Bouncers rushed to their table, their guns still in their holsters. Some patrons fled, but most stayed with their prospective whores and waited to see what would happen. They all gathered around like children watching a schoolyard standoff.
“Your move, Captain,” the detective said.
Black Vomit Bill feigned grabbing for the money bag and instead swung a small black club at the detective. It hit him on the temple. Detective Porter’s gun fired as he fell to the ground. The whiz of the bullet could be heard as it ricocheted off a chandelier and into a patron’s foot. He was just barely sober enough to notice and scream. Mr. Jade ducked under the table. Then the real commotion began.
Wage stood up to fire at the downed detective, but the nearby bouncer with a beard grazing his belt buckle drew on him first. Wage knew the bouncers always refrained from shooting on account of it was bad for business, but that did not stop two other bouncers from pouncing on him. Wage scuffled with them on the floor with limbs flailing while Detective Porter scrambled to his feet.
A young man, looking more like an apprentice bouncer, drew his revolver with a shaky hand and pointed at the detective, who holstered his weapon and tried to place his hat back on his head. Black Vomit Bill went to punch the dazed detective. He missed because of a well-timed duck and hit Agnes square in her shoulder, nearly separating it. The detective displayed a defensive boxing stance and noticed the absence of Mr. Jade. The crafty old man already slipped out!
Bill went for another strike, but Detective Porter closed the distance and unleashed a barrage of punches to his midsection. With proper form, the detective knocked the wind out of him, but Ol’ Bill didn’t need wind to fight. He countered with a right cross to the detective’s face, nearly knocking him down. Another bouncer, tall and thin, went to restrain Bill, but the old prizefighter launched him across the room, where he fell hard into an onlooker’s escort for the evening. The onlooker retaliated punching the bouncer. The escort then punched the onlooker in defense of the man who kept her safe.
Punching, ducking, scratching, kicking, chair throwing, more ducking, spittin’ teeth, bleeding, and hollering were the familiar signs of a bad-old-fashioned barroom brawl. Meanwhile, faint whistles could be heard from the street. The detective continued to contest the pugilist, Black Vomit Bill. Unfortunately the instruction he learned at the university ceased to do him any good as Bill grabbed him about the lapels and hoisted him up. That’s when Madame Deborah, clad only in a black bustier and black stockings, walked onto the second floor mezzanine with her double-barreled shotgun in hand. She fired a shot into the ceiling.
“All right, you sonsabitches!” she cried. “Those of y’all with a death wish just keep on doin’ what y’all are doing.” She opened up her barrels with a snap and went to reload two shells, and that’s when Ol’ Bill promptly threw the detective out the nearby window. Thanks to adrenaline, breaking through the window was painless, as was landing on the curb of Canal Street. The shards of glass that pelted him like stings from enormous bees, however, were entirely palpable. Lying there, half on the sidewalk and half in the street caked with mud and dirty water, Detective Porter heard Madame Deborah’s shotgun fire again. He groaned and turned his head in every direction, surveying his position but accepting his lack of current resourcefulness.
People began to scatter outside the House of Black Curtains. In the fray of people, a troupe of gentlemen with tall black hats began to infiltrate and surround the building. With their dark clothes against the night sky, they were only recognizable by their badges and gleaming copper buttons. Coppers! Their response time is quicker than expected. The detective instinctually buttoned his jacket, concealing his gun.
A policeman with a full mustache knelt beside him in his prone state. “Hey! I got one,” he yelled to the others. Detective Porter tried to reach for his own badge, but the enthusiastic policeman leaned in close and inhaled deeply. Disappointed to smell no alcohol, he stood and refocused his attention on the fleeing patrons. The overzealous policeman stuck out his arm and grabbed a man of diminutive stature running frantically in his direction. The encounter nearly knocked them both over. “I gotcha!” he screamed. The policeman began to beat the unfortunate soul mercilessly with his billy club. The detective leaned over to prop himself up and realized the dirty water had a faint trace of urine in it. Slowly, he stumbled to his feet and witnessed the small man get officially apprehended and escorted toward the horse-drawn paddy-wagon down the street.
Detective Porter grabbed his bowler cap that had landed a ways off, dusted it off, and placed it slowly back on his head before he hobbled to the broken window and peered inside. He surveyed as fast as he could, but he could no longer see Captain Pascal or Black Vomit Bill. Too slow. They’re gone. Lost in the fray. Need to recompose. The detective stood as upright as possible and walked to the nearby alley, where he leaned against the brick wall. He took systematic deep breaths and could finally feel warm blood running down his scalp. Focus! Where are they headed? A nearby bar? Perhaps a hotel? Where do the ne’er-do-wells find recreation? They must rear their heads somewhere. I can find them! Then Detective Porter collapsed, landing on his backside. I need a moment.
The sounds from the street were all he could record. More fleeing patrons’ quick footsteps, cops yelling, men scuffling, shots fired, women screaming, Canal Street strollers gasping, Canal Street strollers continuing their rhythmic footsteps, Madame Deborah’s voice echoing in the night air, and then, finally, calm. The detective, finally more clear-headed, braced himself against the cold brick wall and stood up. Slowly, he walked back to the street and performed his familiar checklist with his hands: badge, pocketbook, pencil, sketchbook, gun.
The detective properly adjusted his bowler cap and walked toward the entrance of The House of Black Curtains. He stopped to observe the swinging doors shattered and laying on the ground.
“Porter! Porter!” he heard a young voice screaming down the street. Little Master Leroy stopped abruptly in front of him. “Porter,” he reiterated out of breath, “I did what you asked. I followed the Chinaman.” He bent over his knees and took a few deep breaths before standing up again. “Bastard was faster than I thought. He took all kinds of turns, hoppin’ over fences and climbin’ damn walls and such, but I followed him.”
“Master Leroy,” replied the detective, “please calm down and cease your swearing. Where did he go?”
“Quickest way is to take Canal Street west of here, ‘bout half a mile. Then take a left just after Herring’s Textiles on Bourbon Street; he went into the little curio shop with a green light hanging above the door. It’s run by a Chinaman, too. He went in there, I swear!”
The detective reached for his pocketbook, pulled out a quarter and flipped it up in the air. The little boy was unable to catch it, but scrambled around on the ground to grab it. “Excellent work, young Leroy,” Detective Porter said. “You have proven to ‘most helpful. Would you care to make a few extra dollars?”
“Yes, sir. Very much!”
“Then head down to this curio shop, ensure it has no hidden egresses, and choose an elevated vantage point from which you can monitor the Chinaman should he leave again.”
“What the hell is an egress and a vantage point?” the boy replied.
“Your swearing is inexcusable, young Master Leroy. I merely want you to keep an eye on the place to ensure our Chinaman doesn’t leave.”
“What happens if he leaves?” the boy asked.
“Then you will receive a great deal more money to follow him and report his whereabouts to me here.”
“Why don’t you go after him now, then?” the boy asked.
“I am afraid I am in no shape to confront an adversary at this point in the evening,” the detective answered.”
“What the . . . er . . . what exactly is an adversary?” Leroy asked.
“A very bad man whose ways must be changed for the better. Now, can I count on you, young Master Leroy?”
“Yes
sir,” he replied.
“Excellent. Head down there now, and if there is no news, I shall see you in a half hour.”
The detective walked back into The House of Black Curtains. The brothel was desolate, save for a few drunkards and the bouncers in the corner gathering themselves and talking quietly. Thankfully they took no notice of him, but Madame Deborah did. A few steps closer to the bar, and she scurried toward him with her shotgun. “Get the hell out of here, stranger. We’re closed for the evening!” She pointed the shotgun at his head.
“Madame, allow me to show you the receipt for my room,” Detective Porter replied. He held up the receipt with a few dollars cash in front of it.
Madame Deborah snatched the papers from his hand. She looked at it keenly before throwing her graying dark hair back behind her bare shoulders. “And who was your escort this evening, good sir?”
“Edwina, ma’ am. I understand there has been something of a disturbance here tonight, but I assure you, I am just looking for a few moments’ rest.”
“Were you part of it?” she yelled, as she noticed dried blood down one side of his scalp. She lifted her shotgun closer to his face.
“Just an innocent bystander, I’m afraid, caught in the crossfire,” Detective Porter replied, eyeing the preoccupied bouncers.
“Head on upstairs, then. Have Edwina holler down if you need anything.” She lowered the shotgun and nodded toward the staircase.
The detective found his way to his room to find Edwina cowering in the corner by the bed. “Is it over? Is everything OK downstairs?” she asked.
“At the moment, yes,” he replied. “Tell me, Edwina, do you know anything of a curio shop a few blocks from here? On Bourbon Street, with a green light hanging above it?
“Can’t say I do,” she said.
“Edwina, I am in need of some more mending, and I’m afraid I am in a hurry.”
Detective Simon Porter
June 10, 1914
Bourbon Street
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was just after midnight, and the detective’s bandaged head still throbbed. He jogged, and at times, briskly walked, then jogged again, following the instruction Master Leroy had given him. Even at such an hour, there were still currents of motley folk streaming past, creating a strange ebb and flow on the streets of New Orleans.
He came to the inconspicuous store with closed wooden shutters in the only window. A sole green light burned above the door. A small sign read: Le Pharmacie Chinois. He quickly surveyed his surroundings. “Pssst! Over here!” Leroy interrupted. He appeared from a nearby alley. “I ain’t seen anyone come in or out, sure as shit, I think he still might be in there!” Leroy Jardin held out his hand expecting his payment like an impoverished bell boy.
“Master Leroy,” Detective Porter said, “Do you hereby affirm to cease the use of such atrocious language?”
“Atrocious?” Leroy asked.
“Oh, just take the goddamn money.” The detective handed him a dollar. One lash!
“Thank you, sir. It’s been an honor discernin’ your atrocious-ness.” Leroy tipped his hat and ran down Bourbon Street as though the detective might change his mind on the payment and give chase.
The detective shook his head and, hesitantly, walked into the shop with the sole green light. Despite its small size, inside was another world filled with curious and ancient smells. Statues of an obese Buddha filled one shelf, statues of an ascetic Buddha filled another. Confucian icons graced another shelf, and delicate drawings of ying yangs, waterfalls, and Lao Tzu filled yet another. The majority of the shelves, however, contained jars of earth-colored herbs used for medicinal purposes. The detective could smell them all but identify very few. He looked toward the U-shaped counter. An old lady with white hair and hard lines on her tan face sat there, fast asleep. She was sitting on a stool, her head slumped over her chest and occasionally bobbing. Detective Porter cleared his throat. It failed to wake her up. He cleared it again louder, and this time stomped his foot. Nothing. A deep sleep?
He investigated the shelves more closely. He smelled a variety of new scents, identifiable only by their poorly written labels. Sugary Chrysanthemum flower: Disperses Wind. Bitter Crow Dipper: Relieves Phlegm. Earthly Ginko: Mental Clarity. Fruity Ginseng: Stimulation of Mind. Sour Goat Weed: Aphrodisiac. Floral Lily Bulb: Sore Throat. Sweet Wormwood: Fever & Chills.
Then, he smelled it. Between the Lily bulb and the sweet Wormwood, a smell he remembered from his youth, wafting from his father’s den. A smell he remembered from his years of service as a Pinkerton agent, working cases in the slums of society. Opium!
He narrowed down the smell. It emanated from a small, nearly seamless crack in the divide between two of the shelves. He pushed on it gently. Part of the wall gave way, but not enough. He looked again at the shelves. Nothing? Hanging, however, from the ceiling was a small, round paper lantern with a metal base, tethered by chain links. It was the only one of its kind in the store and placed near the hidden door. Surely not a coincidence. The detective instinctively reached up and pulled it. A locking mechanism clicked and released. The wall now budged. The detective pushed the hidden door open all the way and looked back at the counter. The shopkeeper was still asleep.
With extreme caution, Detective Porter entered the secret passage. The sweetly offensive smell was now stronger. A few steps down the hallway, he entered a den and saw people—addicts—through the shifting, milky white smoke. Purple curtains partitioned the den, a haven dimly lit with gaslights and beeswax candles fastened to the red brick walls. Some men sat in cushioned booths inhaling deeply through large, arm-sized pipes. Others used smaller artisan pipes to inhale the vaporized sap from poppy flowers. Some lay in loungers or asleep on mats and colorful rugs on the floor. For those waking up from their initial dream state, women in colorful mandarin gowns provided refreshing spirits and chilled rose water. The detective walked through the snoring, chattering, and quiet laughter of the addicts.
He walked through curtain after curtain until the labyrinth ended in a larger room where he saw Mr. Jade, the Chinaman from the bar, conversing with a couple by a nearby hallway. The rotund opium peddler seemed to be brokering a deal between a man with a dock worker’s build and an Oriental woman clad in a black silk robe embroidered with deep red roses. It did not quite reach her knees. Her coal-black hair was tied back in a ponytail that contrasted her smooth, seemingly ashen skin. She looked delicate, illusory, like she might evaporate wholly in a wisp of smoke after removing her robe. Mr. Jade provided more recreation than just opium.
A girl approached Detective Porter from behind and wrapped her sinewy tan arms around his waist. She felt the hard leather holster near his belt buckle and muttered something in Chinese.
“No,” the detective said firmly as he removed her arms. Mr. Jade led the couple down a narrow hallway with three doors on either side. The detective, still unnoticed, followed. The girl—who, Detective Porter realized upon turning around, wore no clothes—pranced behind him, whispering more Chinese phrases at him in a slurred voice. Mr. Jade showed the happy couple to the first room in the hallway before walking down the end of the hallway and turning into another room. The detective proceeded down the hallway and glanced into all the rooms on his left and right.
“Sǐwáng,” the naked girl whispered. “Sǐwáng!”
Some rooms were vacant, a few had sleeping patrons, others had moaning men and women contorted in curious positions on wicker mats. The last room on the right, the room Mr. Jade had entered, had a drawn curtain. Detective Porter peeked inside and saw the old man leaning over a tall dresser in the back of the room. The detective let the curtain fall back down and unbuttoned his jacket to reveal his gun. The naked girl finally ran back to the den. He pushed the curtain aside and made his entrance.
He’s vanished again!
A shadow slithered quickly from the only unlit corner. Mr. Jade attacked like a viper lying in wait. The detective did his best to counter the
punches, but they came so fast and so frequent. Sometimes a closed fist, sometimes an open one, sometimes aimed toward his stomach, and others his neck. The detective finally punched back, but to no avail. The old man was spry, surprisingly quick; when he didn’t evade the attack, he blocked it effortlessly with his hands in circular motions. The detective suddenly felt like a cat’s prey, merely being toyed with before the final blow.
The old man spun around and unleashed a kick to the detective’s midsection, launching him across the room into the wall. With the wind knocked out of him, the detective stood and drew his gun. Before he could cock the hammer, Mr. Jade disarmed him, threw the gun across the room, and punched him twice in the ribs before retreating. The detective slouched; he thought he hadn’t any wind to lose but was wrong. He raised his hand in submission. “One moment, please,” the detective said pleadingly.
Mr. Jade stroked his long white mustache before folding his arms.
“I only wish to converse,” Detective Porter assured him.
Mr. Jade remained silent and tilted his head.
“I wish to bargain for the stone . . . the . . . the one Captain Pascal relieved Mr. Hamilton of. That is all. I only wish to . . .” The detective suddenly felt a strange burning coursing through his body. His legs gave way. His back hit the wall, and he slid down to the floor. Once on the ground, he steadied himself with his hands.
“What have you done to me?” the detective asked, his voice alarmed. He looked down at his body. Did he poison me? How?
Mr. Jade lifted a hand; a thin needle reflected the flickering candle light.
The detective tried to surge to his feet, but the viper’s poison had spread. His left arm began to go numb. He saw his gun laying on the floor across the room, the barrel pointed directly at him.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 9
