“Ah, Tommy. Not see you on Mott Street long time,” he said, springing up from behind his desk with more energy than Jaffey would have imagined. He bowed and shook Braddock's hand like a long-lost uncle. “Hard to get good product. Long way to China. Cost lotta dolla. Gotta go up price all time. Still not make profit.”
Tom gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Yeah, but you're gonna stick it out for a bit longer, eh, Sung?” They exchanged pleasantries and gossip for a few minutes. It was obvious that Tom knew old sack-face well. “Listen, I just want to give my friend here a little tour. Told him you have the finest place in all New York.”
“That right, Tommy. Finest place, numba-one opium, very fine. You go in, but no scare customa, okay?”
“Sure, sure. We're not here to arrest anyone,” Tom said, holding up his hands innocently.
They went through the curtained door into a room lit only by a few flickering candles.
“That old bastard owns half a dozen places like this,” Tom whispered. “Got more goddamn money than the Vanderbilts. They're gold mines.”
As Jaffey's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could see the room was bare except for bunks set up against the walls. There was room for eight in
this one room, and he could see another just like it behind. There were four men in various bunks. They had no mattresses. The bunks were really just wooden frames where the smokers could recline. Jaffey noticed with some surprise that two were not Chinese. Tom noticed too.
“Some uptown swells out for an evening of slumming,” Tom said, motioning toward them. “More than half the opium smokers aren't Chinese. Getting pretty popular with the uptown types.”
They watched as one of the Chinese began the ritual.
“Now watch,” Tom whispered, motioning with his head. “He takes a little from the
hop toy
.”
“That little box?” Jaffey asked. “That's a
hop toy
?
”
“Right. What he's going to do is to cook it a little first before he actually smokes it, get it soft and sticky, like tar. See ⦠he sticks the little ball with that needle. Then he'llâ”
“Looks like my ma's darning needle,” Jaffey said, the image of his mother smoking opium bringing a grin to his lips.
“That's the
yen hauk.
Watch what he does with it.” The Chinese had speared the tarry opium ball on one end of the needle. “Now he'll cook it a bit and roll the needle in his fingers like a pig on a spit ⦠cook it all around evenly. It's called chying the mass.”
“Smells nice,” said Jaffey, breathing it in tentatively. “Sort of a musky, fruity smell to it. It's almost as if I can taste it.”
The Chinese slowly rolled the needle in his fingers over a small oil lamp, not letting the flame lick any spot too long. The ball of opium smoked and expanded as it heated. Tom seemed to relish the aroma. Jaffey saw him breathing deep but said nothing.
“Okay, now it goes into the
heen cheong
and he'll smoke it down to a cinder ⦠but slow, nice and slow.”
The man carefully smeared the small tarry mass around the bowl of the pipe, his fingers rolling the needle. The man wore a look of such concentration, it was like watching a fine craftsman at work or a priest preparing the host.
“Why do they smoke lying down like that Tom?” Jaffey asked when the Chinese had finished inhaling the smoke from the heated opium. It seemed as if he'd taken in the whole thing in one huge lung-ful, holding it for an eternity before finally letting it out in a rapturous gasp.
“Well ⦠depending on how much you smoke, you might just fall down anyway. Saves getting a nasty knock on the head.”
“It doesn't look all that great,” Jaffey said after the man had finished. “He's just lying there.” Eli waved a dismissive hand at the man.
Tom said patiently, “Trust me, he's somewhere else entirely right now. While you're seeing his body looking like a dead man, on the inside he's flying in the best damn dream you can imagine.”
L
ater, back out in the cool evening air of Mott Street, Jaffey wondered at the experience. It had a strange attraction, and just breathing the smoke in the room left him feeling unsteady but remarkably pleased with himself, almost euphoric. It was at once a peaceful yet powerful feeling, and all was right with the world for him.
“Feeling a little strange?” Tom asked, grinning. “You can imagine a little what it's like to smoke it, then. Take my advice, though, don't do it.”
Jaffey shook his head slowly. “Wasn't thinking I'd like to. The idea of coming to that depressing cave like a mole person and sucking on a pipe in the dark really doesn't appeal to me. It's all turned inward. There's no fun to it. At least if you go to a bar, there's friends and laughing, and people to share a song or a joke with.”
Braddock grinned. “Quite right, lad. I'll take a good loud bar any day over that tomb. Sort of like a crypt too, now that I think of it. They just don't know it yet. Still, it's a sight you should see if you're a cop.”
They parted then, at the el, saying their good-byes and going their separate ways.
I
t was probably around 1:00 A.M. when Tom heard the pounding on his door. He'd been dreaming of Mary. It was her body, and it felt like her in the dream, not the physical feel, but the emotional one. He didn't need to see her face to know it was her. It wasn't her face he was concentrating on anyway. But the pounding rippled in his sleep and he looked up at Mary, but it wasn't her. It was Emily in his arms. It shocked and fascinated him at the same time. What surprised him more than anything was how much he liked the idea. Not so surprising was the wave of guilt that cascaded over him like a cold shower. Emily disappeared. The pounding came again and he imagined it as shots being fired,
boom, boom, boom!
Bullets bounced around his sleeping brain. He imagined it was Mary shooting at him for being such a cheating bastard. He didn't doubt for a minute that she'd do it. He dove for cover, rolling over on his belly, covering his head.
Boom, boom, boom
again. But this time it wasn't gunfire. His waking brain couldn't make it out as he drifted somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
Boom, boom, boom!
“Tommy, wake up, man!” someone called from the hall. His eyes snapped
open and he jackknifed up in bed, awake but groggy.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
“C'mon, Tommy. Open up!” That got him going finally. He came near to tripping over both Grant and Lee, who were milling nervously in the hall.
“Out of the way, fleabags!”
It was Sam. Tom knew immediately from the look on his friend's face that it was not good news.
“Sam, what the fuck time ⦠?”
Sam's look stopped the words in Tom's throat.
“It's Mary, Tom. Get dressed, and let's go.” Tom hadn't heard anything beyond “It's Mary.” He lived in dread of this sort of thing, knowing it would happen in the course of a business like hers. He didn't say a word, just turned and ran back to his bedroom. His dream lingered and the guilt of it left him with a gnawing hole in his gut, as if he really had been with Emily. He cursed himself as he dressed. Sam stood in the hall outside his door for a second, then came in. Tom had a dozen questions he wanted answered but he knew it would just slow him down to ask them of Sam. Mary was alive, that was all that was important. Sam would have told him right away if she wasn't. He never dressed so fast in his life, at least not since the war.
He was back out in two minutes, tucking the Colt under his arm.
“Let's go. You can tell me on the way.” There was a hack waiting on the blackened cobbles of Lafayette Place. They got in and Sam barked, “New York Hospital.”
“How bad is it, Sam? No sugar-coating.”
Sam took a deep breath. “First off, she's not gonna die or anything. She's pretty busted up, though. Left arm's broke, maybe a rib or two. Hurts when she breathes,” he explained. “She's got a hell of a shiner ⦠face is swole up. Aside from that, bruises and such.” Tom listened grim and stony-faced, his mouth set like a straight razor.
“A client? I want to know, so I can kill the bastard.” Braddock growled. The clatter of hooves and wheels on cobbles couldn't mask the tone. Knowing Tom, it was no idle threat. A chill went through Sam as he hoped he could contain Braddock before things got completely out of hand. He took a deep breath.
“It was a raid. You'll not be killin' anyone, partner.”
Braddock almost jumped out of his seat and the cab rocked as he slammed his fist against the door.
“Christ! What the fuck is going on? The Sixteenth's never given her any trouble, not like this. She pays who she has to.” Tom almost shouted, the confusion clear on his face as he looked to Sam for answers.
“I know. I can't make it out either.” Sam watched Tom from the corner of his eye as he said this.
“Besides, they know who some of her clients are so they leave her alone,” Tom said. “I don't get it. It's not like Parker,” he said, referring to the Sixteenth Precinct's commander. “Sure it was them?” Tom couldn't see Sam's face clearly in the darkened cab but something wasn't right.
“We're almost there,” Sam said, looking out the window. “Mary'll tell you what happened. Don't know it all myself.”
Tom gave him a short, hard look. “Not like you to hold out on me, Sam.”
Sam hesitated, opening his mouth for an instant before he stopped himself. “Just my guess is all, so I'll keep it to myself,” Sam said carefully. “We're here anyway. I'll pay the cabbie, you go on up. Room 214.”
Tom bounded up the stairs to the second floor and blew down a broad corridor. His shoes clacked and echoed on the tile floors. After a wrong turn and a quick about-face he found the room. He turned the knob quietly, as if he were housebreaking, and eased the door open. There was no light in the room. The dark and the sickroom smells hung inside, solid as a wall. There were two beds. Tom couldn't make out which Mary was in. Then he saw Chelsea crumpled in a chair beside the far bed. The window near the bed let in a soft gray light from the gas lamps on the street. Tom stole across the room, to Mary's bedside, not wanting to wake them. The lamplight cast long thin shadows across her bed like prison bars. Even in the night's indistinct caress Mary's face looked swollen and dark. Her head rested on the pillow, the uninjured side down. Her hair was matted and wild. One arm lay on the blanket. It was swathed in a white sling. Her breathing seemed swift, shallow, birdlike. Tom heard footsteps in the hall. A moment later Sam crept in.
“Sleeping,” Tom whispered.
Sam nodded. “Maybe I better go. You're staying.” It was not a question.
“Yeah,” Tom said more to Mary than his friend. “And, Sam ⦠thanks.”
Sam put a hand on Tom's shoulder. “No problem. I was on duty anyway.” Sam said good-bye softly and went out, closing the door behind him.
“Tommy ⦠that you?” The door didn't close hard, but it must have been enough to wake Mary.
“It's me, sweetheart.” He bent low to kiss her damp forehead. Her hand found his. “How're you feeling?”
“Bout as good as I look, maybe worse,” she said with a weak grin. “How ⦠I look?”
Tom didn't answer. “Who did this? Sam said it was a raid.”
Mary fixed worried eyes on Tom. “It was,” she said slowly. “Couldn't
understand ⦠at first,” she said, shaking her head a little. “Haven't had ⦠trouble from them. Then I saw the others.”
Tom stiffened. “What others? Who was with them?” he probed a little too roughly.
Mary hesitated. “Only knew one or two by sight,” she said cautiously, seeming to want to hold it back. “Tommy, I don't want to get you upset. What happened was partly my own fault,” she tried to explain, but he could see she was trying to gloss it over. “I got so mad. You know how I can get.” Tom nodded. He knew. “Well, I got so mad ⦠was screaming at them and hitting and one of them hit me back. I fell over a chair,” she said with a rueful chuckle that drew a grimace of pain across her face. “That's what hurt my arm. Hurts to breathe too but that was
my
fault,” she was too quick to add. The real story was much worse than that. It hadn't been just one fall that caused her injuries, and not just one officer who'd hit her. There had been other things too, things she'd never tell Tom. Those things she could withstand; she wasn't so sure about him. It wasn't for herself she wasn't telling it all, it was for Tom. She looked into his eyes seeing the doubt and the anger, knowing he suspected more. “Nobody to blame but me,” she said quietly but as firmly as she could.
Tom was silent, his face half in soft, gray light, half in tar-black shadow.
“You haven't told me who the others were,” he reminded her in a voice soft yet hard.