the Spy (2010) by Cussler Clive (early readers .txt) 📕

An unusual sight caught his eye. Walking quickly, darting anxious glances behind her at a cop who seemed to be following, was a fair-skinned Irish girl carrying a Chinese baby. She was built as solidly as a bricklayer and had the kind of about-to-wink smile in her eye that Scully appreciated. He tipped his hat and made room on the narrow sidewalk as she hurried past toward Mott. Up close, the baby looked not entirely Chinese, not with that tuft of yellow hair crowning its head.

The cop brushed past Scully and caught up with the woman at the angle in Doyers. He peered suspiciously into her blanket. Scully ambled over, suspecting what would happen.

I'm going have to take you in, said the cop.

What the bloody hell for? asked the mother.

It's for your own protection. Every white woman married to a Chinese has got to show she was not kidnapped and held captive.

Kidnapped? I'm not kidnapped. I'm going shopping to bring supper home for my husband.

You'll have to show me your marriage license before I'll believe that.

I don't carry it around with me, for God's sake. You know I'm married. You're just giving me a hard time. Expect me to put money in your hand.

The cop flushed angrily. You're coming in, he said, and took her by the arm.

John Scully shouldered up to him. Officer, if we could speak in private?

Who are you? Get out of here.

Where I come from, money talks, said Scully, passing the cop the bills he had palmed. The cop turned on his heel and lumbered back toward the Bowery.

What did you do that for? She had angry tears in her eyes.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, said Scully. They bother you much?

They do it to all of us who marry Chinamen. As if a girl had no say in who she wanted to marry. They hate that a white woman would marry a Chinese, so they say we did it because we're addicted to opium. What's wrong with marrying a Chinaman? Mine works hard. Comes home at night. He don't drink. He don't beat me. Of course, I'd floor him if he tried. He's a little fellow.

Doesn't drink? asked Scully. Does he smoke opium?

He comes home for supper, she smiled. I'm his opium. Scully took a deep breath, looked around guiltily, and whispered, What if a fellow wanted to try to smoke some just to see what it was like?

I'd say he's playing with fire.

Well, let's say he wanted to take the chance. I'm not from around here. Is there a safe place for a fellow to try it?

The woman put her hands on her hips and stared him in the face. I saw you give that cop much too much. Do you have a lot of money?

Yes, ma'am. I've done very well by myself, but it's time I cut loose. I really want to try something new.

It's your funeral.

Yes, ma'am. That's how I see it. But I'd pay the extra to go to a place where they won't knock me on the head.

You're standing right in front of it. She indicated with a toss of her head the opera house. Scully looked up at the tall windows on the second story.

In there? I was just in there hearing the opera.

There's a place for high rollers upstairs. You can try your opium. And other things.

Right here? Scully scratched his head and pretended to gawk. His detective work had brought him pretty close. But without her, he'd have been looking all week. Just went to show that good deeds were rewarded.

You go up to the balcony like you was intending to hear the opera. Climb all the way to the back and you'll see a little door. You knock on that, and they'll let you in.

Just like that?

For Chinese there are only two kinds of people. Strangers outside, family and friends inside.

But I'm a stranger.

You tell them Sadie sent you and you won't be a stranger.

Scully smiled. So you played with fire?

No, she laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder. Go on with you. But I know some of the girls.

Scully bought another ticket, climbed to the balcony, turned his back on the screeches coming from the stage, climbed to the top, and knocked on the door she'd told him about. He heard a peephole slide open and grinned the unsure grin of a man way off his own territory. The door opened a crack, secured by a strong chain.

What do you want? asked a thickset Chinese.

Scully glimpsed a hatchet handle protruding from his tunic. Sadie sent me.

Ah. The guard loosed the chain, opened the door, and said solemnly, Enter. He pointed the way up carpeted stairs, and John Scully climbed into air that was dense with sweet-smelling smoke.

At first sight, the Van Dorn detective did not have to feign a country bumpkin's astonishment at the very large space bathed in golden light. It had a canopy ceiling of red cloth, and every inch of the walls was covered in curtains, hanging carpets, and painted silk panels depicting dragons, mountains, and dancing girls. Furnished with elaborate carved wooden furniture and illuminated by colored lanterns, it looked, Scully thought, like his idea of the throne room of a Peking palace, minus the eunuch guards.

Deadly-looking Hip Sing hatchet men dressed in dark business suits stood watch over the faro wheel, the fan-tan tables, and the pretty girls carrying opium pipes to customers lounging on sofas. The girls, who wore clinging skirts slit high as their knees, were white, though those with dark hair were made up with greasepaint to look Chinese. Like the streetwalkers had told him, genuine Chinese women were scarcer than hens' teeth in Chinatown.

The customers lolling half conscious in the smoke were a mix of yellow and white men. He saw prosperous-looking Chinese merchants, some in traditional Mandarin jackets, others