Xiang picked up the revolver first and slipped it underneath his loose shirt, wedged inside his trousers at the back. The dagger, with its sheathed blade, went into the right-hand pocket of his pants.
"I shall not fail the brotherhood," he vowed.
"Go home now. Eat and sleep if you are able," Bocheng said. "Come back at eight o'clock. We must prepare to meet the storm."
Chapter 4
Breakfast at the Grand Hotel was hot and plentiful. J.D. had huevos rancheros, which consisted of fried eggs on top of corn tortillas, liberally doused with a tomato-chili sauce, while seasoned rice and refried beans filled the remainder of the plate. Kate went for a waffle crowned with powdered sugar, strawberries, and fresh whipped cream, which looked more like dessert than an entrée. Black coffee washed it down and helped revive J.D. after the night's exertions in their suite upstairs.
When they had cleaned their plates and settled up the tab, they stepped out into hazy morning light, the city's famous fog retreating from a sun that might break through sometime within the next hour, if they were lucky. On the sidewalk just outside, a street urchin was passing out handbills and shouting to the street, "Come one, come all, and hear the Native Sons at ten a.m., in front of Beauregard's Emporium!"
Kate took one of the fliers, letting J.D. read across her shoulder. Black type stood out clearly on the sheet of lemon-colored paper—chosen, J.D. saw, for its dramatic impact. He read:
YELLOW PERIL!!!
TERROR IN THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO!!!
REVOLUTION COMING???
FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF!!!
JOIN NATIVE SONS AT BEAUREGARD'S EMPORIUM AT 10 A.M.
AND COME PREPARED!!!
"That's subtle," Kate observed.
"Sounds like a good spot to avoid."
"You want to miss it?" This time, she seemed honestly surprised.
"We've got the gist of it already," J.D. answered, reaching out to tap the handbill with an index finger. "Yellow peril, get it? Gather round to hate the folks who don't resemble us."
"There could be more to it than that."
"Not much, as far as I can see."
"If trouble's coming up..."
"None of our business. Did we ever talk about the Ku Klux Klan?"
"I don't recall it."
"But you've heard about it."
"Only what I read in newspapers."
"That's plenty. Organized in Dixie, soon after the war. Supposed to be a social club, but pretty soon they got the big idea of keeping colored folk from voting, owning property, even from learning how to read and write. If white folks tried to help the colored, they went on a list and wound up getting beaten, burned out, many of them killed."
"The Klan is being prosecuted now. South Carolina's under martial law, and—"
"Some of them are being prosecuted, which is still a far cry from conviction, with an all-white jury guaranteed. Say one out of a hundred, maybe one out of a thousand, gets convicted. Then, a white judge from the neighborhood decides on punishment, if any."
"J.D.—"
"I ran into some of them in Arkansas, six months or so before I met you. Their idea of law and order was to snatch a couple black girls off the road and take them off behind a barn."
"That's ugly."
"More or less what I said, when I called them on it. They called me some kind of Yankee nigger-lover, reckoned I could use a few licks with a bullwhip."
"Their mistake," Kate said.
"Their last mistake. Then I lit out of Arkansas before the sheriff, who was one of them, could organize a necktie party. Now I'm here—we're here—and this is still our honeymoon."
"It's just a meeting, J.D. I don't want to join their gang or donate money to it, just stop by and listen for a little while. We mean to stay here for a bit, I'd like to know which way the wind is blowing."
J.D. couldn't fault that logic, but he didn't hold with seeking trouble when it was avoidable. "You see they're spoiling for a fight," he said, and pointed to the handbill's final line: "AND COME PREPARED!!!"
"That doesn't mean we have to stick around for it," Kate told him. "We can leave whenever we've a mind to."
"How about before the meeting, then?"
"What, now? You mean leave San Francisco altogether."
"We're just passing through, the way it is. Nobody mentioned planting roots."
"And no one will," Kate said. "But, honestly—"
"All right. We'll see your show."
"Not my show," she corrected him.
"But if it blows up in our faces, bear in mind—"
"You told me so?"
"Damn right."
* * *
A crowd of several hundred had assembled by the time they got to Beauregard's Emporium. The place was closed, whether for renovations of the last night's damage or to keep a focus on the gathering, J.D. could not have said. Across the bar's façade, a banner hung, black paint on yellow like the handbill, reading NATIVE SONS.
"Must be the place," Kate quipped.
Blue uniforms were visible along the sidewalk, with a few more scattered through the crowd. Some of the cops seemed ill at ease, while others chatted amiably with the spectators. Scanning the crowd, J.D. saw nothing but white faces. Roughly half the men that he could see were wearing pistols. Several were armed with axe or pick handles.
About five minutes after they arrived, a flatbed wagon rumbled into view and crept along curbside until it stood in front of Beauregard's Emporium. The driver scrambled from his high seat to the wagon's bed, then waited while three men emerged from the emporium, two young ones escorting a third with snow-white hair and a mustache to match. Between the driver and the two escorts, they got the old man up into the wagon's bed, where he surveyed the crowd. The driver handed him a silver speaking trumpet, which the old man hefted in his hands, then raised it to his lips.
"Welcome, my friends!" he called over the crowd. The speaking trumpet gave his voice a disembodied tone. "Thank you for turning out today, in this my hour of mourning. Just behind me stands the remnant of my dream, defiled last night the celestials who clog our city's streets and alleyways."
J.D. looked up and down Pacific Street, no Chinamen in sight. "You see a clog around here?" he asked Kate.
"Missed it. It must've been a small one."
"Citizens!" the man whom J.D. took for Beauregard cried out. "How long shall we be made to suffer depredations on our streets, and even in our homes? How long before the whole complexion of our city changes, from the proud color ordained by God Himself, into the pallid yellow of a urine stain?"
"You're right," Kate said. "They're nasty. Let's get out—"
The rifle shot came from behind them, and from somewhere higher up, maybe an upper window or the rooftop of a building opposite, along the east side of Pacific Street. Spinning in that direction, right hand fastened to his cross-draw Colt, J.D. saw nothing of the shooter, but a puff of smoke hung at the northeast corner of another pleasure palace, standing catty-corner from the rally down below.
"Up there!" somebody shouted, pointing, and the crowd began to spill across Pacific Street with armed men in the fore. J.D. and Kate turned back to face the rolling podium, saw Beauregard supported by the wagon's driver and one of the younger men who'd helped him mount the makeshift stage.
He sagged between them, ashen faced, and J.D. glimpsed a bloodstain on his left sleeve. His right hand raised the speaking trumpet, and he called out to the dissipating crowd, "I'm fine! It's nothing but a flesh wound, friends. Don't let the foul assassin get away!"
Even without that exhortation, half his audience was already in motion, galloping across the street. Now more joined in the hue and cry, revolvers drawn and makeshift bludgeons brandished overhead.
"You coming?" Kate inquired, already stepping out to join the flow of foot traffic across Pacific Street.
"Kate—"
"Just to have a look, J.D."
"Damn it!" He followed her, and muttered underneath
his breath, "I told you so."
And that was when the shooting started, from an alleyway beside the building where J.D. had seen the gunsmoke drifting topside. Kate still hadn't drawn her Colt, and J.D. likewise left his holstered, picking up his pace.
* * *
The Chinaman was dead as hell before J.D. and Kate arrived. He had been shot a dozen times or more, lying with arms outflung and barely half a face, blood soaking through his shirt and pants of matching black. Beside his right hand, lying where it seemed he must have dropped it in the act of dying, lay a lever-action Henry rifle.
"Strange that one of them would try to kill him, don't you think?" asked Kate.
"I couldn't tell you what's strange any more," J.D. replied. "Unless it's us still standing here and watching."
As he spoke, a white man left the front rank of the crowd and knelt beside the corpse, drawing a knife and sawing off the dead man's queue. Rising, he held it overhead and waved it like a pennant, calling out, "Right here! One pigtail to the highest bidder! And one Chinee who's never gettin' to his happy huntin' ground."
"Bastard," Kate said. "Let's go, J.D." She turned to leave, but found her way blocked by a burly man in uniform.
"We meet again," said Captain Brogan.
"And we'd love to chat," Kate said, "but—"
"Not so fast. How come I see you two hangin' around, whenever someone turns up dead?"
"You want to sniff our guns again?" J.D. inquired.
"Not this time," Brogan answered, with a smile. "It looks like these folks did the town a favor. Saved us the expense of puttin' on a trial."
"That must be tiresome," Kate acknowledged. "Following the law and all."
"Open and shut, the way I see it," Brogan said. "This Chinee took a shot at Mr. Beauregard and missed, then wasn't quick enough to slip away."
"And why do you suppose he'd do that?" J.D. asked.
"Revenge, what else?"
"For what?" asked Kate.
"Last night, o' course," Brogan replied, speaking as if he were conversing with a simple-minded child. "You see the uniform? Black means the Chee Kong Tong. Four of their men went down last night in Beauregard's Emporium, in case the two o' you forgot. Today, they make a try for Mr. Beauregard hisself."
"Sounds plain as day," J.D. agreed. "Now, if you don't mind—"
"Hold up. I get the feelin' you-all might be cookin' up some other kinda notion in your heads."
"Cooking has never been our strong point, Captain."
"Hey!" Kate said. "Speak for yourself."
"Well, go on thinkin' whatever you want," said Brogan. "But I'd caution you against obstructin' a police investigation, or demeaning it with idle chatter. Those are serious offenses."
"What investigation?" J.D. asked him.
"This one, for example. Which is closed, as of right now."
"That's plain enough."
"And last night's bloody business. That one's open till we pick up the celestials who ordered the attack."
"Sounds like you've got your hands full," Kate replied.
Brogan lifted his knobby hands and stared at them, flexing the fingers. "Nope. They're big enough to grab a couple meddlers by the neck and shake their eyeteeth loose, if it should come to that."
"I'd hate to be in their shoes," J.D. told him.
"Just keep that in mind," the captain said. "And run along now, will you?"
Kate was fuming as they walked back to Pacific Street. "That pompous, overstuffed—"
"Police captain," said J.D., interrupting her. "You want to keep that foremost in your mind."
"Excuse me? Were you listening when—"
"I heard every word he said."
"And you just swallowed it?"
"Listen. It's none of our business. Nobody's paying us to get involved with the Chinese or Native Sons. And since it seems I have to keep reminding you, we're on our honeymoon."
Her face softened a little, then. Kate took his hand and said, "I'm not forgetting, Babe. But don't you think—"
"Ah, Jesus. Here we go."
"—that it's a little too coincidental? Middle of an anti-Chinese rally, and a Chinaman pops up to wing the man in charge?"
"He meant to make them mad, I'd say."
"Well," Kate replied, "I'd still admire to take a stroll through Chinatown."
Chapter 5
"He'll be all right, though?" Kevin Gillan asked the medic.
"Should be," Dr. Liam Flynn replied. "I've stopped the bleeding and it's just a shallow wound. Infection is a danger, but not serious, if someone can be found to change the dressing daily."
"Not a problem, Doc." Gillan produced a twenty-dollar double eagle, pressing it into the doctor's damp and pudgy hand. "I'll call you if we need you."
"Any time," Flynn said, and cleared the doorway smiling.
"So, clean bill of health," Gillan told Emile Beauregard, reclining on a sofa in his upstairs office at the Beauregard Emporium.
"Yes, yes," the old man said, impatiently. "But I was nearly killed."
"The bullet grazed your arm, Emile."
"But it was meant to kill me! Only the Almighty and the poor aim of a Chinaman spared me today."
And damn bad luck, thought Gillan, but he kept it to himself and said, "They got the Chinee, anyhow."
"Who was he?"
Gillan shrugged. "Name's not important, even if I could pronounce it. He was dressed in black."
"Remind me what that means, Kevin."
"A shooter from the Chee Kong Tong," Gillan replied. "Same as the ones who busted in downstairs last night, chasing that Kwong Duck runner."
"And you think—"
"They tried for you because their men died here. Their pointy little heads put two and two together, comin' up with five."
"Celestials can carry grudges for a thousand years," said Beauregard. "That means they're bound to try again."
Gillan couldn't remember when the boss had ever looked so old, rundown, and plain worn out. "That doesn't have to happen," he told Beauregard. "We strike first, do it just right, we could wipe the little yellow bastards out."
"I can't support that kind of violence, Kevin. We've already had this conversation."
And I'm getting sick of it, thought Gillan. Answering: "The Sons are strong enough now, with more members joining every day. We've signed up twenty more this morning."
"Since I nearly died," said Beauregard.
"A scratch," Gillan corrected him. "But, sure, I'm not denyin' that it helped. Those new recruits were standin' right outside here when the Chinee fired at you. They pitched in on the hunt and ran him down. You shoulda seen 'em."
"I can well imagine," Beauregard replied, a grimace on his face. "Distasteful."
"Most wars are."
"War? Who said anything about a war, for God's sake?"
"The celestials declared it, shooting up this place last night, tryin' for you this morning. It's high time for us to do some shootin' back."
"From what you say, they've lost five men already. That should be enough."
"If they were ordinary people, maybe," Gillan said. "Remember what we're dealin' with."
"I spoke to Captain Brogan. I'm inclined to let his men handle the tongs."
"I wish they could. You know they have to play by fancy rules, these days."
"Even celestials have certain rights," said Beauregard.
"Maybe at home, where they belong," Gillan replied. "Here in the States, they're no better than stray dogs in the streets. There oughta be a bounty on 'em."
"You're disturbed by all that's happened, Kevin. I appreciate that. You've been like a son to me, these past few years, but you must trust my judgment in this matter. I support legal restrictions on the immigration, housing, and employment of celestials. As founder of the Native Sons, I must insist that public policy conform to my ideals."
"And what about the private policy?" asked Gillan. "You were right there with us when we hung that Chinaman who raped the little girl
."
"That was a special case, and the police were totally inadequate to deal with it," said Beauregard. "If I'm entirely honest with you, I regret it now."
"It sent a message."
"Possibly the wrong one."
"So, the Chee Kong Tong?"
"Again, I must insist that you do nothing."
"That's your last word on the subject?" Gillan asked.
"It is."
"So be it, then. Whisky?"
* * *
Their stroll through Chinatown felt more to J.D. like a march through hostile territory. Moving through the crowded streets, he felt a hundred pairs of eyes on him and Kate at every turn. They were not the only white trespassers straying onto foreign turf—he'd counted four others so far, all solitary men whose clothing spoke of money, while their glazed eyes told another tale.
"What's wrong with them?" Kate asked, after the fourth man passed them, walking slowly, like a drunkard trying not to show how much he'd put away.
"My first guess would be opium," J.D. replied. "They sell it here, and if it's like the other Chinatowns I've seen, they'll have places to smoke it on the spot."
"So, those were addicts?"
"Hard to say. Depends on how often they use it, I suppose. No law against it, anyway."
"So far," Kate said.
"I've never liked it when the government steps in, telling us what to do."
"You mean, like free the slaves?"
J.D. knew she was goading him. He told her, "That was a completely different proposition, as you well know. Slavery is something done to other folks, against their will. A fellow who enslaves somebody ought to hang for it, or spend his life locked up. Drinking and smoking, now, that's something folks do for and to themselves. The way I see it, leave them be unless they're hurting someone else, somehow."
"You should've been a lawyer, J.D."
"What, more school, then spend my life in court? No thanks. I never would have met you, anyway."
"There's that," Kate said. "And what's this?"
They had reached a shop whose window featured colored powders, ugly things in jars and bottles filled with murky liquid, clumps of fresh and dried herbs tied with string, small stones of some kind—and a scrawny, headless chicken hanging upside-down, directly in the middle of it all.
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