by Matt Braun
Washington Street, otherwise known as the Street of the Thousand Lanterns, teemed with people. The sweet smell of opium and the stench of sweaty bodies intermingled in an oppressive odor. The shops and stores, displaying their wares, added to the rank aroma. Dried sea horses and pickled squid were heaped in a herbalist’s window. A grocer’s storefront exhibited row upon row of plucked chickens and skinned ducks, dangling from overhead beams. Sidewalk bins overflowed with winter melons and rotting vegetables, and a fish peddler operated from an open cart on the corner. Amid the din of commerce, there was human barter, as well.
Crib whores, imprisoned behind barred windows, talked up their trade. The lowest form of slave girls, they wore only short blouses, naked from the waist down. Chinese men were addressed in the native tongue, and offered unknown splendors at reduced rates. White men, thought to be ignorant and lavish spenders, brought on a frantic singsong chant.
“Chinee girl velly nice! Looksee two bits, feelee floor bits. Doee only six bits!”
Hurrying past, Starbuck was reminded that the plumbing of Oriental women was thought to be different from that of white women. To the uninitiated, it was commonly believed that their private parts went east-west instead of north-south. The debate, actively fostered by the Chinese, had produced a thriving, if somewhat bizarre, sideline to the oldest profession. A curious customer could have a looksee for two bits, a mere twenty-five cents. Or if he cared to check out the plumbing personally, he could have a feelee for four bits. That served to settle the east-west question, and often led to an additional sale. For another quarter, a total of six bits, he could actually doee. Quick as a wink, for the crib girls were also velly fast, all doubt was then removed.
Starbuck was something of a novice himself. He’d talked countless girls, from schoolmarms to saloon tarts, out of their drawers and into bed. Yet he had never been in the sack with an Oriental woman. He knew the east-west question was sheer tomfoolery, but he thought it might be worth a try while he was in Frisco. Whichever direction the plumbing ran, it would be worth the price of admission. A little doee now and then kept a man from going stale.
A couple of minutes before seven, Starbuck located Fung’s house. As he’d been told, it was the only three-story building in all of Chinatown that wasn’t swarming with a hundred or more occupants. He rapped on the door and almost instantly it swung open. A servant bowed him inside, quickly closing and bolting the door. Without a word, the man turned and walked along a central hallway.
Starbuck followed. He checked left and right, naturally curious about the inside of a Chinese home. Yet there was little to see; the rooms off the corridor were dark; except for dim candles and several large vases, the hall itself was bare. He had the sense of being watched, which was reinforced by the servant’s casual manner. He wondered how many hatchet men silently waited in the darkened rooms.
At the end of the hallway, the servant stopped and bowed him through a door. Stepping onto a small landing, Starbuck saw a lighted staircase leading to the cellar. He went down the stairs, which turned sharply at the bottom, and emerged in an underground chamber. One look and he understood immediately why Chinatown’s vice lord still survived.
The chamber ran the width of the house. Ornate candle fixtures were attached to the walls, and a steel door stood opposite the staircase. Before the door, chained to the wall, were two beasts that vaguely resembled dogs. Huge as tigers, the mastiffs looked as though they would happily devour a man for breakfast. The dogs snarled in unison, and showed him fangs the size of tusks. He remained very still.
A Chinaman appeared in the doorway. At his command, the mastiffs dropped to the floor, silent but watchful. Another man came through the door and paused, hands stuffed up his sleeves. Tall men, muscular and hard-faced, they both wore broad-brimmed flat hats, their hair twisted in long queues. Their robes were black and their rubber-soled shoes made every movement silent as a whisper. From the look of them, there was a hatchet up every sleeve.
Starbuck thought he’d never seen men who so thoroughly fitted the part of assassins. The first one expertly patted him down, and removed the Colt Lightning from his shoulder holster. The hideout gun in his boot top went undetected, and knowing it was there gave him some degree of comfort. Still, even though he was armed, he warned himself to play it fast and loose. A bold front and quick wits were the key to leaving the chamber alive.
The hatchet man in the doorway moved aside and motioned him through. Starbuck gingerly stepped past the mastiffs and entered a spacious room. Spartan as a monk’s cell, the room was furnished with floor cushions and a low teakwood table. To his immediate left was another steel door, which he assumed led to the living quarters. The hatchet men took up positions directly behind him, one on either side of the entranceway. He needed no reminder that it was also the only way out.
The side door opened and Fung Jing Toy whisked into the room. He wore a silk mandarin gown and a black skullcap. A slender man, with a long mustache and skin the texture of parchment, his bearing was that of someone who spends his life remote from the world of people. His eyes were impersonal.
“Mr. Lovett.” His head dipped in a bow. “Please be seated.”
“Thank you kindly.”
Starbuck lowered himself onto one of the cushions. His legs were too long to fit under the table, and he awkwardly twisted around sideways. Fung moved to the opposite side of the table and took a seat, legs crossed. A moment passed; then he nodded with grave courtesy and spoke in a reedy voice.
“I am told this is your first visit to our city.”
“That’s a fact. Got in late this morning.”
“Have your expectations been fulfilled?”
“Well …” Starbuck smiled lamely. “I’ve been pretty busy. Haven’t had much time to catch the sights.”
“A situation not without remedy. You must allow us to show you something of Little China during your stay.”
“Little China?”
“A colloquial expression,” Fung said with a patronizing smile. “Your people call it Chinatown. We find our own name more suitable.”
Starbuck realized the vice lord’s smile was closer to a grimace. A cold rictus that touched his lips but never his eyes. The serpentine charm and oily manner also failed to hide the hauteur in his voice, the deep arrogance. Still, there was no faulting the man’s command of English. He spoke with only a slight accent, and he used three-dollar words. Starbuck thought “colloquial” was a real piss-cutter. He made a mental note to look it up in the dictionary.
“Now, as to business,” Fung went on blandly. “Denny O’Brien informs me that you are interested in a purchase of some magnitude.”
“All depends,” Starbuck said tentatively. “The merchandise would have to be prime stuff, pick of the litter.”
“Ah, yes.” Fung permitted himself an ironic glance. “Pick of the litter meaning virgin girls, is it not so?”
“Nothing less,” Starbuck affirmed. “Virgins will be the come-on, if you get my drift. I’ll use ’em to start the operation off in real style.”
Fung gave him a thoughtful stare. “I believe you plan to open several houses, all at the same time. To one of humble aspirations, that seems a grand and daring concept.”
Starbuck beamed like a trained bear. “I think big and I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is. Four or five houses—all stocked with virgins—it’ll flat knock their eyes out! No way it’ll fail, and there’s the God’s own truth.”
Fung studied his nails. “An ancient proverb advises us that truth wears many faces.” He suddenly looked up, eyes gleaming icons. “I understand you are a man of some influence in the Colorado mining camps?”
“Well, let’s just say I’ve got pull with all the right people.”
“Then you must know my associate, Wong Sing? He resides in the town called Leadville.”
“No.” Starbuck sensed danger. “Never made his acquaintance.”
“How is that possible?” Fung’s
eyes were now veiled. “He leads the Sum Yop tong in Leadville.”
“What’s his front?” Starbuck asked evenly. “What’s he do for a living?”
“I am told he operates a laundry.”
Starbuck opened his hands, shrugged. “Not too likely we would’ve met. See, I don’t care much for starch in my shirts.” He paused, flashed his gold tooth in a crafty smile. “I generally find a woman willing to do my wash.”
The statement was entirely plausible. In mining camps, white men were fond of saying all Chinamen looked alike. Moreover, those Chinese who owned businesses invariably ran a laundry or back-alley café. So it was understandable that the one who called himself Harry Lovett would have no knowledge of Wong Sing. Yet Fung was not wholly satisfied with the answer. He survived by trusting no man, most especially a blue-eyed devil endorsed by Denny O’Brien. He concluded the matter would bear further scrutiny.
A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Upon your return, you must make yourself known to Wong Sing. He would be honored to be of service … should the occasion arise.” “I’ll do that very thing,” Starbuck said earnestly. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll be able to swap favors here and there.”
Fung laced his fingers together, considered a moment. “Your request is most unusual. A hundred virgins, all of such tender age, are not easily obtainable.”
“No, I suppose not.” Starbuck feigned a sly look. “Course, if I made it worth your while, you likely wouldn’t have any trouble, would you?”
Fung nodded wisely. “I believe it could be arranged.”
“How much?”
“One thousand dollars a girl.”
“Holy Christ!” Starbuck appeared shocked. “That’s a little steep, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Fung intoned. “On the other hand, where else would you turn? I alone govern the trade in slave girls.”
“You’ve got a point.” Starbuck hesitated, his features screwed up in a frown. “How would I know they’re all virgins?”
“You have my word,” Fung said in a voice without tone. “Or if you wish, you may have them inspected by a doctor. Such matters are readily arranged.”
Starbuck pondered a moment, then laughed. “What the hell, it’s only money! When can you make delivery?”
“Hmm.” Fung nodded to himself as though possessed of some secret knowledge. “I will consult with my associates and advise you. These affairs must be conducted with a certain delicacy.”
Starbuck found the statement too cryptic for comfort. “Don’t hang me up too long. I’m already short on time.”
“I beg your indulgence,” Fung said politely. “In the meantime, allow us to entertain you. The treasures of Little China are many and varied … and quite often memorable.”
Fung rose to his feet. Starbuck was assured he would be contacted, and on that note, the meeting ended. Bows were exchanged, then one of the hatchet men escorted Starbuck past the dogs and up the stairs. Once they were out of sight, Fung turned to the other guard with a look of sharp concern.
“Find May Ling!” he ordered. “Bring her to me now.”
CHAPTER 7
Starbuck had no illusions about the girl. She was a gift from Fung, a young seductress meant to please and delight him. Yet she was also a spy, an enchanting interrogator with both the beauty and the thorns of a rose. He had no doubt his every word was reported directly to her master.
The invitation was extended the morning after his meeting with Fung. At first, aware of the danger, his reaction was to politely decline. Denny O’Brien had already offered him one of the Bella Union girls, and that was excuse enough to beg off. Then, wary of insulting Fung, he thought it wiser to accept. There were grave risks entailed, but he was an old hand at guarding himself in the clinches. Besides, he was horny as a billy goat and still extremely curious about Chinese women. Until he verified it for himself, the question of their east-west plumbing would always stick in his mind. He accepted, and the engagement was arranged for that evening.
Shortly after sundown, one of Fung’s men met him outside the hotel. He was led to a building in the heart of Chinatown, then upstairs to an apartment on the second floor. The man knocked three times, bowed from the waist, and disappeared down the stairs. He was left alone before the door.
Whatever he expected, Starbuck was not prepared for the girl’s loveliness. May Ling was tiny, with a doll-like figure and large almond-shaped eyes. Her features were exquisite, with bee-stung lips and high cheekbones, all framed by a mass of hair black as obsidian. Her voice was odd and vibrant, and there was about her an aura of innocence destroyed. She smelled sweet and alluring, and gave off a sensual radiation as palpable as musk. He judged her age at somewhere between eighteen and twenty. A child-woman of evocative beauty.
Her apartment was small but richly furnished. The walls were decorated with silk prints and the floors were lushly carpeted; the bureau and several squat chests were finished in black, heavily lacquered, and trimmed with brass fittings. A tall Oriental screen separated the living area from the bedchamber, and a miniature kitchen was partitioned off by yet another screen. A low table, used for both entertaining and dining, was surrounded by plush floor cushions.
May Ling was dressed in a milk-white kimono that seemed to mold her body in melted ivory. Her English, like Fung’s, was remarkably correct, with only a trace of an accent. She greeted Starbuck with a cordial bow, and showed him to the place of honor at the table. In deference to his Western tastes, she served whiskey and provided a porcelain ashtray for his cigar. She was gracious, drawing him out with small talk, and gave no hint of embarrassment at the arrangement. She was there for his pleasure, and quite clearly eager to please.
Starbuck was indeed pleased. She was a creature of surpassing beauty, and the atmosphere was conducive to thoughts of erotic Oriental mysteries. The scent of joss sticks and sandalwood was heady, somehow intoxicating, adding to the sensation of her nearness. When she spoke her lips moved like moth wings, and she seemed to have an infinite variety of smiles, all suggestive of the night ahead. He watched, sipping whiskey, while she glided spectrally from the kitchen to the table. His hunger, mounting steadily, was not for food.
Dinner was one surprise after another. She served prawns simmered in a sticky, sweet sauce, and something that vaguely resembled pork, swimming in a thick black gumbo. Steaming bowls of vegetables, similar in appearance to seaweed, complimented the meat dishes, and with each course there appeared another mound of snow-white rice. Herbal tea and delicate cookies, tasting faintly of ginger, finished off the meal.
Starbuck thoroughly stuffed himself. He’d never tasted prawns, and the other dishes, though equally unfamiliar, were nonetheless savory. After dinner, he loosened his belt a notch and lit a cigar. May Ling cleared the table and poured him another whiskey. Then she took a zither from a wall peg and seated herself across from him. Her fingers flew over the instrument like darting birds, producing a strange and haunting music. The sound was discordant to his ear, not unpleasant but seemingly without melody. To his amazement, she opened her mouth and began to sing. The words were meaningless, but the timbre of her voice was almost hypnotic, curiously intimate. Her gaze never left him, and he felt certain the song was meant to convey some seductive message. When she finished, he stuck the cigar in his mouth and applauded heartily. She blushed and modestly averted her eyes.
The evening thus far was beyond anything he had imagined. The lavish meal and the haunting song were unaccustomed preliminaries to the mating ritual he normally practiced. Yet the girl herself was by far the greatest surprise. She had asked no questions and made no reference whatever to his dealings with Fung. Nor had she displayed even passing interest in who he was or where he came from, or the nature of his business. In short, she’d made no attempt to grill him, and seemed content merely with his company. He found himself somewhat bewildered, and more than a little curious. Tactfully, choosing his words, he asked her about herself. His interest was genuine, and fr
om the expression in her eyes, he knew it was a question she’d seldom been asked. He prompted her, gently insistent, and she slowly began to talk.
Her life, she told him simply, had been ordained by circumstance. Her parents were poor, struggling to eke out an existence. Like many peasant girls, governed by a centuries old custom, she had been sold into bondage. The contract took effect on her tenth birthday, and by then she’d shown promise of beauty. One of Fung’s agents ultimately bought her, and she had arrived in San Francisco not quite a year later. Unlike ordinary slave girls, Fung had taken a special interest in her. A tutor had been retained to teach her English and the art of conversation, and still another mentor had trained her in music and song. A woman of great wisdom had instructed her in lovemaking and the many exotic acts pleasurable to man. At age fourteen she had been accorded a great honor. Fung, her master and patron, had himself taken her virginity.
With a note of pride, she observed that since that time she had lived the life of a courtesan. She entertained those men, both Chinese and American, who were of special interest to her master. In return, she had been given her own quarters and the freedom to travel Little China as she pleased. Over the years many wealthy men had attempted to buy her, offering thousands of dollars above the price normally paid for even the most beautiful virgin. Yet, declaring her beyond value, her master had refused in each instance. That refusal had bestowed great honor on her, and wherever she went the people of Little China treated her with the respect reserved for one of position and rank. Few slave girls rose so high, and she considered herself the most fortunate of women. Not yet twenty, she had found serenity and purpose in life. She existed to serve her master, and her days were filled with happiness. She was content.
Starbuck believed her. She was a slave, and whether she called herself courtesan or whore, she would live out her days in bondage. All the same, she was happier than any white whore he’d ever known. She was at peace with herself and her world, and the serenity she spoke of was no act. Her voice, the expression in her eyes, told the story. She had found something in life that few people attain. Her mirror reflected the worth of her own esteem.
