Lone Star 02 (10 page)

Now that Ki had noticed the girl, he could not stop gazing at her. She was exquisitely lovely. Her chin was small, so that the bottom of her face was full, but her cheekbones were high and pronounced, saving her face from the apple-roundness so common to those of her race. She wore no makeup, but there was no need for cosmetics. Her creamy skin was flawless. Her large black eyes sparkled and shone as if they had never seen misery. Indeed, what impressed and enthralled Ki most of all was the way this girl seemed untouched by the world around her. She glowed with serenity, with purity; this girl's heart and mind seemed to be joined together in quiet enlightenment.

“Please!” she twittered. “Eat your soup before it grows cold. Do not watch me so!”

“I must turn my back if I would eat. And I cannot turn my back.” He watched her blush. Her lips—like pink cherry blossom buds—parted in laughter to reveal her tiny, pearl-white teeth. She pressed her long, thin fingers to her mouth to hide her amusement, but not before her stem, scowling grandfather noticed, and chittered a reprimand. The old fellow may not have understood his words, Ki surmised, but he certainly understood their intent.

Like many Chinese people of her generation, the girl, unlike her grandfather, seemed willing to embrace her new homeland. Her English was good, and she did not bend and shuffle, but was ready to look an American in the eye and speak directly to him. Her clothing was well worn, but it was clean. She wore an ancient blue silk tunic, skillfully repaired many times, that could have belonged to her mother or even her grandmother, and beneath it a pair of ankle-length black cotton pantaloons; rope-soled cotton slippers covered her tiny feet. Her ebony hair fell in two long pigtails on either side of her head. By some wizardry, Ki noted, this plain clothing she wore only seemed to enhance her radiant beauty.

“If you will not eat your soup, please sample our other food,” the girl asked, spooning pork and vegetables into a bowl. She began to hand the food to Ki, but then stopped, her expression perplexed. “But we have no fork for you, sir! Only chopsticks!”

Ki had to smile. The irony of the situation was too much. They clearly took him for an American, a Caucasian. And he could not correct their assumption, not if he wanted to continue talking to this delightful female ...

“There you are, old man! You go ‘way! But we find you!”

Ki watched as two stocky Chinese men swaggered up. The other Chinese around the cart backed out of the path of the two. Whoever these men were, Ki thought, they certainly cut a wide swath through their own people.

“Please,” the girl hissed at Ki. “No charge for the soup. You go now. Quickly!”

The scowl had meanwhile left her grandfather's face, to be replaced by an expression that was one part servility and several parts real terror. He began to speak to the two men in Chinese, but they cut him off abruptly.

“You!” one of them pointed at the girl. “Tell him we will no longer speak Chinese, but only the English language of our new country!”

The girl, as well, seemed frozen by fear. She said nothing, but only stared at the two men.

“Tell him!” the first man barked. Ki noticed that he had a long, thin, cinnamon-colored scar running from the upper lefthand corner of his forehead, down across the bridge of his nose, to the lower right corner of his snarling mouth.

“Quickly, girl. We have not got all day to spend with you,” the other Chinese said. His wispy, drooping mustache twitched whenever he talked.

The girl pressed her lips against her grandfather's ear and whispered what had been said. Ki took the time to further examine the two newcomers. They were dressed in snug-fitting, dark-hued suits of identical cut and fabric. On their heads they wore identical derbies. Beneath their tight clothes, their arm and chest muscles bulged.

“Tell your grandfather that he not paid us for a long time,” the scarred one demanded. “We leave your restaurant alone. We make sure nobody else bother you. Where's our money? You pay or you get much trouble. Where's our money?”

The man had said all of this in a singsong voice, applying the vocal rhythms of his own tongue to his newly acquired English skills. The girl had seemed mesmerized by the rise and sway of his softly hissed threats. She was like some pretty little bird, grounded with a broken wing, forlornly waiting for the coiled serpent to strike.

“Tell him!” the scarred man suddenly shouted. Once again the girl jumped to do his bidding, desperately whispering to the deathly pale old man.

“And tell him that unless he pay us, Leno Alley lose one fine restaurant. Tell him unless he pay us, Gold Coin restaurant have bad fire. Be no more. His family go work in cigar factory. His grandaughter be a whore—”

“That is enough,” Ki said.

The scarred one, startled, turned to glare. He gave Ki a quick once-over, taking in his shiny black boots and fine suit, and the Stetson, which still shielded Ki's face. The anger in the Chinese's narrow eyes turned to amused contempt.

“He Mr. Smith,” he smirked to his mustached friend. “Mr. Smith, this no concern you,” he told Ki condescendingly. “This Chinese matter. Why you interfere in Chinese matter, eh?”

“You are offending the girl,” Ki said quietly.

“Ha! Ha!” Scarface's laughter sounded like the shrill braying of a donkey. Each ‘ha' was given equal, painstakingly careful emphasis, as if the man had studied how to laugh in English, as well as speak. “You like girl, eh? Ah so, Mr. Smith? Ha! Ha!” he nudged his friend. “She not for you, Mr. Smith. Ha! Ha ...” His laughter trailed off. “You go 'way now. This now for Chinese only, understand?”

“I think it is you who had better be on your way,” Ki warned. He pointed around and behind the two men. The Italians, Irishmen, and other dock workers had heard the scarred man's loud taunts to “Mr. Smith.” There was no love lost between these groups and the Orientals during the best of times. Now the dock workers were forming a rough circle around the old man's cart. They held their baling hooks pressed against their legs as they stared hard at these two Chinamen who had the audacity to dress in such finery.

“We go now,” the one with the mustache whispered to his companion. “We all alone here ...”

“All right, we go,” Scarface agreed, his tone surly. “But first we teach old man—and Mr. Smith—a lesson.” He turned to face the cart, bent his knees, and sprang up into the air, rising about four feet off the ground. At the apex of his hop, he kicked out with first his right and then his left foot, the steel-capped tips of his boots crashing into the wood paneling. The cart lurched, spilling red-hot coals and boiling food across the cement. There was the clatter of porcelain shattering as the shelves of bowls and spoons fell. The entire wooden side was stove in; the old man's vending cart was ruined.

“We go now,” the scarred man said, smug and satisfied as he surveyed the slack-jawed, astonished looks of the surrounding dock workers. “And you, Mr. Smith,” he addressed Ki icily, “maybe we see you in Chinatown sometime. We show you a good time then, okay?”

The two sauntered on their way, leaving Ki to stand with his teeth gritted and his temper flaring white hot. How he'd longed to thrash those two bullies! But there was no way he could have done so without losing all hope of knowing this girl. If he had revealed his martial-arts ability, both she and her grandfather would have demanded to know how a Caucasian had come by such skills. They would have realized that Ki was partly Japanese, and then all would have been lost. Long, long ago, the Japanese had conquered the surrounding nations of Okinawa and China, demanding crippling tribute, and showing no mercy as they inflicted cruel humiliations on the vanquished. Ki knew that the girl's grandfather would have preferred that she die rather than associate with a Japanese.

She was gathering up the toppled pots and their lids now, doing her best to smile bravely through her tears. “You were most brave to speak up for us,” she told Ki, her voice quavering. “But I wonder if you know how much you risked?”

“Who were they?” Ki demanded gently.

“They work for a bad man. A man named Chang. He is the head of a Tong.” Her large, dark eyes, still brimming with the tears she was too strong to let flow, gazed questioningly at Ki. “Do you know what a Tong is?”

“Yes,” Ki nodded.

“It is a sad thing,” she continued. “We left China to escape such things, and now we find that all the old sorrows have followed us here.” She shook her head. “Those men demand protection money from my family, or else we shall not be allowed to run our restaurant. You see how he smashed our cart? He and his friend are adept at Chinese boxing.”

Wu-shu,
Ki thought to himself. He knew better than to reveal his knowledge to the girl. In all, he didn't think much of Scarface's skill, but Ki was objective enough to know that two
wu-shu
adepts
could
give him a hard time.

“All of Chang's men are so skilled,” she sighed. “They rule Chinatown.”

“What is your name?” Ki asked.

“Ah, sir, I cannot...” She trailed off, glancing at where her grandfather was picking through the shards of porcelain, muttering to himself, clearly hoping against hope that somewhere in the ruins he might find an unbroken bowl, or at least a spoon.

“I must know your name!” Ki persisted.

“It would just be more sadness. I could not bear it,” she whispered. “You are American. I am Chinese...”

Ki could see how she was trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes, so carefully shielded beneath the brim of his hat.
If you could see me truly, how your beautiful face would curl with contempt and hatred,
he mourned silently. “But you are an American
too
—” Ki stopped, realizing that what he was expressing was really his own heartfelt wish: that both of them could be together as Americans, and not as two lost and lonely foreigners, barred from each other by their nations' histories.

The grandfather had finished picking through his ruined possessions. He muttered something in Chinese at the girl, who turned quickly to him, nodding and answering respectfully in their own tongue.

“I am a good girl,” she now told Ki, her voice even, but clearly wanting him to understand that she was saying all this on her elder's orders, and not because she had misinterpreted Ki's advances. “I am a virgin, and wish an honorable wedding to a Chinese man. I—” Suddenly her tiny hand darted out to grasp Ki's. Her grandfather's agonized voice reprimanded her sharply.

This time the girl showed her true spirit. She turned—still holding Ki's hand—to confront her watchful guardian. Whatever she shrilly told him, it made the old fellow lower his glaring eyes and nod resignedly. When he next spoke, his voice had lost its harshness.

She turned back to Ki. “My grandfather apologizes for his thoughtless rudeness. That a man of ... your position should intercede on our behalf is a miraculous thing.”

Ki understood what was being inferred by the phrase a
man of your position.
The miracle, as they saw it, was in a white man helping Chinese.

“Tell your grandfather this,” Ki began. “A man must refuse the friendship of all who are not like him ...” He waited for the girl to translate for her elder, then went on, “But if he finds he has made a mistake, then he must not be afraid of admitting the fact and amending his way.”

First the girl‘s, and then the old man's eyes flew open wide. Ki had somewhat paraphrased this particular quotation from the philosopher Confucius, but of course, both Chinese had recognized it at once.

The old man murmured something. The girl nodded, and then smiled at Ki. “My grandfather says he has witnessed two miracles today. He says that the honored sir has given an old man much to think about. Now I must help him take our belongings home.”

Ki watched them push their ruined cart along, beginning their arduous walk back to Chinatown. Once, the girl looked back at him, but no more words were exchanged. He'd longed to coax her to reveal her name, but he now knew that she was a virtuous young woman, brought up in such a way that a gentleman's persistence concerning such a matter could only cause her painful embarrassment.

The far-off chime of the Ferry Building's big clock reminded Ki of his appointment back at the Palace Hotel. He would be late after all, but he thought he could temper Jessie's and Jordan Moore's displeasure at his tardiness by revealing the evidence he had gathered at the cartel's dock.

As Ki hurried, he reminded himself that he had overheard one of the Tong hatchet men mention the name and address of the girl's family's restaurant: the Gold Coin, in Chinatown's Leno Alley. When he could, Ki would visit. There was no doubt about it in his mind. He had to see that girl again.