City of Dragons (5 page)

She took another drag on the Fatima, then dropped it on the sidewalk and stepped on it with disgust. Weak and tasteless, probably older than the kid who sold them to her.

Tea, coffee, sesame balls, sundae, and conversation. Not counting the lecture from Phil through Doyle. She wanted answers, needed answers, or at least the right questions. Before she visited the Takahashis. Grieving parents took a strong stomach, and she was fresh out of bicarbonate.

The smell of moon cake floated out of the bakery. Miranda took out her compact and checked her face, dabbing some Midnight Red on her lips.

A lot of gambling rooms in Ross Alley, tucked in basements down rickety stairs. Some of them were Filipino Charlie’s. The kid at Fong Fong had known Eddie, known his sister, probably knew something he shouldn’t. And he looked Filipino.

Firecrackers exploded down by Portsmouth. She jumped out of reflex. Just the New Year, Year of the White Metal Dragon, a good luck year as long as you weren’t a Japanese numbers boy in Chinatown.

She closed her eyes again. There was a Filipino dive on the edges of Chinatown, somewhere on Kearny or near it. Manila something. Clip joint. Maybe Eddie downed a few there, gulping gin like he was twenty-one and would live forever.

Someone hit a car horn, kept hitting it until the others started, fucking San Francisco symphony. She opened her eyes, looked down Commercial toward Kearny and the Bay.

Dark green Olds, too large for the street, turned up off Kearny, crawling when it got close. Parked across the street in one of the few spaces left.

Miranda counted to three. No one got out. Windows dark, not just with the shadows of Chinatown. The hair on her neck stood up, and she walked into the bakery.

Instinct, he’d told her, trust your instincts. Saved her life more than once. Her instincts told her to go back to the herbalist. She could get over to Ross and around to the Filipino section in plenty of time to grab a White Front on Sutter and ride it down to 8 Wilmot Street and Little Osaka and the Takahashi family. What was left of it.

She came out of the bakery holding a moon cake. The green Olds was gone. But her skin still tingled, and she hurried up the hill on Sacramento, handing the cake to No-Legs Norris, who was begging at the north corner of Grant.

The bells on the door of the herbalist chimed, out of tune. The old man wasn’t there. A younger version in Western clothes sat in the same seat. Surprise, then wariness. Then a phony smile of welcome that was worth about as much as the counterfeit jade the tourist stores pedaled on Grant.

“Good afternoon. You speak English?” She minutely changed her posture, giving the hips a slight wiggle. He didn’t need to speak English to understand that.

His smile stayed in place, eyes missing nothing. “Yes, I speak English. How can I help you?”

She sat in a thronelike chair across from the cherry-wood desk and looked around. A long hallway led to a dim back area on the left. Eddie Takahashi wasn’t beaten or shot in any storefront window. He’d been killed in one of the warrens, here or behind some other door on Sacramento.

“I’m—I’d like something to—to help me watch my weight.”

He was thin, medium height, wiry, about thirty-five to forty, with a blue suit and black tie from Sears and a five-cent haircut from the barber on Waverly. The aftershave was even cheaper.

She’d planned on cornering the old man and waving her license at him, simple intimidation. Would never work with the son. The weight line gave him a chance to look at her, and he was taking advantage of it. Behind the glasses, his eyes lingered on her legs.

“You don’t look like you need to reduce, Miss, if you’ll pardon me. But if you like, I can make you a mixture.”

He rose. “Are you sure that’s all?”

Miranda cleared her throat. “I’m—I’m actually hoping you might have something for—for loneliness. I’m alone, you see. I don’t—don’t want to be. I’ve heard you—I’ve heard you Chinese have medicines that can—that can …”

She broke off, too delicate to explain. He sat back down, nodded his head. The smile was genuine this time.

“Have you ever been—married?”

She bowed her head and whispered. They always wanted to hear it, and they liked to hear it soft.

“No.”

Face flushed, he didn’t ask why he’d gotten lucky, why she’d walked in the dingy little hole on Sacramento Street. Genuine virgin, get it while you can.

“I think I know what you mean, Miss. I may—I may be able to help you.”

Miranda forced herself to smile at him. She could bank on looking ten or twelve years younger, especially in dim light. Swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and asked: “Do you—do you need to—to examine me?”

Took him by surprise. She should’ve waited for him to suggest it, for him to lead her to the back room. Then he’d tell her to undress so he could diagnose her sad state, and give her a homemade remedy for exactly what was wrong.

The doctor game, played by men in dirty white coats and cheap business suits in alleyway clinics. You lonely, lady? Doctor can help. You don’t want a baby, lady? Doctor can help. You need some extra money to help Bobby stay in school, lady? Doctor can always help. Rape’s a dirty word, lady. You asked for it.

The women never called the cops. They just went away, finding refuge in a new kind of aloneness, drowning guilt in a bottle of rye. It was their fault, after all. They asked for it.

He roamed her body up and down again, fast, his tongue involuntarily licking lips suddenly dry. Threw a glance to the back rooms.

“I’m a certified doctor of Chinese medicine. An examination will be necessary, Miss. If you don’t mind, of course.”

She adjusted her hat again, making her voice come out small.

“I haven’t been to a … to one of our doctors yet. But a friend said—said to try a Chinese doctor. You can—I would appreciate—” She dropped her voice on a cue of embarrassment, looking up at him from below the hat brim. “I’m sorry—I don’t know your name.”

He bowed easily. “My name is Ming Chen. My American name is Mike. Mike Chen. Doctor Chen.”

She held out her hand, wishing again for her gloves. Not the hands of a collegiate virgin. More like a Scotch-Irish peat picker.

“Thank you … Doctor Chen. Are you the only doctor here?”

He looked furtively toward the back rooms again.

“My father. My father and I own this business. He’s also a doctor. Now, if you’ll follow me …”

He put up a closed sign and locked the front door, then led her down the hallway. Shelves of small glass jars, some opaque, some dusty, lined the dark wooden cases.

Miranda pointed to the bottles.

“Are these more medicines?”

“Yes.”

More like drugs. She wondered whether Mike Chen sold cocaine or heroin or still clung to opium. The hallway ended in a dingy gray room with a daybed and a rust-streaked sink. Left corner was curtained off in orange-red brocade. He picked up a pack of Lucky Strikes on the bed, lit one, and gestured to the drapes.

“Please—undress there. I’ll put a robe over the curtain for you.”

“Do I—do I have to? Can’t you—can’t you examine me like this?”

He eyes drifted toward the daybed. “It would be better—”

“But Doctor Chen—I heard—I heard there was a murder near here yesterday, and—well, I’m a little frightened.”

Nervous titter. Skirt smoothed down her hips. He took a drag on the cigarette, smiled at her indulgently. Forgot to ask her name. Too busy salivating.

She raised her arms above her head and took off her hat, laying it on an upholstered chair. There were cigarette burns on the arms. Indentations that looked like rope marks. She remembered, suddenly, the burns on Eddie Takahashi’s face.

Miranda was pulling her arms out of the small tweed jacket when she felt him close behind her. He put his right hand on her waist.

“You should relax. The medicine works much better when you relax. Go behind the curtain. I’ll fix you up. All right?”

He was close enough for her to feel his breath on her neck and his erection pushing through the tweed of her skirt. She fought the impulse to kick. At least the tweed was thick, good for more than just the San Francisco fog. She walked quickly behind the curtain.

“Did you—did you see it?”

He was opening an ornately carved, three-legged armoire that tottered against the opposite wall.

“See what? What are you talking about?”

“The murder. I understand it happened right before the—the Rice Bowl Party yesterday.”

She bent low and mimicked unrolling her stockings, watching him through a worn spot in the thin brocade. He took an old silk robe out of the armoire and stared at the curtain that separated them.

“Don’t worry about that. There won’t be any more killings. I’m holding a robe for you. Let me know when you need it.”

She looked behind her. A small, dirty steamer trunk, lid unlocked. She opened it slowly, coughing so he wouldn’t hear the creak. A couple of opium pipes, old juju sticks, empty liquor bottles. On top, a box of fresh cloth bandages, a couple of bloody ones shoved into the middle. Somebody had done some bleeding recently. She was betting it wasn’t young Doctor Chen. She rolled a juju inside one of the bloody cloths and stuck it in her bra.

“I’m almost ready, Doctor. But I’m—I’m still frightened—about the murder—”

He was getting impatient, rubbed the cigarette out on the chair.

“I’m telling you—there won’t be any more murders. Don’t be afraid. Please, Miss. I have other patients—”

If he was telling the truth, then Eddie Takahashi wasn’t a tong war killing or mob hit. They never stop with one. But the beating he took looked like a lesson, and not just for Eddie. That would be the Japanese—or so thought the cops.

The curtain flew open and Mike Chen stood in front of her. The silk robe fell to the floor.

“You—you’re still dressed—”

Game over. She held her hands behind her back and didn’t bother to hide the contempt.

“I changed my mind. I’m not so lonely anymore.”

His hands were clenched, face red, fingers curling and uncurling. He took one step toward her. Her right hand came up holding her .22.

“Back off and sit on your bed.”

He moved backwards, hands by his belt, slowly sat on the mattress. She threw her jacket around her shoulders and shoved on the hat. He watched her, his angled face tight with fury.

“This isn’t a grift. I want some information—about Eddie Takahashi.”

His mouth stretched to a thin, compressed line of recognition. His body tensed, hands to the side, ready. She braced herself. Then the doorbells screamed.

She gestured with her gun to the hallway. “Get up. I’ll be behind you.”

He rose reluctantly. Miranda pressed the barrel into his back, prodded him forward.

The old man was sitting behind the mixing desk, his back hunched, the gray hair in his beard long and unkempt.

Miranda murmured, “Give me some medicine, and keep it in English.”

She lowered the gun, holding it beside her, and Chen reached for a small, dusty jar on the shelf. Fear twisted the old man’s face. She wondered if he knew what went on in the back room.

The son didn’t bother to hide the threat: “The lady wants something special to help her sleep at night.”

His father started to speak, then glanced at Miranda and stayed quiet. She backed up toward the exit.

“Thanks, Mr. Chen. I’m sure I’ll sleep just fine from now on.”

He grunted, pouring about half an ounce of a greenish-yellow powder into a small paper envelope. Then he sponged the seal, wrote something on the envelope, and threw it at her.

“On the house. And you don’t need to come back.”

She took the envelope with her left hand. Her back was to the door, both purse and gun in her right.

“Thank you, Mr. Chen. But I’ll be back. And I’ll tell my friends.” Worry about that one, you fucking son of a bitch.

She pivoted out of the shop and was around the corner and on Waverly and Clay before she looked at the package in her hand. Next to the Chinese letters was written, “Ground powder of Deadly Nightshade leaves. Mix with warm water and drink until dead.”

Four

S
he tried to smile. Her breath was still a little ragged. She was standing against the shadowy side of a tailor’s shop on Clay, trying to light one of the remaining Chesterfields with shaking hands. The souvenir Fair lighter kicked a spark and nothing else. She threw it back in her bag, rummaging for a pack of matches.

She found an unused pack from the Moderne, lit up and smoked under the red awning. Blew a puff out the corner of her mouth. Watched the smoke drift, disintegrate, toward one of the association doors that lined Waverly, past the barbershop and Twin Dragon nightclub with its bright chromium exterior, past the carnival booths that reminded her of the Gayway on Treasure Island.

Chinatown. Grant and Washington, Chinese Sky Room, teashops and gin joints and St. Mary’s after dark. A kind of a home, one for the homeless, one for the outcasts. Nowhere else to go.

White men locked the gate, then bought the opium, bought the girls, bought the silks and the food and the jade, white men kept coming back for more. The Chinese shrugged. And made exclusion pay. You want exotic, Mister, you can have it, but you mind your city and we’ll mind ours. It’s where you locked us up, remember?