"Wasn't going to," J.D. replied.
"You'll back me, though?"
"I have a choice?"
"No, sir. After the interruption, earlier, I reckon you still owe me one."
Chapter 10
By the time J.D. and Kate reached Beauregard's Emporium, the afternoon was fading, shadows filling in the gaps between saloons and brothels on the Barbary Coast. Fog would be drifting in soon, if their last few nights in San Francisco were typical, turning the city into an eerie fantasy world with visibility reduced to feet, perhaps to inches.
Nonetheless, another crowd had gathered outside Beauregard's, this one approximately twice as large as the mob from that morning. Once again, all of the faces in the throng were white, most of them male, with just a sprinkling of women who had tagged along to watch the show and egg the men to action. Kate seemed to be the only sober woman present as they stood by on the sidelines and surveyed the scene.
"They're worked up over Beauregard," she said.
"Looks like," J.D. replied. "I have to wonder whether any of them even knew him."
"Doesn't matter with a lynch mob," Kate reminded him. "It's an idea that gets them going, and a built-up hate."
They'd both seen it before, from mining camps to towns of more substantial size. Where law was scarce or ineffectual, passion could seize control of otherwise mild-mannered folks and drive them to commit atrocities. Same thing when troops lost touch with discipline, though soldiers in the field could always claim the heat of battle carried them away.
"Funny," J.D. observed. "This time, I don't see any cops."
Five minutes after they'd arrived, J.D. saw half a dozen men emerge from the Emporium, lining a second-story balcony and looking out over the mob. The one in charge, from what he saw, was in his early thirties, dark hair worn at collar length, wearing a white suit similar to Emile Beauregard's former attire.
"You want to bet he's the new guy in charge?" asked Kate.
"I'll pass," J.D. replied. "Looks like another sure thing."
The man in white held up his hands and waited for the crowd to notice him, their voices slowly dying down. When he began to talk, he didn't use a speaking trumpet, but his voice still carried loud and clear into the street.
"My friends! Welcome in this, our hour of mourning and revenge! Twice in a day's time, the celestials have trespassed here, leaving their stain of death behind. Their latest victim is a man well known to you all, if only by his name, for generosity, his love of this community, and all he's done to keep it pure!"
"By running whores and peddling booze?" Kate whispered to J.D. "Is this guy loco?"
"May well be."
Pacing along the balcony, the agitated man shook both fists at the dusky sky and told the crowd, "I say, 'Enough!' I say the time has come and gone for us to take our streets back from the Yellow Peril of the East. No one can say we're bigots, when the damned celestials attack us twice and leave our city stained with the pure blood of innocent white men!"
The crowd roared back at that, an incoherent sound of rage that echoed from the gin mills, cathouses, and gambling halls along the Coast. Some of the shouting men waved firearms overhead. One shook a double-bladed axe.
"Sure thing," Kate said, keeping her voice pitched low. "No bigots here."
"Careful," J.D. admonished her.
"Yeah, yeah."
"The question," said their speaker for the evening, "is what should we do now? Can we rely on the police to put things right? My friends, just look around. Where are they when we need them most?"
A grumbling from the mob this time, as turning heads confirmed the absence of a single uniform in sight.
"Are they our friends?" the speaker asked.
At least a dozen voices loudly answered, "No!"
"Then we must act ourselves!" the puppeteer cried out. "We have a pure, God-given right to self-defense, and we must exercise that right to purge our city of this plague disguised in almost human form. Be rid of them, I say! Avenge Emile and all their other victims, poisoned with their opium or kidnapped into bondage worse than death! Arise and fight for what is yours!"
This time, along with shouting, certain members of the crowd were firing guns into the air. A moment later, they were moving off toward Chinatown, a five-block hike to reach the targets of their rage. Along the route of march, J.D. saw half a dozen men lining the sidewalk, lighting torches, handing them to members of the mob as they swept past.
"They're damned well organized for something whipped up on an hour's notice," J.D. said.
"You figure it's a put-up deal?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," he said.
"You coming?"
"What? No thanks."
"Okay." She shrugged. "I'll see you back at the hotel."
"Damn it!" he muttered, as they fell in step behind the shouting mob.
* * *
Five blocks is nothing to a crowd fired up with hate and alcohol. The front ranks of the mob had already reached Chinatown before its stragglers cleared the Barbary Coast, with J.D. and Kate hanging back. If given time, J.D. could easily have listed half a dozen reasons they should stay away, not least of which was death or injury in what was bound to be a bloody riot. Also, if police ever showed up, there was a chance they'd be arrested, and he figured Captain Brogan would be tickled pink to get them in a cell.
Make that two cells, since J.D. reckoned men and women would be kept apart in jail. And once he had lost sight of Kate...
He yanked his thoughts away from that and focused on the scene ahead, dusk falling over Chinatown, fog creeping through its narrow streets. Torchlight helped some, but it would still be a confused and murky scene amidst the small houses and shops, the ornate temples, and the concert hall where operas were staged. The mob seemed confident on hostile turf, but mobs were brainless things, like ocean tides. Few of the individuals comprising it, if any, had considered what they might be facing when they entered Chinatown.
Their first clue was a rippling sound of gunfire, welcoming the mob's front ranks. The mob began returning fire, a true pitched battle shaping up. Somebody shouted orders; others cursed or yelped in pain as they were wounded.
J.D. stopped and caught Kate by the arm. "Hold up," he said.
"J.D.—"
"This isn't just a dust-up," he advised her. "This is war, and we've got no damned business being in the middle of it."
"Maybe we can help," she said.
"Help who?" he countered.
"Anyone who needs it. Are you coming?"
"This is crazy."
"One more reason why you love me," she replied, flashing a smile, and pulled away from him.
A smart man might have let her go, but J.D. couldn't face it. That's what love will do to you. "Goddamn it, Kate!" he called to her. "Wait up!"
And he was right about the war. In Chinatown, on every side of them, the battle raged. Before J.D. and Kate arrived, two buildings were in flames, presumably ignited by the torches the intruders carried. Hanging lanterns on the street had been extinguished as the mob approached, maybe from practice in the past, but firelight cast distorted shadows through the fog, while muzzle flashes marked the places of combatants.
Entering the Chinese enclave, J.D. nearly tripped over a body lying in the street. One of the lynchers, possibly a Native Son, lay on his back, eyes open, staring at a sky he'd never see again. A bullet hole, dead center in his forehead, told J.D. that there were marksmen on the scene.
"Snipers," he warned Kate. "Over here!"
She trailed him to a narrow alleyway between two shops and sheltered there. In front of them, the mob was pushing deeper into Chinatown, fighting for every inch of ground it gained. Along the fringes of that crowd, J.D. saw white and yellow men engaged in combat hand to hand.
"They're not just running out," he said.
"Why should they?" Kate retorted.
"Yeah, I know, but—"
"We should look for Chen," she interrupted him.
"For God's sak
e, why?"
"To find out if he's got a price on us."
"Right now?"
"Can you think of a better time to take him by surprise?"
The twelfth of never, J.D. thought, but followed her into the fog.
* * *
Finding the Kwong Duck Tong's headquarters wasn't difficult, just dangerous as hell. A portion of the mob was bound in that direction, making J.D. wonder if their marching orders had been laid out in advance. The closer their advance men came to Chen Jinguang's command post, though, the more resistance they encountered from combatants dressed as soldiers of the tong. J.D. couldn't have sworn to it, given the fog and darkness, but he would have bet those troops were wearing navy blue.
"Maybe this wasn't such a great idea," Kate said, when they were half a block from Chen's main office.
"Right. Let's turn around and get the hell away from here," J.D. suggested.
"Did I say that I was giving up?"
"I thought—"
"We're almost there," she said. "Just cover me."
"I'll cover you at the hotel. Let's go!"
"Be serious. No time for that right now."
"Uh-huh."
Pistol in hand, he moved along with Kate through fog and shadow, breathing in a mixture of the night's mist, gunpowder, wood smoke—and something very much like roasting meat, that made his stomach clench. How many dead or maimed already, on this night of fire and rage?
Would either one of them still be alive at sunrise, to appraise the final toll?
"Look there!" Kate whispered, pointing.
J.D. squinted through the battle mist and picked out nine or ten Chinese fighting each other, rather than the white invaders of their small community. They slashed at one another, swinging knives and cleavers like the one he'd seen at Beauregard's Emporium, less than twenty-four hours earlier. As J.D. watched, one of battlers crumpled to his knees, clutching a wounded arm. His adversary loomed above him, cleaver raised, prepared to split the injured fighter's skull.
A pistol cracked, and J.D. saw the hatchet man go down. It took another second for his mind to grasp that Kate had fired the shot.
"Jesus!" he blurted out. "What are you doing?"
"Helping."
"Did you ever think—"
But J.D. never got to finish. Two of the Chinese who had been grappling in the dark now turned on them with pistols, muzzle flashes winking at them in the fog. J.D. dropped to a crouch, returned fire, as his wife did likewise. Thirty feet in front of them, the Chinese shooters dropped, their fellow soldiers scattering into the fog.
"Well, that was helpful," J.D. said.
"Shut up!"
He knew that tone but couldn't help himself. He had to ask. "What now?"
"Keep on like we were going."
"Shit!"
She rounded on him, furious. "Or, you can run on back to the hotel and have—"
His turn to hush her, now, clapping a hand over Kate's mouth. Wide-eyed, she followed J.D.'s nod as four grim figures stepped out of the fog nearby. Three white men, two of them with torches, had a Chinaman surrounded, prodding him along with pistols. In the torchlight, they could see the captive wore a silken robe that nearly dragged the ground. Green dragons were embroidered on its sleeves, another coiled upon the breast.
"That isn't Chen," Kate whispered.
"Dresses kind of like him, though," J.D. observed.
"Except the robe is black."
"Chee Kong? That means he's out of place, on hostile ground."
"We ought to help him."
J.D. swallowed his initial comment and replied, instead, "Your call."
Chapter 11
They stepped out of the fog and smoke together, separated by ten feet or so, six-guns in hand. J.D. called out to the advancing men, "That's far enough."
"Says who?" one of the torchbearers replied.
Instead of answering, Kate snapped at all of them, "Back off and let him go. Head out of here."
"You're kiddin', right?" the white man with a pistol but no torch answered.
"Don't bet your life on it," J.D. advised.
"The hell is this about?" the second torch man asked. "You both look white to me. Why are you takin' up for a Chinee?"
"We don't care much for lynchers," Kate replied.
"This ain't lynching," said the middle gunman. "Like the man said, back at Beauregard's, this here is self-defense."
"Against an unarmed man?"
"Unarmed, my ass," one of them said. "He's got an army here in Chinatown."
"Are they invisible?" Kate asked.
"To hell with this," the middleman spat out. "You two can clear the way, or we can put you down."
"Been tried before," J.D. told him.
And there was no more talk.
With guns already drawn on both sides, they appeared to be on equal terms, except for numbers. Kate and J.D. were considerably faster, though, and infinitely more experienced. Their Colts spoke twice, dropping the torch men where they stood, then swiveled toward the shooter who stood closest to the Chinese prisoner. He gaped at them, cast sidelong glances toward his fallen friends, and just before the torches guttered out, J.D. beheld his gun hand trembling.
"Time to call or fold," Kate said.
"What's wrong with you," he challenged them, "killin' your own to help a damn celestial?"
"You're not our own," J.D. informed him. "Now, step off or make your move."
The shooter thought about it for another couple heartbeats, made as if to turn away, then whipped around and fired a shot that passed between them, wasted. Kate and J.D. each fired one more round to put him down.
And J.D. noticed that the Chinaman had never even flinched.
Stepping toward him, Kate asked, "You all right?"
"Indeed, thanks to yourselves."
"We're—"
The robed man beat her to it, saying, "Kate and J.D. Blaze."
"I know we haven't met," Kate said.
"Your reputations go before you." Almost smiling.
"Here we go again," J.D. muttered.
"And you are...?" Kate inquired.
"My name is Kot Bocheng. I am the leader of the Chee Kong Tong."
They both digested that, then J.D. said, "Funny to meet you here, when we were on our way to see your rival."
Bocheng nodded, saying, "I am told that you have business with the Kwong Ducks."
"No," Kate said. "That's wrong. We had an offer of some business, but no chance to answer, either way."
"Yet, you are here, in search of Chen Jinguang."
"To tell him we've decided we should pass," J.D. put in.
The Chinaman regarded them with greater interest now, not quite a frown. "Perhaps," he said, "we should discuss this in a setting more conducive to survival."
Kate and J.D. shared a glance before he said, "Suits us."
Bocheng led them away from the three corpses, through a maze of alleyways so narrow that their shoulders brushed the walls on either side of them. As they progressed, the sounds of battle faded. They were still in Chinatown, but had retreated from the center of the action, leaving it behind.
Their destination was a small house, nondescript, with nothing to suggest that it held any secrets. As they drew near, they were suddenly surrounded by a swarm of black-clad Chinamen, all armed with pistols, clubs, and cleavers. Bocheng raised a hand, and without speaking cleared a path for them to enter the abode.
"Forgive my humble home," he said, as Kate and J.D. scanned the lavish furnishings. It might have been a palace, shrunken down to manageable size and masked by a façade of poverty.
"Humble. Uh-huh," Kate said.
"In Shanghai," Bocheng said, "I had— But you have not come here to learn my history."
"I wouldn't mind," said Kate, "but something tells me time is short."
"You are correct, but there is always time to sit."
They sat on silk-upholstered chairs, while one of Bocheng's soldiers brought them tea in tiny cu
ps. J.D. sipped cautiously at first, then quaffed his down, deciding that the triad boss could have dispatched them in his yard, without resort to poison.
"Now tell me, please," their host said, "of your dealings with the Kwong Duck Tong."
* * *
"I wouldn't call them dealings," J.D. said. "We took a walk through Chinatown this morning, and Chen had some of his boys invite us for a chat. The guns persuaded us to go along."
"A kidnapping."
"They didn't try to rough us up or anything," Kate told him. "Everyone was more or less polite about it."
"And you met with Chen."
"We did," J.D. conceded.
"May I know the subject of that conversation?" Bocheng asked.
"You were a part of it," Kate said. "Mostly, he talked about a woman's kidnapping. I think her name was—"
"Soong Mai-ling," their host said.
"Right," J.D. agreed. "He thinks your tong is being framed for snatching her, maybe by someone from the Native Sons."
"That comes as a surprise to me," Bocheng admitted. "But upon reflection, I believe he may be right."
"Speaking of frames," Kate said, "before we carry on with this, I want to ask you about something else."
"Please do."
"A Chinese fellow tried to take us out today, at our hotel, then shot himself—so the police say, anyhow—after he missed."
"You question the official verdict?" Bocheng asked.
"At this point," J.D. told him, "we're inclined to question everyone and everything."
"Congratulations. You are wiser than your years."
"This dead man wore a Kwong Duck uniform," said Kate. "We came down here tonight, to ask Chen if he sent the shooter, or if maybe it was someone else."
"I must plead guilty to that failed attempt," Bocheng confessed. "The man you speak of, Cáo Rongjin, served me."
J.D.'s hand moved a little closer to his Colt. "And why would you try killing us?" he asked.
"On the assurance of a so-called ally that you threatened our endeavors. Now, after tonight's events, I have good reason to believe that man is no more friend to me than to yourselves."
"I'll take a flying leap," Kate said, "and guess your friend would be the one replacing Emile Beauregard. Same guy who found him dead, with a tong cleaver in his noggin."
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