The Spoilers (9 page)

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Authors: Matt Braun

BOOK: The Spoilers
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Time lost meaning, and they crossed the threshold together.
 
A long while later Starbuck lay staring at the ceiling. Nell was snuggled close, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. He felt her breath eddy through the matted curls on his chest, and sensed she was on the verge of sleep. Champagne and the afterglow of their lovemaking had left her sated, drifting lightly on a quenched flame. He thought there would never be a better time to pop the question. Yet, even with her defenses lowered, he cautioned himself to proceed slowly. He put his lips to her ear and gently stroked her hair.
“Wanna hear a secret?”
“Umm. I like secrets.”
Starbuck's voice was warm and husky. “May Ling couldn't hold a candle to you. Strictly no contest, and that's a mortal fact.”
“Omigod!” Nell hugged him tightly. “That's the sweetest thing anyone ever said to me in my whole life.”
“I meant every word of it—cross my heart.”
“Does that mean you'll stay out of Chinatown?”
“Would that make you happy?”
“Would it ever!” Nell's eyes suddenly shone, and she laughed. “Why, it would make that little pigeontoed bitch turn pea-green with envy!”
“Consider it done,” Starbuck said with a beguiling grin. “Chinatown's seen the last of Harry Lovett.”
“You won't regret it.” Nell squirmed around and
kissed him soundly. “I'll keep you so worn out you won't have strength enough to eat.”
“Hell, why not!” Starbuck chuckled and settled back on the pillow, watching her a moment. “Now that I've told you my secret, you tell me yours.”
“Ask away.” Nell gave him a sassy, nose-wrinkling smile. “I've already shown you most of my secrets, anyway.”
“Well—” Starbuck hesitated, his features sober. “I was wondering why you're afraid of Denny O'Brien.”
“Denny?” Surprise washed over Nell's face. “What gave you the idea I'm afraid of Denny?”
“Aren't you?”
“Not on your tintype! Denny's not nearly as tough as he puts on. Besides, if he ever tried any rough stuff with me, he knows I'd take a hike. And p.d.q. too!”
“You could've fooled me.”
“Honeybunch, you just lost me. Fooled you when?”
“Earlier tonight,” Starbuck replied, “when I asked you why Denny hasn't taken over Chinatown. You clammed up tighter than a drum.”
“So what?”
“So I'd say you're scared of him. Damn good and scared!”
“No—” Nell's voice skipped a beat. “Not Denny.”
“Who, then?”
“The blind …”
Her words trailed away, and she stiffened in his arms. Starbuck studied her with open curiosity. “Go ahead, finish it. The blind————?”
There was an awkward pause. “Harry, take some good advice. While you're in Frisco, don't ask too many questions. What you don't know can't hurt you.”
“That bad, huh?”
“You just take my word for it … okay?”
“Hell, forget I asked!” Starbuck laughed jovially. “No skin off my nose.”
“And let's keep it that way.” Nell burrowed deeper into the hollow of his shoulder. “I like your nose just the way it is.”
Starbuck dropped it there. He knew he'd learned all he would for one night, and there was no need to push it further. He pulled her to him in a tight embrace, saying no more. Yet the words stuck in his mind, and he found himself genuinely baffled. He lay very still, silently repeating something that seemed to make no sense.
The blind …
“Tell me about Mr. Lovett.”
“I do not trust him, master.”
“Please explain.”
May Ling was seated across the table from Fung Jing Toy. A hatchet man had escorted her into his chambers only moments ago. Earlier that afternoon, when the one named Harry Lovett had departed her lodgings, she knew she would be summoned to the house on Washington Street. She had spent the balance of the afternoon in deep reflection, artfully phrasing the report she would deliver to her master. Now, under Fung's benign gaze, she began what seemed to her a perilous journey. She dared not to be wrong.
“I believe he is an imposter.” Her voice was soft and troubled. “One who pretends to be what he is not.”
Fung stared at her in a mild abstracted way. “Did he abuse you?”
“No, master,” May Ling said quickly. “He was very gentle for a
fan kwei
.”
“How did he differ from other white men I have sent to you?”
“He was not impatient or crude. Nor was he cruel in his demands. We joined three times during the night, and each time he took me without harshness. Today, when we returned from the auction, we joined once again. He was even more considerate … gentle.”
Fung weighed her words a moment. The white devils, even the wealthy ones, were renowned for their coarse sexual habits and their lack of sophistication in bed. Yet, just as there were brutal Chinese, so might there be gentle white men. To think in absolutes was to cloud one's judgment.
“So then,” he said quietly. “Your suspicion was aroused because he did not treat you in the manner practiced by white men?”
“I thought it strange, master. You told me his plan was to open several brothels, and such men are known for their barbaric customs. He was not what I expected.”
“Very well,” Fung nodded. “Mr. Lovett apparently has attributes uncommon to brothelkeepers. Is there more?”
“Yes, master,” May Ling noted seriously. “His behavior at the auction was most revealing.”
“You followed my instructions?'
“Oh yes! As you ordered, I asked no questions and gave him no reason for alarm. When I suggested
attending the auction, he was very excited, very curious. He believed it was something I had thought of only then. A small inspiration to make his tour of Little China more enjoyable.”
“What happened then?”
“At the auction, I observed him closely. His curiosity quickly turned to an attitude of disapproval. He held his tongue, but it was there to see, nonetheless. He frowned, and suddenly became very thoughtful.”
“Perhaps he is a thoughtful man.”
“Perhaps,” May Ling said tactfully. “Quite, soon, however, a circumstance arose which allowed me to test him. I led him into a discussion of slave girls who are unsuitable for auction. His questions enabled me to speak of conditions in the cribs … and the hospital.”
“Ah!” A pinpoint of light glittered in Fung's eyes. “You trapped him!”
“I merely deceived him, master. He betrayed himself.”
“In what way?”
“He was shocked,” May Ling remarked. “When I explained how the crib girls end their days, his expression was one of loathing. The very idea of the hospital was abhorrent to him.”
“He told you that?”
“Not in words,” May Ling said, her eyes downcast. “I sensed it, master. His reaction was that of a white devil missionary. He felt sadness and compassion for the crib girls.”
“We were informed that this is his first venture as a brothelkeeper. According to O'Brien, he was what the whites call a con man. Perhaps he has not yet acquired the dispassionate nature necessary to such work.”
“Certain things cannot be hidden, master. Whatever his designs are, the man named Lovett is not what he claims. He is an imposter.”
“You speak now of intuition, things you divine rather than fact itself. Is it not so?”
“A woman knows,” May Ling said, looking directly at him. “How she knows cannot be explained, but that makes it no less real. This man is dangerous, and I fear he will bring evil to your house. I must say what I believe to be true, master.”
For a protracted interval, Fung was silent. He steepled his fingers together, considering both the girl and her statement. She was young, but wise beyond her years. Several times in the past he had used her to gain insight into men who sought to do business with him. Her intuition was a mystic thing, and a force not to be regarded lightly. Then, too, everything she'd told him merely served to reinforce his own sense of disquiet. Something about Lovett bothered him, and it was for that reason he had arranged the liaison with May Ling. He examined the alternatives, and quickly decided to heed her warning. The sale of a hundred virgins was, after all, a thing of no great consequence.
“I have learned,” he said at length, “that Mr. Lovett will sleep with O'Brien's whore tonight.”
“Nothing escapes you, master.”
“Quite so,” Fung agreed loftily. “I have eyes everywhere, even in the Bella Union.”
“Will the Kimball woman also attempt deception?”
“No,” Fung said without inflection. “O'Brien is blinded by greed. He suspects nothing.”
“A shame,” May Ling commented slyly. “But then, no
fan kwei
could be expected to have your wisdom and foresight.”
A wintry smile lighted Fung's eyes. “You have performed the task well, and I am pleased.”
“I live only to serve you, master.”
“Leave me now. Other matters require my attention.”
May Ling obediently rose, placed her hands together, and dipped low in a bow. She stepped backward to the door, then turned and walked past the dogs. Fung snapped his fingers, and one of the hatchet men appeared in the doorway. He took pen and paper off the table, and laboriously scrawled a note in English. Then he folded it and looked up at the waiting hatchet man.
“You will deliver this message to the blind white devil.”
 
The Snug Café was located on O'Farrell Street, in the heart of the Uptown Tenderloin. Shortly before midnight, a closed carriage rolled to a halt in the alleyway behind the café. Wong Yee and Sing Dock stepped out of the carriage and inspected the alley
in both directions. There was no one in sight.
The hatchet men assisted Fung down from the carriage. He walked directly to the back door of the café and knocked. He was expected, and the door swung open almost instantly. Knuckles Jackson, a pugnosed bruiser who served as bouncer, waved him through and closed the door. Wong Yee and Sing Dock exchanged a look. Only here would the master dispense with their services and enter unguarded. Neither of them thought the order odd, for only here was he safe without them. Still, it did nothing to lessen their concern.
Inside, Knuckles Jackson led Fung through a storage room and up a flight of stairs. There he stopped and rapped twice on a door. A muffled voice responded and he ushered Fung into a lavishly appointed office. The furniture was black walnut, intricately carved, and upholstered in plush velvet. Logs crackled in a black marble fireplace, and a crystal lamp bathed the room in dim light. Beyond the fireplace, cloaked in shadow, stood a massive walnut desk.
The man seated behind the desk was in his early fifties. He wore a frock coat and striped trousers, and a black cravat with a pearl stickpin. His features were lean and angular, and his gray hair was complimented by a neatly trimmed mustache. His eyes were all but invisible behind dark tinted glasses. He gestured toward a chair, and smiled.
“Do come in, Fung. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Buckley.” Fung took the chair,
folding his hands in his lap. “It was kind of you to see me on such short notice.”
“Not at all.” Buckley dismissed Knuckles Jackson with a nod, and waited until the door closed. “Now, what can I do for you? I daresay it's nothing inconsequential at this late hour.”
“That is so.” Fung's tone was curiously deferential. “A problem has arisen, and I felt it should be brought to your attention immediately.”
“Well, well, that does sound serious. Suppose you tell me about it.”
“I regret to say it involves Denny O'Brien.”
“Oh?” The smile faded and a shadow of irritation crossed Buckley's features. “I trust you and Denny aren't at one another's throats again?”
“I have not overstepped my boundaries. To my knowledge, neither has O'Brien. As you directed, we have worked together in a spirit of cooperation.”
“And now?”
“There is no dispute with regard to territory. O'Brien confines himself to the Barbary Coast, and I do the same in Chinatown. In that respect, we have both honored your wishes.”
“Diplomacy has its place, but let's dispense with it for the moment, shall we? Please come to the point.”
“Yes, of course,” Fung said promptly. “O'Brien sent a man to me three days ago on a business matter. I now have reason—”
“A white man?”
“Indeed, so,” Fung said with no trace of resentment.
“A white man by the name of Harry Lovett, who purports to be a whoremaster from Colorado.”
“Very well. Please go on.”
“I now have reason to believe Lovett is not what he claims.”
“Not a whoremaster?”
“Precisely.”
“What is he, then?”
“I have no idea.” Fung offered an elaborate shrug. “Because the situation is confused, I thought it wise to seek your counsel.”
Buckley sighed, tilting back in his chair. “In the interest of time, why not start at the beginning? And please, Fung, spare me the details. Stick to essentials, the bare bones.”
The reproach was delivered in a condescending tone. Fung, who suddenly felt very Oriental and very much out of his element, evidenced no offense. Instead, he launched into a straightforward account of the past three days. He outlined O'Brien's role as intermediary, and went on to describe his meeting with Lovett. He dwelled at length on the matter of a hundred virgins, and Lovett's unusually quick acceptance of the asking price. With a certain flair for intrigue, he then recounted May Ling's role in the affair, and the sequence of events leading to the slave-girl auction. He concluded with a summation of May Ling's misgivings, adding that he, too, shared her doubts. There he paused and awaited Buckley's reaction.
“Are you telling me you're relying solely on this
girl's intuition … her feelings about Lovett?”
“To a large extent,” Fung admitted. “She has great insight into men, and her perceptions have never failed me before.”
Buckley's look was colored by skepticism. “A bit like reading tea leaves, isn't it? You really have nothing concrete to support your view.”
“I am satisfied.” Fung's features grew overcast. “I no longer wish to do business with this man Lovett.”
“What harm could come of it? We have the fix in with immigration, so he's obviously not a government agent. I fail to see how he poses a threat.”
“A threat assumes many guises. I have no way of knowing who Lovett may or may not be. On the other hand, I do know the value of caution. I would prefer to cancel the arrangement without delay.”
Buckley appeared to lose interest. “Do as you please. Simply inform Lovett the deal's off.”
“There are other considerations,” Fung said in a musing voice. “O'Brien has quite probably charged Lovett a middleman's fee. That places me in an awkward position.”
“Exactly what is it you're asking?”
“I wish you to intercede on my behalf. O'Brien will accept your judgment, and the matter will end there.”
“I dislike getting involved in these petty squabbles. Good God, you and Denny are grown men! Work it out for yourselves.”
Fung gave him a straight, hard look. “As you are aware, O'Brien bears me personal ill will, and he
also covets Chinatown. Were I to withdraw from this arrangement—thereby causing him financial loss—he might easily use it as a pretext to start trouble. Without your intercession, our spirit of harmony may very well be jeopardized. I urge you to reconsider.”
“In short,” Buckley said with heavy sarcasm, “you want me to pull your chestnuts out of the fire?”
“I bow to your wisdom at all times. As you have so often reminded me—you are the boss.”
Buckley gave the matter some thought. “Very well,” he said finally, “I'll look into it. I want you to understand something, though. When you make your problems my problems, I begin wondering if maybe I don't need myself a new boy in Chinatown. You might reflect on that before you come begging favors again.”

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