let him go now they'll hang him."

  "Does the mob rule here? I thought this place was supposed to be civilized."

  "Son, this town's wild as Dodge City. But we're working on it." He added: "It's a shame Gillooly had to bust a perfectly good fiddle on that head of yours. I'll get the coffee."

  Carson flopped back down on the cot. His cellmate, silent during the exchange, started in again about his goddamn midges.

  "Shut up." Carson would've kicked him, if he was any closer.

  The guard returned bearing a tin mug. Carson struggled into sitting position, but stopped when he saw a figure come gliding up behind the man. His cellmate must've seen it too, because he hooted like a monkey. The guard whirled. There was a sharp exhalation, the smack of flesh striking flesh. The guard stumbled back. Carson got a good look at the attacker: dressed from head to toe in black silk, and wearing a black lacquered Chinese mask. Recognition sparked in the depths of his memory.

  The intruder's movements were almost too fast to follow. He stepped in and struck the unfortunate guard again, beneath the chin. Not with his hand, but a bent wrist. The guard's head snapped back. He dropped, to be caught by the black-garbed man and lowered to the floor.

  Carson's cellmate howled. In one smooth movement, the intruder snatched up the tin cup and hurled it. The mug blurred as it left his hand. It sailed straight between the bars and struck the drunk in the forehead, trailing black fluid. Down went the drunk. The mug rebounded high and landed on the cot behind him with a soft thud.

  Silence.

  Carson stayed absolutely still.

  The masked man bent over the guard and retrieved a key ring. He approached the cell of the tattooed Chinese, but stopped a foot from the door. He bowed.

  A whispered conversation followed. By all rights Carson shouldn't have been able to understand it, but for two facts. One, he prided himself on having keen hearing. It came in handy, given his wont for slipping into places he shouldn't be. Two, and more importantly, he was the son of Protestant missionaries. His parents had taken him to Kwangchow while he was still a towhead infant. As a result, he'd grown up learning to speak Cantonese with reasonable fluency. The conversation he overheard was in Taishanese, but the dialect was close enough.

  "You are Nine Serpents Hsien," said the masked man, his voice muffled.

  "I am. Why are you dressed as an opera character?"

  "Sometimes the virtuous must go masked. I have a proposition for you."

  The tattooed man said nothing.

  "I've heard various stories about your history. Though you have chosen to associate with evil men, I understand you spent your youth training at Wudang Mountain. In particular, you have learned the secrets of the Golden Bell technique."

  A grunt. "You've heard much."

  "I, too, am a student of kuo shu*. Though it's a mystery to me how someone like you could've been captured by bungling gweilo, I have risked much tonight to free you. On one condition."

  "So name it, already. Any moment another guard might come."

  "It is this: in three days, at midnight, you and I must duel at Kwangtung Temple. No weapons. If I win, you will teach me the Golden Bell technique."

  A dry cough. "And if I win?"

  "Your obligation to me ends."

  Hsien folded his arms. "Twin Fury Xue will have me out of here."

  "Eventually. But I could free you now, without a loss of face."

  Hsien seemed to consider that. His voice grew thoughtful. "I must warn you. The Golden Bell isn't proof against all weapons, despite what you may have heard."

  "Guns?"

  "Guns." Hsien lowered his head. "That's how the ghost-faces brought me in."

  "It doesn't matter. I seek to preserve the esoteric knowledge of kuo shu. Perhaps one day the techniques could be taught in this country, for the enlightenment of all."

  "I could care less about your idealism. And I've a mind to duel you tonight, instead of waiting. I'm a busy man."

  The lacquered mask shook from side to side. "I know you were injured during your capture, though your body bears no marks. You need time to heal. I want our contest fair as possible."

  "Two days, then. As I've said, I'm busy."

  "A deal."

  The masked man opened the lock and gestured towards the adjoining hall. Hsien rose. Together, they glided from the cellblock like ghosts made flesh.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carson didn't sleep much the rest of the night. The gangly-limbed cop recovered some ten minutes after his charge escaped. He took one look at the empty cell and went scrambling for his superiors.

  Carson pretended he hadn't seen anything.

  On the positive side, the old drunk remained out. He snored peaceably even as a welt appeared on his forehead. Carson managed to get some sleep of his own a couple hours before dawn.

  He dreamt in fits of the Chinese Opera performances he'd watched as a child, after sneaking out of church services. Troupes would come traveling down the Pearl River in junks painted a brilliant red, to dance and sing while balancing on gilded balls, or turning flips, or flourishing tasseled swords. Except in the dreams some of the performers had tiger-striped skin. And glowing green eyes. Some were fanged demons, with tongues of orange flame …

  He woke to the sound of his cell door creaking open. A new guard leaned in. "Lowe? You're a free man."

  "I thought I was being sent back to Oakland."

  "Your employer had something to say about that. She's waiting downstairs."

  Employer?

  He rose from the cot, his fingers tentatively
creeping to the bump on the back of his head. The throbbing was gone, at least. He shuffled out of the cell and down worn stairs.

  A crowd had gathered in the booking room below. More dark-coated vigilance types, surrounding a knot of beleaguered police. Fingers pointed. A paunchy man who looked like the chief was trying to calm everyone and explain how the jailbreak had happened. His loud voice brought Carson's headache back. He wormed through the throng and presented himself to an officer behind a battered desk.

  "Name?"

  "Carson Lowe."

  "Ah, yes. Your fifteen dollar fee for discharging a firearm in city limits has already been paid." The tired cop nodded towards the doorway. "You can go."

  "Wait a minute. Where are my things? I had two dollars and thirty-five cents. And a gun. A very special gun. And a tweed coat—"

  "Can't help with the money or the coat. You didn't have either when they brought you in. As for the sleeve gun, those aren't legal in these parts. You'll need a lawyer to get it back."

  Carson's face went hot. "A shyster? How am I going to retain one of those without money?"

  "Count your blessings. We could've charged you with fraud, we wanted to." He glanced at the little mob behind him. "But we're busy right now."

  "You better take his advice, handsome," came a familiar female voice.

  The crook-nosed woman from Gillooly's leaned in the doorway. She wore a petticoat and plaid skirt instead of a dress, but her skewed smile was the same.

  "You paid my fine?"

  A nod. "We'd best talk about it elsewhere."

  Carson stepped out of the besieged police station into sunlight. It made his head hurt worse.

  "Feeling poorly, are you? It's a tribute to your constitution you're even walking around."

  Squinting, he surveyed the horse-traffic on Geary Street. An omnibus clattered past, followed by a beer wagon. "Is this city ever quiet?"

  "Seldom." She started walking at a brisk pace.

  "So why'd you help me?" he said, dogging behind.

  "Let's start with 'Thanks, Mrs. Perine, for paying my fine.'"

  "Thanks, Mrs. Perine."

  "Call me Constance. I already got your name from the police docket. They owe me a bunch of favors. Unpaid, mostly."

  "You're a business woman?"

  "I'm the widow of a telegraph operator. Which should normally make me wealthy, except my late husband was partial to gambling. So I've gone into business for myself."

  "Begging your pardon, but a waterfront bar isn't a good place for a woman of property to be spending her evenings."

  She stopped to fix him with a look. "Don't sermonize me."

  "Sorry."

  "Anyways," she said, resuming her steps, "you don't strike me as the God-fearing type, yourself. That was a nice little trick you did with the gun."

  "For all the good it did me."

  "Fastest draw I've ever seen, and I've seen my share."

  He started to tell her his speed came by way of a mechanical device, but thought better of it. "You looking for a gunman? Is that why you freed me?"

  "I could use someone like you around the office. Not so intimidating that he scares the customers, but nasty when he's got to be. Last man I hired was a drunk. You're not a drunk, are you Mr. Lowe?"

  "That's not my particular vice."

  "Good to hear it." She peered around the corner. "This way. Not much farther now."

  * * *

  They marched a block up a steep hill, and not once did Constance Perine look winded. At the top, wedged between a cigar factory and a furriers, lay a narrow brick building labeled TELEGRAPH CO. The curtains were shut tight. Constance produced a key and unlocked the front door, allowing a certain anticipation to build. She'd been tight-lipped during the rest of their walk.

  As soon as Carson smelled the fusty lavender, saw the red velvet on the walls and the framed cameos, he knew Constance was running a whorehouse, albeit the smallest one he'd ever seen. The central 'office' had enough room for a camelhair settee and two high-backed chairs, a polished cuspidor, and a small bar service. Several less-than-regal sheets hung from the ceiling, demarcating private spaces.

  "That's why you were acting so mysterious," he said.

  "It's honest work, and I run a clean establishment." Her crooked smile came back. "I'm proud to say, 'tapping out a message at Perine's' has taken on a whole new meaning in the neighborhood."

  "I bet it has."

  She clapped her hands. "Girls, come out and meet the new hired man."

  Several of the hanging sheets parted. Carson shook hands with the stable; two brunettes and a walleyed redhead, all looking somewhat frayed from use.

  "Pearl," Constance said, "is Anna still not back yet?"

  "No ma'am," said the redhead.

  "My top-earner," Constance explained. "A natural blonde. She lit out some time last night, no explanation, and left all her money and things behind. I can't figure it."

  Carson rubbed at his smooth chin. "A blonde, you say? The Chinese in the cell next to mine got hauled in, supposedly for abducting a blonde woman."

  That drew a chorus of hushed cries from the girls. Constance rounded on him. "You're telling me Anna could be in the clutches of a white slavery ring?"

  "Whoa, there. First off, I said 'supposedly.' The cop I talked to didn't seem to think the man was guilty. Second, I imagine there's a whole lot of blondes in this city."

  "Not working for me there isn't." Constance's face softened. "She probably went off on a drunk. Come skulking back here later this afternoon, hung over and wanting to sleep."

  "Sounds more likely."

  "I reckon I can send you looking for her, if she doesn't show up soon."

  Just sprung from jail and already he was under the yoke. "Suppose you take this opportunity to enumerate my job duties, Ms. Perine. In toto. As soon as I've paid off my fifteen dollar obligation I aim to do some lighting out of my own."

  "Fair enough." She managed to look stung, as if playing step-and-fetch for a madam was supposed to be appealing. "Come with me and I'll show you the rest of the place."

  He followed her up a very narrow staircase to the office's second floor, which consisted of a kitchen heaped with dirty plates and her own boudoir, equally messy. A portrait of the late Mr. Perine brooded atop the nightstand.

  "You want someone to dust in here," Carson said, "I suppose I could manage …"

  She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. "That's not what I had in mind, Mr. Lowe."

  "Ah."

  "Normally, a lady likes to be courted and such. I don't have time for such niceties. What I do have are certain needs. In addition to security, your job entails attending to those needs. Whenever I specify."

  She turned the portrait of her dowdy old husband to face the wall.

  "I'm your kept boy, is that it?"

  "If you want to look at it that way." She stepped out of her petticoat, then her skirt. "Help me with this corselet. The strings are always too damn tight."

  * * *

  Customers began filtering in later that afternoon. Constance gave him a nice but ill-fitting coat to wear while he lounged in the parlor. She also gave him another derringer from her late husband's arsenal of small arms. It was old, a black powder piece that had to be fitted with a percussion cap, and he feared the whole thing might cook off if he tried to fire it. He told her as much.

  "You don't actually shoot anyone, honey," she said, already on intimate terms. "That'd be bad for business. Just wave it in someone's face if you have to."

  He spent a long evening listening to grunts and groans coming from behind the curtains, and making idle chat with waiting clients, most of whom looked embarrassed to be there. By nightfall the girls were all exhausted, and a vaguely piscine smell had settled over the parlor.

  Then the men really started showing up.

  "You should see this place on Saturday night," Constance said. "I've been thinking about pitching a tent in the back lot and just running
'em through."

  But Anna didn't return, and the prospect that she'd either deserted or was now in the clutches of heathen Chinee made Constance sulky. Carson begged a visit to the latrine, and while there scrawled out a hasty letter on the back of an old telegraph slip.

  Dear Mother,

  You will be pleased to know I have arrived in San Francisco, safe, healthy, and already finding myself gainfully employed.

  I recall fondly your past entreaties to follow Father's example in spreading the Good Word. Mother, I am happy to say I now have the opportunity to do so, as I am working with certain downtrodden females who long for moral correction.

  To that end, I am asking you to please send the sum of fifteen dollars, via general post, so that I may purchase a goodly number of King James Bibles for distribution.

  Your loving son,

  Carson Lowe II, Esq.

  P.S. I realize I have sent similar missives in the past, but this one is truly urgent.

  He folded the letter and slipped it into his shoe, intending to find a stamp when the opportunity presented.

  Around 10 p.m. a top-hatted politician came stumbling in with his entourage, apparently more interested in drinking than dipping his wick. Constance kept him plied with whiskey, then sent Carson upstairs to water down their remaining bottles. By the time the gas lamps were being doused and the last clients sent home, she'd become quite pie-eyed herself. Carson helped her up the stairs and into bed.

  "We never figured where I'm going to sleep," he said.

  "Don't be coy, darling." She patted the sheets. "You're curling up right here with me. I'd imagine after a day of listening to all that rutting you'd be good and ready for a poke yourself."

  Quite the opposite, really. But he slid under the sheets anyway.

  * * *