“Say, Tom, do you know any opium dens?” Jaffey asked.
“Sure, plenty to choose from down here. Why, you want to hit the pipe?” Tom said with a sarcastic grin.
“Don’t think so. Just thinking about the Chinese and what they told me about the opium trade in police school.”
“Well, if you’d like some firsthand knowledge on the subject, we can take a detour after the workout,” Tom offered in the same tone he’d have used if he was suggesting they stop for a beer. Jaffey agreed immediately. As they neared Pell Street, Jaffey could see the change in the neighborhood. The smells were different. The air bore the tang of spices and foods he could only guess at. The talk on the street melted from Italian into Chinese—Cantonese, actually, but Eli didn’t know the difference. The signs were unreadable, the alphabet a jumble of lines and slashes. It didn’t feel like New York at all. One thing was the same though: the bustle of the street, the pushcart vendors, the produce stands, the traffic, the pedestrians.
As they drew deeper into the few blocks near Chatham Square that were considered Chinatown, he began to notice that he and Tom were the subject of some attention. They were outsiders here. But Jaffey noticed that Tom was exchanging an occasional subtle greeting with Chinese on the street. At first he wasn’t sure what it meant—the short bob of the head and the smile that wasn’t; then he noticed Tom doing it too.
“You know some of these people?”
“Sure, you don’t walk patrol for three years without getting to know people,” Tom said. “Things have changed since then, but I still know a lot of them. Good, hardworking people, mostly. They’ve got two vices though: They gamble like fiends and they love their opium.” Tom motioned with his head as they turned a corner. “Before we go to class, I want to stop off at a little place I know.”
“I thought we were going to an opium den after training,” Jaffey said, confused.
“Oh, we’ll do that, but first I wanted to see if the master is through with work. We’re a little early, see.”
“Oh. Where’s he work?” Jaffey looked around.
“Someplace more addictive than the opium dens,” Tom answered with a mysterious grin.
I’m a few minutes they stood before a red-brick four-story tenement. Its basement was only partly below street level. Through the large window in front, Jaffey could see a table with two Chinese seated over steaming bowls. They were going at the contents with what appeared to Jaffey to be a pair of pencils. Tom went down the four steps to the front door.
“It’s not a restaurant officially or legally, but down here the rules get bent in unusual ways.” Tom said. “I always liked it because it’s close to headquarters but still out of the way.”
Eli kind of turned up his nose. “The master works here?” His skepticism was clear. What he expected, even he couldn’t have told, but it wasn’t this.
“Listen,” Tom said, stopping before they went in. “Lesson number one, don’t judge a man by the job he does. Jobs aren’t exactly open to Chinese, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s near impossible for men to find work, and when they do, they earn much less than whites. As for Master Kwan, he’s part cook, part waiter, part owner. Take your pick.” Tom opened the door and a wave of hot aromas washed over them. “See what I mean?” Tom half turned with a big grin. “Better than opium.” He turned to go in but wasn’t more than two steps inside when he pulled up short, like a ship run aground. Jaffey almost bumped into him. Tom turned with a quick, silent gesture and got Eli going back out the door.
“What’s wrong? Why’d we turn around?”
Tom hustled Jaffey away down Mott, toward the square. Once they were a couple of doors away, Tom turned to look back.
“It was Coffin and Byrnes having dinner. I don’t think they saw us.” Tom craned to see if anyone followed. “Master Kwan saw me coming and gave me a sign.”
“Damn, I didn’t see any of that. Where were they?”
“Off in a corner. The master covered for us. Did you see the man folding the tablecloth?”
Jaffey gave Tom a confused squint. “What are they both doing down here together?”
Tom was no less puzzled. “That, my lad, is what’s worrying me.”
They went on to 16 Pell Street, where Tom turned in at an unmarked door that led them upstairs.
“This is the headquarters of the Hip Sing Tong,” Tom said softly. “Don’t ask questions. Don’t say anything, in fact. Just follow my lead. Without Master Kwan here, there might be some who don’t appreciate our company.”
“I’m right behind you.” Jaffey couldn’t hide the doubt in his voice. He was the foreigner here, and help was a long way off if it was needed. Tom didn’t seem to hesitate, though.
Fortunately, there were three men in the room at the top of the stairs who knew Tom. Some of the rest didn’t seem too friendly. He introduced Jaffey to the three, each of whom bowed slightly at the introduction, then shook hands. Eli did his best to ape their bows, but his reception was stiff and as understated as only a Chinaman could make it. The five men went into a large room at the back of the building. It was empty, save for some straw mats on the floor, some bamboo poles leaning in one corner, and a couple of heavy padded poles that Eli guessed were for punching practice. Tom and the Chinese stripped down to just a pair of shorts and started stretching. Eli tried to match their movements and quickly found he couldn’t.
“Just try to relax the muscles. Don’t force it,” Tom warned him. “Slow and easy.” They all worked silently, the Chinese bending their bodies in ways Jaffey could not imagine himself doing. Even Tom could not match the three of them, their supple limbs stretching as if they had no joints.
After about fifteen minutes, Master Kwan came bustling in. He didn’t look much like a master of anything to Jaffey. He was small and slight, not weighing more than 130 pounds, he guessed. He wasn’t young either. Eli figured him for at least fifty, maybe more. To his eye, Chinese didn’t age the way Americans did. Old and skinny or not, Tom and the other three stopped what they were doing and bowed deeply, much more deeply, Eli noticed, than the bows he had received. He did his best imitation as Tom watched from the corner of his eye.
Master Kwan summoned Tom with a lifted finger and a twitch of the head. They went to one corner of the room and spoke softly for a few minutes. At one point, Eli noticed them watching him as he stretched. Tom came back to Eli with a grin on his face.
“Master Kwan hates Coffin more than average, maybe more than me. He says he pays the Chinese no respect, treats them like dirt under his heel. He says the cook spits in his soup,” Tom said with an ear-to-ear grin, “but Coffin keeps coming back.”
“He doesn’t hate the Chinese,” Jaffey said. “That’s the way he treats everybody.”
Tom laughed. “That’s exactly what I told him. Anyway, the master says anyone who hates Coffin is a friend of his and can study here.”
Jaffey turned to look at Master Kwan and bowed deeply. “Very good,” Tom said under his breath. “You’re learning.”
The three Chinese took turns sparring in one corner, while Tom and Master Kwan worked with Eli. They took it slow, showing him the basics of punching and a couple of simple kicks. Once he had them down, Master Kwan said, “Practice! You do one hundred each, now!”
Jaffey did as he was told. Tom worked with the master, their movements fluid and effortless. They flowed like water from one movement to another in a stylized dance. Sometimes slow, sometimes with speed and ferocity, they moved together. Eli was struck by how alike they were and how different. Like mirror images, strangely altered, they flowed to the rhythms of the art. Eli kept at his practice well past one hundred repetitions.
“You did good. The master was pleased,” Tom said later as they were leaving. “He said that for a clumsy white devil, you show promise. You honored me before him, so you gained face all around. Now I’m taking you to the best opium den in Chinatown.”
Eli didn’t know quite what to make of that and it m
ust have shown. “Don’t worry, Eli, we won’t be hitting the pipe tonight.”
“Tom, if you don’t mind my asking, you sound like you know a lot about opium. Ah—what I mean is …”
Braddock looked at Jaffey closely, then gave a little shrug. “Yeah, I’ve tried it … more than once, if you gotta know,” Tom admitted easily. “Let me get something clear, first off. It’s good … really good … how can I describe it?” Tom mused, trying to put words to what could not be translated. “Ever read Coleridge … the poem about Kublai Khan?”
Eli shook his head.
“Well, Coleridge smoked a lot of opium, and if you read the poem you can get a glimpse of what it’s like. It’s like floating on a cloud … being master of the cosmos.” Tom smiled in dreamy remembrance. “Like spending … except it goes on and on in the mind. Not as messy, of course,” he said with a laugh, elbowing Eli in the side.
Jaffey seemed embarrassed. Tom guessed his experience with sex was limited to a squeeze and a grope on some Staten Island porch.
“But that’s the problem, Eli,” Tom said, his voice growing hard. “If you do it enough, you won’t want to do anything else, and I mean anything.” Tom said this as if he knew what he was talking about. “One by one the things you hold dear will go up in smoke: money, career, family, girlfriend, everything. The pipe will take it all and demand more. So do it once if you want, but leave it at that, or you risk everything.”
“C’mon, Tom, it’s really that strong? I mean, a strong will, moral fiber, and—”
“Don’t mean a damn thing!” Tom interrupted. “Nobody does it for long and comes out a winner. Here we are.”
They stood before another tenement, just like every other one on Mott Street. The one difference was the pair of Chinese lounging on the front stoop. They had watched Tom and Eli from the time they turned the corner. Up close they were a vicious-looking pair. Pockmarked faces, one very round, one thin and angular, were home to black expressionless eyes. Like razor slits in a bag of coal, they took in light but gave nothing back.
“Hello, boys,” Tom said to the two of them. “You’re out again, huh, Lee? How are things on Blackwell’s Island?” he said to the round-faced one. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not here for you or anyone else. Just want to show my friend here the way of the been cheong.”
Without saying a word or changing expression, Lee nodded toward the steps leading to the basement.
Tom took Jaffey by the arm. “Down we go, lad.”
They opened the basement door to a different world. An ancient Chinaman with a face like an old sack sat behind a small desk in a lavishly decorated vestibule. Silk wall hangings with painted dragons writhed and breathed fire across their shimmering length. Tassled curtains hung from the door opposite the one they had entered. A carved three-panel screen in dark, exotic wood glowed from hand-rubbed polish in one corner. Another young tough was with the old man. He was instantly on guard when the cops walked through the door. Eli saw a hand go into a pocket. Without thinking he reached under his jacket for the butt of his pistol. Tom put a restraining hand on Jaffey’s arm and lifted one finger to the young man.
“How’ve you been, Sung Chow?” he said genially to old sack-face. The man said something in Chinese. Whatever it was, it was quick, sharp, and had the effect of calling off his guard dog. The tough relaxed and the hand came out of his pocket. “How’s business, old friend?”
“Ah, Tommy. Not see you on Mott Street long time,” he said, springing up from behind his desk with more energy than Jaffey would have imagined. He bowed and shook Braddock’s hand like a long-lost uncle. “Hard to get good product. Long way to China. Cost lotta dolla. Gotta go up price all time. Still not make profit.”
Tom gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Yeah, but you’re gonna stick it out for a bit longer, eh, Sung?” They exchanged pleasantries and gossip for a few minutes. It was obvious that Tom knew old sack-face well. “Listen, I just want to give my friend here a little tour. Told him you have the finest place in all New York.”
“That right, Tommy. Finest place, numba-one opium, very fine. You go in, but no scare customa, okay?”
“Sure, sure. We’re not here to arrest anyone,” Tom said, holding up his hands innocently.
They went through the curtained door into a room lit only by a few flickering candles.
“That old bastard owns half a dozen places like this,” Tom whispered. “Got more goddamn money than the Vanderbilts. They’re gold mines.”
As Jaffey’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could see the room was bare except for bunks set up against the walls. There was room for eight in this one room, and he could see another just like it behind. There were four men in various bunks. They had no mattresses. The bunks were really just wooden frames where the smokers could recline. Jaffey noticed with some surprise that two were not Chinese. Tom noticed too.
“Some uptown swells out for an evening of slumming,” Tom said, motioning toward them. “More than half the opium smokers aren’t Chinese. Getting pretty popular with the uptown types.”
They watched as one of the Chinese began the ritual.
“Now watch,” Tom whispered, motioning with his head. “He takes a little from the hop toy.”
“That little box?” Jaffey asked. “That’s a hop toy?”
“Right. What he’s going to do is to cook it a little first before he actually smokes it, get it soft and sticky, like tar. See … he sticks the little ball with that needle. Then he’ll—”
“Looks like my ma’s darning needle,” Jaffey said, the image of his mother smoking opium bringing a grin to his lips.
“That’s the yen hauk. Watch what he does with it.” The Chinese had speared the tarry opium ball on one end of the needle. “Now he’ll cook it a bit and roll the needle in his fingers like a pig on a spit … cook it all around evenly. It’s called chying the mass.”
“Smells nice,” said Jaffey, breathing it in tentatively. “Sort of a musky, fruity smell to it. It’s almost as if I can taste it.”
The Chinese slowly rolled the needle in his fingers over a small oil lamp, not letting the flame lick any spot too long. The ball of opium smoked and expanded as it heated. Tom seemed to relish the aroma. Jaffey saw him breathing deep but said nothing.
“Okay, now it goes into the heen cheong and he’ll smoke it down to a cinder … but slow, nice and slow.”
The man carefully smeared the small tarry mass around the bowl of the pipe, his fingers rolling the needle. The man wore a look of such concentration, it was like watching a fine craftsman at work or a priest preparing the host.
“Why do they smoke lying down like that Tom?” Jaffey asked when the Chinese had finished inhaling the smoke from the heated opium. It seemed as if he’d taken in the whole thing in one huge lung-ful, holding it for an eternity before finally letting it out in a rapturous gasp.
“Well … depending on how much you smoke, you might just fall down anyway. Saves getting a nasty knock on the head.”
“It doesn’t look all that great,” Jaffey said after the man had finished. “He’s just lying there.” Eli waved a dismissive hand at the man.
Tom said patiently, “Trust me, he’s somewhere else entirely right now. While you’re seeing his body looking like a dead man, on the inside he’s flying in the best damn dream you can imagine.”
Later, back out in the cool evening air of Mott Street, Jaffey wondered at the experience. It had a strange attraction, and just breathing the smoke in the room left him feeling unsteady but remarkably pleased with himself, almost euphoric. It was at once a peaceful yet powerful feeling, and all was right with the world for him.
“Feeling a little strange?” Tom asked, grinning. “You can imagine a little what it’s like to smoke it, then. Take my advice, though, don’t do it.”
Jaffey shook his head slowly. “Wasn’t thinking I’d like to. The idea of coming to that depressing cave like a mole person and sucking on a pipe in the dark really doe
sn’t appeal to me. It’s all turned inward. There’s no fun to it. At least if you go to a bar, there’s friends and laughing, and people to share a song or a joke with.”
Braddock grinned. “Quite right, lad. I’ll take a good loud bar any day over that tomb. Sort of like a crypt too, now that I think of it. They just don’t know it yet. Still, it’s a sight you should see if you’re a cop.”
They parted then, at the el, saying their good-byes and going their separate ways.
It was probably around 1:00 A.M. when Tom heard the pounding on his door. He’d been dreaming of Mary. It was her body, and it felt like her in the dream, not the physical feel, but the emotional one. He didn’t need to see her face to know it was her. It wasn’t her face he was concentrating on anyway. But the pounding rippled in his sleep and he looked up at Mary, but it wasn’t her. It was Emily in his arms. It shocked and fascinated him at the same time. What surprised him more than anything was how much he liked the idea. Not so surprising was the wave of guilt that cascaded over him like a cold shower. Emily disappeared. The pounding came again and he imagined it as shots being fired, boom, boom, boom! Bullets bounced around his sleeping brain. He imagined it was Mary shooting at him for being such a cheating bastard. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d do it. He dove for cover, rolling over on his belly, covering his head. Boom, boom, boom again. But this time it wasn’t gunfire. His waking brain couldn’t make it out as he drifted somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Boom, boom, boom!
Suspension Page 37
