“Right. May as well start there,” Tom replied. This sort of work didn't thrill him but at the moment it seemed the only avenue.
They left it there for the evening. Pat and Charlie stayed to finish up some paperwork from another case while Tom and Eli headed off for Pell Street and Master Kwan's class. Jaffey didn't know what to expect. He'd never had any organized exercise, except for calisthenics at the police school. He thought he was in pretty good shape, but, in truth, he had no way to measure that. He was nervous about the Chinese too, especially the head man, whom Tom told him to call “Master Kwan” or just “Master.” He felt strange about calling any Chinese “Master.” To be Chinese in New York was to be even lower than the blacks. The Chinese exclusion acts were proof of that. Jaffey had never heard of any race being excluded from the country before. He didn't know enough about the Chinese to know the reasons why either. They were a mysterious, quiet people, about as different from him as a human could be. That was part of the problem, he suspectedâthey were so different from the majority of the population. Maybe it was the opium trade that seemed to follow them wherever they went. He had learned a little about the opium problem during training, but it didn't seem to be taken too seriously. There were said to be scores of opium dens in the city, but even though a law had been passed making it a misdemeanor to smoke or eat opium, there had been only twelve arrests in â82 and not many more in '83.
“Say, Tom, do you know any opium dens?” Jaffey asked.
“Sure, plenty to choose from down here. Why, you want to hit the pipe?” Tom said with a sarcastic grin.
“Don't think so. Just thinking about the Chinese and what they told me about the opium trade in police school.”
“Well, if you'd like some firsthand knowledge on the subject, we can take a detour after the workout,” Tom offered in the same tone he'd have used if he was suggesting they stop for a beer. Jaffey agreed immediately. As they neared Pell Street, Jaffey could see the change in the neighborhood. The smells were different. The air bore the tang of spices and foods he could only guess at. The talk on the street melted from Italian into ChineseâCantonese, actually, but Eli didn't know the difference. The signs were unreadable, the alphabet a jumble of lines and slashes. It didn't feel like New York at all. One thing was the same though: the bustle of the street, the pushcart vendors, the produce stands, the traffic, the pedestrians.
As they drew deeper into the few blocks near Chatham Square that were considered Chinatown, he began to notice that he and Tom were the subject of some attention. They were outsiders here. But Jaffey noticed that Tom was exchanging an occasional subtle greeting with Chinese on the street. At first he wasn't sure what it meantâthe short bob of the head and the smile that wasn't; then he noticed Tom doing it too.
“You know some of these people?”
“Sure, you don't walk patrol for three years without getting to know people,” Tom said. “Things have changed since then, but I still know a lot of them. Good, hardworking people, mostly. They've got two vices though: They gamble like fiends and they love their opium.” Tom motioned with his head as they turned a corner. “Before we go to class, I want to stop off at a little place I know.”
“I thought we were going to an opium den
after
training,” Jaffey said, confused.
“Oh, we'll do that, but first I wanted to see if the master is through with work. We're a little early, see.”
“Oh. Where's he work?” Jaffey looked around.
“Someplace more addictive than the opium dens,” Tom answered with a mysterious grin.
I'm a few minutes they stood before a red-brick four-story tenement. Its basement was only partly below street level. Through the large window in front, Jaffey could see a table with two Chinese seated over steaming bowls. They were going at the contents with what appeared to Jaffey to be a pair of pencils. Tom went down the four steps to the front door.
“It's not a restaurant officially or legally, but down here the rules get bent
in unusual ways.” Tom said. “I always liked it because it's close to headquarters but still out of the way.”
Eli kind of turned up his nose. “The master works here?” His skepticism was clear. What he expected, even he couldn't have told, but it wasn't this.
“Listen,” Tom said, stopping before they went in. “Lesson number one, don't judge a man by the job he does. Jobs aren't exactly open to Chinese, in case you haven't noticed. It's near impossible for men to find work, and when they do, they earn much less than whites. As for Master Kwan, he's part cook, part waiter, part owner. Take your pick.” Tom opened the door and a wave of hot aromas washed over them. “See what I mean?” Tom half turned with a big grin. “Better than opium.” He turned to go in but wasn't more than two steps inside when he pulled up short, like a ship run aground. Jaffey almost bumped into him. Tom turned with a quick, silent gesture and got Eli going back out the door.
“What's wrong? Why'd we turn around?”
Tom hustled Jaffey away down Mott, toward the square. Once they were a couple of doors away, Tom turned to look back.
“It was Coffin and Byrnes having dinner. I don't think they saw us.” Tom craned to see if anyone followed. “Master Kwan saw me coming and gave me a sign.”
“Damn, I didn't see any of that. Where were they?”
“Off in a corner. The master covered for us. Did you see the man folding the tablecloth?”
Jaffey gave Tom a confused squint. “What are they both doing down here together?”
Tom was no less puzzled. “That, my lad, is what's worrying me.”
They went on to 16 Pell Street, where Tom turned in at an unmarked door that led them upstairs.
“This is the headquarters of the Hip Sing Tong,” Tom said softly. “Don't ask questions. Don't say anything, in fact. Just follow my lead. Without Master Kwan here, there might be some who don't appreciate our company.”
“I'm right behind you.” Jaffey couldn't hide the doubt in his voice. He was the foreigner here, and help was a long way off if it was needed. Tom didn't seem to hesitate, though.
Fortunately, there were three men in the room at the top of the stairs who knew Tom. Some of the rest didn't seem too friendly. He introduced Jaffey to the three, each of whom bowed slightly at the introduction, then shook hands. Eli did his best to ape their bows, but his reception was stiff and as understated as only a Chinaman could make it. The five men went into a large room at the back of the building. It was empty, save for some straw mats on the floor,
some bamboo poles leaning in one corner, and a couple of heavy padded poles that Eli guessed were for punching practice. Tom and the Chinese stripped down to just a pair of shorts and started stretching. Eli tried to match their movements and quickly found he couldn't.
“Just try to relax the muscles. Don't force it,” Tom warned him. “Slow and easy.” They all worked silently, the Chinese bending their bodies in ways Jaffey could not imagine himself doing. Even Tom could not match the three of them, their supple limbs stretching as if they had no joints.
After about fifteen minutes, Master Kwan came bustling in. He didn't look much like a master of anything to Jaffey. He was small and slight, not weighing more than 130 pounds, he guessed. He wasn't young either. Eli figured him for at least fifty, maybe more. To his eye, Chinese didn't age the way Americans did. Old and skinny or not, Tom and the other three stopped what they were doing and bowed deeply, much more deeply, Eli noticed, than the bows he had received. He did his best imitation as Tom watched from the corner of his eye.
Master Kwan summoned Tom with a lifted finger and a twitch of the head. They went to one corner of the room and spoke softly for a few minutes. At one point, Eli noticed them watching him as he stretched. Tom came back to Eli with a grin on his face.
“Master Kwan hates Coffin more than average, maybe more than me. He says he pays the Chinese no respect, treats them like dirt under his heel. He says the cook spits in his soup,” Tom said with an ear-to-ear grin, “but Coffin keeps coming back.”
“He doesn't hate the Chinese,” Jaffey said. “That's the way he treats everybody.”
Tom laughed. “That's exactly what
I
told him. Anyway, the master says anyone who hates Coffin is a friend of his and can study here.”
Jaffey turned to look at Master Kwan and bowed deeply. “Very good,” Tom said under his breath. “You're learning.”
The three Chinese took turns sparring in one corner, while Tom and Master Kwan worked with Eli. They took it slow, showing him the basics of punching and a couple of simple kicks. Once he had them down, Master Kwan said, “Practice! You do one hundred each, now!”
Jaffey did as he was told. Tom worked with the master, their movements fluid and effortless. They flowed like water from one movement to another in a stylized dance. Sometimes slow, sometimes with speed and ferocity, they moved together. Eli was struck by how alike they were and how different. Like mirror images, strangely altered, they flowed to the rhythms of the art. Eli kept at his practice well past one hundred repetitions.
“You did good. The master was pleased,” Tom said later as they were leaving. “He said that for a clumsy white devil, you show promise. You honored me before him, so you gained face all around. Now I'm taking you to the best opium den in Chinatown.”
Eli didn't know quite what to make of that and it must have shown. “Don't worry, Eli, we won't be hitting the pipe tonight.”
“Tom, if you don't mind my asking, you sound like you know a lot about opium. Ahâwhat I mean is ⦔
Braddock looked at Jaffey closely, then gave a little shrug. “Yeah, I've tried it ⦠more than once, if you gotta know,” Tom admitted easily. “Let me get something clear, first off. It's good ⦠really good ⦠how can I describe it?” Tom mused, trying to put words to what could not be translated. “Ever read Coleridge ⦠the poem about Kublai Khan?”
Eli shook his head.
“Well, Coleridge smoked a lot of opium, and if you read the poem you can get a glimpse of what it's like. It's like floating on a cloud ⦠being master of the cosmos.” Tom smiled in dreamy remembrance. “Like spending ⦠except it goes on and on in the mind. Not as messy, of course,” he said with a laugh, elbowing Eli in the side.
Jaffey seemed embarrassed. Tom guessed his experience with sex was limited to a squeeze and a grope on some Staten Island porch.
“But that's the problem, Eli,” Tom said, his voice growing hard. “If you do it enough, you won't want to do anything else, and I mean
anything
.” Tom said this as if he knew what he was talking about. “One by one the things you hold dear will go up in smoke: money, career, family, girlfriend, everything. The pipe will take it all and demand more. So do it once if you want, but leave it at that, or you risk everything.”
“C'mon, Tom, it's really that strong? I mean, a strong will, moral fiber, andâ”
“Don't mean a damn thing!” Tom interrupted. “Nobody does it for long and comes out a winner. Here we are.”
They stood before another tenement, just like every other one on Mott Street. The one difference was the pair of Chinese lounging on the front stoop. They had watched Tom and Eli from the time they turned the corner. Up close they were a vicious-looking pair. Pockmarked faces, one very round, one thin and angular, were home to black expressionless eyes. Like razor slits in a bag of coal, they took in light but gave nothing back.
“Hello, boys,” Tom said to the two of them. “You're out again, huh, Lee? How are things on Blackwell's Island?” he said to the round-faced one. “Well,
don't worry, I'm not here for you or anyone else. Just want to show my friend here the way of the
been cheong.”
Without saying a word or changing expression, Lee nodded toward the steps leading to the basement.
Tom took Jaffey by the arm. “Down we go, lad.”
They opened the basement door to a different world. An ancient Chinaman with a face like an old sack sat behind a small desk in a lavishly decorated vestibule. Silk wall hangings with painted dragons writhed and breathed fire across their shimmering length. Tassled curtains hung from the door opposite the one they had entered. A carved three-panel screen in dark, exotic wood glowed from hand-rubbed polish in one corner. Another young tough was with the old man. He was instantly on guard when the cops walked through the door. Eli saw a hand go into a pocket. Without thinking he reached under his jacket for the butt of his pistol. Tom put a restraining hand on Jaffey's arm and lifted one finger to the young man.
“How've you been, Sung Chow?” he said genially to old sack-face. The man said something in Chinese. Whatever it was, it was quick, sharp, and had the effect of calling off his guard dog. The tough relaxed and the hand came out of his pocket. “How's business, old friend?”