by Matt Braun
Starbuck stopped reading. He thought to himself he really wasn’t out of place at the Palace. He was acting the part of a coarse, loud-mouthed vulgarian. The hotel, bragging about its toilet seats, was somewhat in the same league. For all their pretensions, the rich crowd wasn’t above flaunting their built-for-a-king crappers.
The office door opened and the room clerk bustled forward. He stopped and carefully laid the card on the desk. His expression was dour.
“Mr. Lovett, the manager has asked me to inform you of hotel policy. A guest who hasn’t stayed with us previously is required to pay at least two days in advance. As you can appreciate, our suites are commodious and therefore quite expensive. So if you would care to look elsewhere—”
“Sounds fair.” Starbuck took out his wallet and fanned ten one-hundred dollars bills across the counter. “A thousand ought to do for openers. You tell me when that runs out and I’ll pony up some more.”
The clerk sighed and reluctantly scooped the bills into a cash drawer. Without a word, he walked to the letter boxes, fished out a room key, and returned to the desk. He snapped his fingers, signaling a bellboy.
“Bellman! Suite four-o-six for Mr. Lovett.”
Starbuck started away, then turned back. “Say, almost forgot to ask. Which way’s the Barbary Coast?”
The clerk looked aghast. “Simply walk in the direction of the waterfront, Mr. Lovett. I’m told it’s difficult to miss.”
“You mean to say you’ve never been there?”
“No.” The clerk drew himself up stiffly. “Never.”
“Damn shame,” Starbuck said with a waggish grin. “You ought to turn loose and live a little. We only pass this way once, and that’s a mortal fact.”
Starbuck pulled out his diamond-studded watch and popped the lid. The strains of “Darling Clementine” tinkled across the lobby. Hotel guests standing nearby turned to stare and the clerk rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Starbuck snapped the lid closed and replaced the watch in his vest pocket.
“How long does it take to walk there?”
“A matter of a few minutes, no more.”
“Much obliged.”
“All part of the service, Mr. Lovett.”
Starbuck flipped him a salute and strode off toward the elevators. The bellboy hefted his luggage and hurried along behind. Watching them, the clerk passed his hand in front of his eyes, and slowly shook his head.
Shortly after one o’clock Starbuck pushed through the doors of the Bella Union. The noontime rush had slacked off, and there were perhaps a dozen men strung out along the bar. He hooked a heel over the brass rail and nodded pleasantly to the bartender.
“Your boss a fellow by the name of Denny O’Brien?”
“Six days a week and all day on Sunday.”
“Where might I find him?”
The barkeep ducked his chin. “See that gent down there?”
Starbuck glanced toward the end of the bar. A man stood hunched over the counter, staring dully into a glass of whiskey. He was wide and tall, with brutish features and a barrel-shaped torso. His head was fixed directly upon his shoulders, and he appeared robust as an ox. Starbuck recognized him instantly as a bruiser. One of a breed, bouncers and strongarm men, who maintained order with sledgehammer fists.
“Yeah, so?” Starbuck asked. “What about him?”
“You want to see Mr. O’Brien, you start with him. His name’s High Spade McQueen.”
“Sounds like a gamblin’ man.”
The barkeep smiled. “If I was you, I wouldn’t bet against him. You might try talking real polite, too.”
“That tough, huh?”
“Mister, he’s a cross between a buzz saw and a grizzly bear. You never seen anything like him.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
Starbuck shoved away from the bar and walked toward the rear of the room. He braced himself to appear bluff and hearty, a man of dazzling good humor. Working undercover, he always turned actor, assumed a role, and it wouldn’t do to slip out of character. He rounded the end of the bar and halted. Smiling affably, he showed High Spade McQueen his gold tooth.
“Mr. McQueen?”
“Who’re you?”
“Name’s Harry Lovett,” Starbuck replied. “I’ve come all the way from Denver to see Denny O’Brien. The barkeep told me to check with you.”
McQueen swiveled his head just far enough to look around. An ugly scar disfigured one cheek and his eyes were like ball bearings. He fixed Starbuck with a sullen stare.
“You got business with Mr. O’Brien?”
“I bear greetings from a mutual friend, Mattie Silks. She was of the opinion Mr. O’Brien and me might do one another a favor.”
“Such as what?”
“I’m here to buy some whores. I need advice, and I’m willing to pay handsomely to get it.”
McQueen’s mouth split in a grotesque smile. His teeth were yellow as a row of old dice, and the scar distorted his features. He pushed off the bar.
“You should’ve said so to start with. C’mon, I’ll take you up to the office.”
He crossed the room and mounted the staircase. Starbuck obediently tagged along. From the rear, he was even more aware of the man’s massive shoulders. He reminded himself to strike the first punch if ever he locked horns with High Spade McQueen.
Upstairs, McQueen turned into a small alcove off the central hallway. There was a door at the end of the alcove, and the balcony afforded a commanding view of both the theater and the barroom. He rapped on the door and a muffled voice from inside responded. Entering, he waved Starbuck through the door.
Denny O’Brien was stooped over a steel floor safe. He shot McQueen a look of annoyance, then quickly closed the safe door and spun the combination knob. Before the door swung shut, Starbuck caught a glimpse of several ledgers and neatly stacked rows of cash. His expression betrayed nothing.
“Sorry, boss,” McQueen apologized in a low rumble. “Thought you’d be done by now.”
“You’re not paid to think!” O’Brien said curtly. “What do you want?”
“This here feller’s named Lovett. Says he come all the way from Denver to see you.”
“Yessir, Harry Lovett.” Starbuck moved forward, hand extended. “And let me say it’s an honor to meet you, Mr. O’Brien! Heard lots about you, and all of it good.”
O’Brien held out a square, stubby-fingered hand. He shook once, a hard up-and-down pump, then let go. He gave Starbuck’s getup a swift appraisal, noting the diamonds and the dapper cut of the clothes.
“Who’s been telling you all these good things?”
“Mattie Silks,” Starbuck lied heartily. “She says there’s only one man to grease the wheels in Frisco, and that man’s your very own self.”
“Did she, now?” O’Brien sounded flattered. “I haven’t laid eyes on Mattie in four, maybe five, years.”
“Well you made an impression on her, Mr. O’Brien. I’m here to tell you she tagged you for a real stem-winder.”
“Have a seat.”
O’Brien crossed behind the desk and lowered himself into an overstuffed judge’s chair. His churlish manner seemed to moderate. His ruddy features thawed slightly and his eyes were friendly but sharp. Very sharp.
Hat in hand, Starbuck took a chair directly before the desk. Once more he marked that O‘Brien’s whole being was charged with energy, alive and very shrewd. Up close, there was a strong sense of animal magnetism about the man. A sense of lightning intelligence and feral cunning, underscored by a sharp odor of danger. Starbuck was also aware that O’Brien’s gorilla had taken a position by the door, immediately behind him. Apparently a stranger was to be trusted no further than arm’s length.
O’Brien eyed him in silence for a moment. “You a friend of Mattie’s?”
“Yessir, I am,” Starbuck said stoutly. “Mattie and me go back a long ways.”
“You’re from Denver, then?”
“On again, off again.” Starbuck flipped a p
alm back and forth. “I drift around, generally the mining camps. A man in my line’s got to go where the action’s the hottest.”
“What line would that be, just exactly?”
“Confidence games. Leastways, it was. You might say I’ve retired from the profession.”
“Oh?” O’Brien said lazily. “How so?”
Starbuck gave him a jolly wink. “Hooked myself the prize sucker of all time. Took him for a bundle and figured I’d make a clean break, put my flim-flam days behind me. So I decided to go legit.”
“I get the feeling legit doesn’t mean reformed.”
“You bet your socks it don’t!”
“You’ve got a new line in mind, is that it?”
“Yes, indeedee!” Starbuck said with great relish. “I aim to open a string of cathouses like nothing nobody’s ever seen. Corner the market, in a manner of speaking.”
“Corner the market where?”
“The mining camps.” Starbuck lit a cigar, puffing grandly. “Leadville, Cripple Creek, four or five of the bigger camps. I’ll make an absolute goddamned fortune!”
“Yeah?” O’Brien looked skeptical. “Last I heard, there wasn’t any shortage of whores in the mining camps.”
Starbuck woofed a bellylaugh. “Mr. O‘Brien, them miners are queer birds. They’ll pay double for anything that speaks foreign or looks the least bit different. So I figure to give ’em a crack at something besides white women.”
“Like what?”
“China whores.”
“Wait a minute!” O’Brien said bluntly. “Are you saying Mattie sent you to see me about slant-eyes?”
“She sure did,” Starbuck acknowledged. “I don’t know my ass from a brass bassoon about Chinamen. Never dealt with one in my life. She thought maybe you’d act as a go-between for me.”
“A middleman?”
“No, not exactly. I’ll make my own deal, but I need someone to open the door. Way I hear it, them Chinamen won’t traffic with just anybody when it comes to slave girls.”
“You plan to buy them outright, then?”
“For a fact,” Starbuck said with cheery vigor. “An even hundred.”
“A hundred?” O’Brien repeated, suddenly dumbstruck. “You mean to buy one hundred slave girls?”
“I like round numbers. Course, I’m not after just any girls.” Starbuck paused, admired the tip of his cigar. “They’ve got to be virgins.”
“Virgins!” O’Brien stared at him with a burlesque leer of disbelief. “You want a hundred virgins?”
Starbuck let the idea percolate a few moments. “All virgins—and the whole kit and caboodle ages twelve to sixteen.”
A smile formed at the corner of O’Brien’s mouth, then broke into laughter. “By God, you think big, don’t you? A hundred little China dolls!” He threw back his head and roared. “With their cherries intact, for Chrissake!”
Starbuck gave him a foolish grin. “Well, don’t you see, them miners will really go for little girl whores, specially the innocent kind. By kicking things off with Chinee heathen virgins, I’ll put the other cathouses in the shade damn near overnight. After that, nobody’ll be able to touch my operation.”
“Hell, I believe you!” O’Brien shook his head with admiration. “But you’re talking about a shit-pot full of money. A hundred virgins won’t come cheap.”
“No problem,” Starbuck said equably. “I’m loaded and willing to pay plenty, just so long as I get what I want.”
O’Brien eyed him craftily. “What about me? Here in Frisco, a go-between doesn’t come cheap, either.”
Starbuck ventured a smile. “How does five percent strike you?”
“It gets my attention.” O’Brien shrugged noncommittally. “I’d listen a lot closer if you were to say ten percent.”
“One of the last things Mattie told me was that you wouldn’t try to stiff me. You open the right door and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
There was a moment of weighing and deliberation. O‘Brien thought it the most outlandish idea he’d ever heard. Yet that very oddity gave it a certain credibility. Nobody but a dimwitted fool would invent such a weird and grandiose story. While Harry Lovett was a smooth talker, he was clearly no simpleton, and everything about him reeked of money. O’Brien hadn’t the vaguest notion of the asking price for a hundred slave-girl virgins. Whatever the amount, it would be steep, approaching the six-figure mark. A piece of any action that sweet was too tempting to resist.
“You’re on,” he said at length. “I’ll set up a meeting with the head Chink in Chinatown. His name’s Fung Jing Toy.”
Starbuck flashed his gold tooth in a nutcracker grin. He looked pleased as punch and it was no act. Today was only a first step, but his instinct hadn’t played him false.
Denny O’Brien had swallowed the bait whole.
CHAPTER 6
Chinatown was a world apart.
Upon crossing the intersection of Dupont and Washington, the white man’s domain abruptly ended. From there, as though transported backward in time, the outsider had a sense of having entered Old Cathay. An ancient culture, unchanged for thousands of years, made only surface concessions to the blue-eyed white devils. Underneath, the old ways still existed.
In the lowering dusk, Starbuck walked along Washington Street. His appointment with Fung Jing Toy was for seven o’clock. All afternoon messages had passed back and forth between the Chinatown vice lord and Denny O’Brien. The working arrangement between them was apparently civil, but larded with distrust and an element of rivalry. Fung’s initial response, relayed by High Spade McQueen, had expressed cautious interest. Then, as the negotiations progressed, further information had been requested with respect to Harry Lovett’s background. Finally, with O’Brien’s assurance that the slave girls were intended for Colorado brothels, the vice lord acceded. Late that afternoon, a time had been set for the meeting.
Starbuck, meanwhile, was pumping Denny O‘Brien. He’d spent the afternoon with the Barbary Coast boss, still play-acting the glib and garrulous con man turned whoremaster. His questions were reasonable, and framed in a manner that made O’Brien his ally, something of a conspirator. To dicker successfully for the slave girls, he explained, he needed some general idea as to whom he was dealing with and what sort of reception he might expect. O’Brien, who evidenced no great charity toward Chinatown’s vice lord, was only too happy to oblige. He spoke at length, and with considerable authority, on Fung’s rise to power. What he had to say was revealing, and recounted with a certain grudging admiration. He described a man of obsessive ambition and savage methods.
Fung Jing Toy had immigrated to America at the age of five. As a child he witnessed the early tong wars on the streets of Chinatown, supporting himself as an apprentice to a shoemaker. A quick learner, ever willing to bend the rules, he displayed a compulsive drive to get ahead. At twenty-one, cloaked by a lily-white front, he began manufacturing shoes under the name of J. C. Peters & Company. The firm, however, was merely a legitimate base for criminal intrigue. He soon expanded into fan-tan parlors, opium smuggling, and prostitution. All the while, his horizons continued to broaden.
Early in 1876, Fung seized power of the Sum Yop tong. His next move, an open challenge to the other tong leaders, seemed suicidal. His gang began highjacking shipments of slave girls and assorted contraband being smuggled into San Francisco by the opposing factions. With little regard for human life, he provoked the bloodiest street war in Chinatown’s history. Over a period of four years, his boo how doy hatchet men butchered more than a hundred of their rivals. By 1880, the other tongs were whipped into submission. A truce conference was convened, and Fung emerged the absolute ruler of Chinatown.
Since then, he had consolidated his power with ruthless efficiency. Once a week, his henchmen collected a percentage of gross receipts from all vice enterprises. Those who welched, or attempted to hold out, were swiftly raided by the police. Or in extreme circumstances, they were murdered as an object lesson. All
legitimate businesses, importers and merchants alike, were required to pay weekly tribute for protection. The alternative was an unexplained fire, or a midnight visit from a squad of hatchet men. The slave girl trade, once an open market, was now Fung’s province alone. Only those who obtained his sanction were allowed to traffic in human cargo.
A traditionalist, Fung still observed the old customs. He dressed like his forefathers, affected humility, and lived in a modest house on Washington Street. He was a student of art and ancient scrolls, and his own poetry was said to contain such subtle nuances that it could not be translated into English. A playwright as well, he wrote dramas which were performed at the Chinese Theater on Jackson Street. According to rumor, he subsidized the theater and was a patron to those who displayed artistic merit.
Yet, for all his benevolent mannerisms, he had the killer instinct of a cobra and a barbaric sense of survival. Assassination by other tong leaders was an ever-present danger, and his personal living quarters were virtually impregnable. The barred steel door, leading into a suite of rooms without windows, was guarded by a pair of Tibetan mastiffs. At all times, night and day, he was also accompanied by two boo how doy hatchet men. Not surprisingly, his death was widely contemplated but rarely attempted.
Starbuck was intrigued by the man. From all he’d been told, Fung was an enigma, the inscrutable Oriental of legend. A vicious killer who wrote poetry and performed masterfully on the zither. A philanthropist who traded in slave girls and extorted tribute from his own countrymen. A throwback to the warlords of old, at once civilized and savage. In short, a man of many parts, and worth meeting.
Chinatown itself seemed no less a paradox. Walking along Washington, Starbuck thought to himself that it was actually a city within a city. One big tenement, it was dirty and overcrowded, squalid and diseased. The people lived in cellars and back-alley rabbit warrens, musty wooden cubicles. The women were dressed in black pantaloons and long smocks, and the men, their hair braided in pigtails, wore floppy jackets and baggy pajama pants. Most spoke only the dialect of their native land, and those who could converse with a Westerner resorted to pidgin English that was all but incomprehensible. A stranger asking directions might as well have talked to a deaf mute.
