expression, “The girl who was with me when Jessie bought me from Chee Song Tong. The hatchet men took her away, remember?”
He isn’t sure at first, then he does remember the day he arrived at 263 Dupont Street. He nods. “Why are you supposed to rescue her?” As if any of this makes any sense.
“She was sold to a brothel. Damn it, she’s just a kid. There are other reasons, too, that I can’t explain. Anyway, I’ve got to get her out of there.”
“And does the tong know you intend to rescue her?”
“No, actually they don’t. Not yet. But one of the tong men told me today he was interested in me.”
“May I remind you, you’re indentured to Jessie Malone.”
“You think Chee Song Tong gives a damn about that?”
“I get your drift.”
They duck into the Dunne Brothers Saloon. The air is so thick with tobacco smoke, he can barely see three feet in front of him.
“Just a quick nightcap,” he says, “and then we’ll go home. I promise.”
“I can’t take any more smoke,” she says. “I’ll wait for you by the door. Don’t be long, please.”
Daniel greets his fellow tipplers, says hello to dapper Frank Norris, who is drinking deeply at the bar. He pays for his nightcap and knocks it back, then cuts through the convivial crowd. But Zhu is not waiting by the door.
He senses her distress even before he hears her cry, filtering catlike from the alley next to the Dunne Brothers. He pulls the Remington derringer from the back of his belt and dashes into the alley.
Not one man, but three circle around her. The scrappy thugs he’s seen all night. They’ve got her between them, lunging at her as she whirls like a dervish, keeping them at bay.
“She’s just a girl,” he shouts. “Leave her alone!”
The first thug turns from Zhu, lurches at Daniel. Before Daniel can jump back, the thug swiftly kicks, kicks high, his boot toe connecting with Daniel’s wrist. The derringer flies from his hand.
“That’s a message from Mr. Harvey,” the first thug says.
“Who? What?”
“Mr. Harvey says you friggin’ leave his poolroom alone.”
Mr. Harvey? Then the name swims up in Daniel’s memory like a big ugly catfish, pale whiskers streaming. The shack in Sausalito? Got to be.
“This isn’t worth it, man!” Daniel cries. “It’s not worth thrashing us!”
He backs away, and the second thug pounces, punching and thrusting hard fists into his back, his gut, his poor old kidneys.
“So you say!” The first thug seizes him, and knuckledusters pop against his mouth, shooting white-hot sparks through his jaw.
But through his pain and dizziness, Daniel glimpses an amazing sight—Zhu whirling through the alley in some strange purposeful dance. She flies around the third thug, who gapes her, openmouthed.
She assails the second thug beating Daniel. He hears the sickening slap of flesh on flesh, masculine grunts of pain and surprise. She worries him away, keeping the third thug at bay, but the first thug strikes Daniel across the back of his head with the knuckledusters.
The world spins and shatters.
“My dear Zhu!” he shouts. A gay tune pounded out on a piano roars in his ears, filling his head with chaos.
6
Absinthe at the Poodle Dog
“Jar me, I’ll charge ‘em two bits a glass for that dago wine,” Jessie Malone tells herself as her rockaway and pair trot smartly down Market Street. “Make ‘em pay, darlin’. Make ‘em pay.”
And why not? What is she, after all these years? Still the wee sad orphan, that’s what, a-cryin’ herself to sleep. Mum and Pater cold in their graves when she and her sweet innocent Rachael started out on their own. Started out at Lily Lake where they swam like mermaids so long ago.
Columbus Day turned out to be a very fine day for the eminent judge with a mustache like a walrus and a gut to match—the one who hears tenderloin matters and a long-time railbird—to touch her for twenty gold eagles. Twenty gold eagles! Half her winnings at Ingleside Racetrack. Jessie’s got a nose for the nags, there’s no more to her luck than that, though naturally every now and then she hears a tip at the Mansion when a nobbler’s fixing a race and booze loosens somebody’s lip. But how in hell did the good judge know she’s banked a hundred thousand dollars of her hard-earned cash at Wells Fargo Bank? And what kind of polite conversation is that?
“Good afternoon, Miss Malone, aren’t you the lucky one today,” his honor the railbird said, miraculously meeting up