“What I'm thinking about, Tom, would have to be handled just right.” Coffin opened his humidor and offered Tom another cigar.
“We're talking opium here aren't we, August?” Tom said, kicking himself immediately for letting himself slip. He gave the cigar a long sniff, grinning in outward contentment. Coffin did have good taste in cigars. Inside he was on edge, like a cat in a junkyard full of dogs.
“Ah ⦠always the detective, eh, Tommy? We are indeed talking about opium.” August lit up another cigar. “It's been a frustration to me, the opium trade. The opium trade and the dens have been expanding over the last few years,” he said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his desk. “There are perhaps five thousand users in this city alone. The average opium smoker uses about a dollar's worth a day. Five thousand a day, going up in smoke.” August almost cooed, his eyes lighting at the thought. Coffin, of course, wasn't getting a dime of it ⦠yet. A huge frustration, no doubt. “Even a toehold could be worth a couple thousand a month, Tommy. The damn Chinamen are so secretive, so closed off from the rest of the city. Almost impossible to get hard information on who is actually running things. You know how it is: We shut down an opium den, haul them all in, and it's always the same story. Nobody knows anything. Nobody speaks English. Nobody knows who runs the show. A week later they open up somewhere else.”
“Been through that more than once,” Tom said, remembering his early days on patrol in the neighborhood. He'd never made any progress till he started to know the real lay of the land. “They're a tough bunch to break into.” No one had been able to break open the iron grip of the tongs or even put a dent in their trade.
“But you have, haven't you, or at least you know how you could,” Coffin said, smiling an insider's smile.
The thought that somehow Coffin knew of his late-night conversations with Wei Kwan, that he knew his inner thoughts and could read him like an open book, sent a sickening chill through Tom. That's all this might be, a clever subterfuge, a way to trap him into showing his hand. Tom sipped his port slowly, swishing it about in the glass, watching the bloodred liquid cling to the sides. That knife could cut both ways, Braddock figured as he looked at Coffin's expectant pose. The only way to find out was to play it through, see what developed. The possibilities swirled about in Tom's head, plans and outcomes bobbing to the surface in confusion. Where there's confusion, there's opportunity, he figured.
“There would be a couple of people I'd have to see,” Tom said slowly, appearing to contemplate the next move, though he knew very well what he'd need to do. “I'd have to go alone at first. They wouldn't open up to a stranger, especially not you, I mean, you being a captain of police. You'd be playing fan-tan with them all day, get nowhere.”
“That's why we're having this conversation, partner,” Coffin said with a broad smile.
Tom took note of the word “partner.” “You're going to have to offer them something, you know,” he said, puffing his cigar thoughtfully. “Can't just walk in there and demand a percentage. I'd lose face and we'd be worse off than we are now. They know damn well that we can't really stop the trade. Threats won't be taken seriously. They're businessmen. They want to make money like everyone else. That's the way to go at them.”
Coffin seemed disappointed. “Can't play the usual squeeze, huh? What if we get rough?”
Braddock shook his head vigorously, as if the notion were the height of stupidity. “Forget it, August. You might be able to hurt themâput a dent in the businessâbut you can't shut them down altogether. You'll
never
get a piece that way either.” He stabbed the cigar at Coffin for emphasis. “They can be very patient. They'll take their losses and wait you out rather than share the trade.”
The captain just nodded. He preferred the strong-arm approach. It worked
just fine with the Irish, Italians, Germans ⦠most Europeans, for that matter. But the Chinese were another story. This opportunity was too important to let his usual methods get in the way. Nothing else had worked in Chinatown. It was time for a different approach, and Braddock was going to be his key, his passport to the Far East.
“You've got an idea, Tom. I can see it on your face.”
“Not really,” he lied, wondering if he'd been too obvious. He'd had an idea, had one weeks ago when Mary got hurt. Tom played the game, wanting to lead Coffin on a bit more. “All I'm thinking is you have to offer them something. Go to them with a proposition. You know, offer something they don't have already.”
“Yeah, well, I'd like to offer them some broken legs if they don't kowtow.”
Braddock smiled wryly. “I'd advise against it, August. Might play well with the chief, but it won't get you what you want.”
“I know, I know. It just galls me that these damn little Chinamen can come to America, set up shop in our own backyard, and we can't squeeze a dime out of them.”
Braddock gave a little grunt of understanding. “It's simple, August. They've got three advantages.” He held up three fingers and ticked them off one by one. “Language, customs, and, above all, supply. The first two are like a wall of silence. The third is our real weak point. Combined, it makes for a fucking tough nut. You want my advice? Do business with them.” It was good advice, at least in principle.
Coffin seemed to ponder that for a few minutes. His feet went up on his desk. He twirled his pencil, tossing and catching the spinning stick absently. He seemed to be looking right through Tom, his agile mind casting about for angles and advantages in the cigar smoke.
“I suppose you'd agree that their weakness is their inability to expand much beyond Chinatown. I mean, once they get into other neighborhoods, they have to do business with us ⦠Americans, I mean.”
“Pretty much. There's some they've worked with, I think, outside of their own areas. Small stuff, though ⦠or so I've heard.”
“Suppose I could offer them wider distribution, get them into other markets outside their little area? Suppose we went to them and said we could double their business in a year or two?” August said speculatively. “We could, you know. It wouldn't present too many difficulties. I have the network to do it. Just takes a bit of arranging.”
“Now you're talking.” Tom nodded his approval. “They won't accept our
first offer, you know,” he cautioned. “Not a chance. They wouldn't want to appear too confident. Don't matter how good the deal is.”
Coffin frowned, sticking out his jaw. “Goddamn it, Tom! Tell 'em who runs this town. Remind them of that! Who the fuck do they think they are?”
“It's just business,” Tom said soothingly. “That's the way they do it. To their way of thinking, only a fool would accept the first offer. You any different?” Tom said, knowing he wasn't.
Coffin smiled for an instant before the frown took over once more. “No. But I'm not a goddamn yellow bastard in a white man's world!” he exclaimed, slamming his fist on his desk.
Tom understood why Wei Kwan's cook spit in Coffin's soup. “August, you don't have to like them but if you want to do business, you've got to show respect. You want my help in this, you're going to have to play ball the way I tell you.” Tom felt good about having his hands on the reins. He took another pull at his cigar, his thoughts ranging far ahead. He thought he saw the solution. He needed time, though, and room to play the game.
“Now let's get down to what our negotiating positions are. I'll make some contacts and we'll see if they want to talk.”
I
t wasn't exactly the sort of contact Coffin had in mind. About two hours later, Tom and Wei Kwan went to have a long talk with Sung Chow. The sackfaced old man sat silent through most of what Tom had to say, his leathery features immobile while he listened. Aside from an occasional nod, the old man could have been taken for an ancient woodcut. Wei Kwan spoke only occasionally for emphasis. When Tom was finished, Sung Chow said, “And for this service, what will you do in return?”
They had gone over this before. It was part of the ritual, Tom knew. Each time a party to a deal was made to repeat his part of the bargain, there was a natural tendency to embellish and offer more than first intended.
“You do this service for yourself as much as for me,” Tom said slowly. “You have said that Captain Coffin is a hated man in Chinatown. This is well known. It is also well known that he has disrupted the trade and arrested many of your people. I tell you now that he wants more. He wants a percentage of your trade.” Tom paused to let his words sink in. “He will not stop there. If you allow it, within a short time he will take it all and leave you only as the supplier.” Tom didn't know that for a fact but he knew Coffin. “In addition, I will give you warning of any raids that I know of on your business. I have eyes and ears in the department. You know I can do this, and I do this freely. If you
agree, there will be people I need to speak with inside the department, people in positions of authority on whom I can rely. They will be grateful to you for this service and in turn will protect your business so long as it stays in Chinatown.” Tom was not certain of this, but he was sure enough to at least set the parameters of the deal. The details could be ironed out later.
Sung Chow just nodded. “You ask much, Tom Braddock. You give not so much.”
Tom started to say something, but the old man held up his hand.
“You have always been good friend to Tung people. You have done many kindnesses without reward over many years. Master Kwan, my very esteemed brother, speaks of you with praise. He says you are a white man to trust. He says you have ⦠heart of tiger. He is proud to call you friend. I believe these things are true. These things are worth much ⦠and must be weighed.” Tom bowed silently. Sung Chow continued, “I will talk with my brothers in business. I believe what you say of Coffin. He is an evil man who will take what he can and leave us with little in return. To do business with such a man is to put the knife to my own throat. We talk again soon.”
T
here was a pleasant hum of activity in McSorley's the following evening. Most of the tables were full. Occasional ripples of loud talk and laughter washed through the smoky haze of the back room. The smell of smoke and ale were like a tonic for Tom and made him feel more at ease than he had in weeks. He and Chowder had finally arranged to have that beer they'd been talking about, and Tom was intent on enjoying it. After the events of the day before, he needed to relax a bit.
Chowder must have sensed it, for not long after they'd settled themselves into a table, he said offhandedly, “You've got the look of a man with a load on his mind. Worried about somethin'?”
Braddock was on guard immediately, a condition he was far too used to lately, and he made a mental note to try to ease up.
“Just this case, Chowder,” Tom grumbled. Half a truth was better than none. “Got nothing to show for weeks of work. Chief's getting impatient too.”
“Byrnes ain't a man known for his patience, Thomas.” Chowder took a long pull at his glass of ale, smacking his lips and licking the foam from his mustache when he came up for air. “You know, this is my favorite spot in the whole damn city. A foin ale, a warm stove keepin' the night chill at bay, good company, and a healthy corned beef sandwich, wi' plenty o' hot mustard. Life don't get better'n that, boy-o.”
Tom raised his glass. “To McSorley's!”
“To McSorley's, lad. The foinest pub in the whole of New York.” They drank and whistled up another round.
Chowder let Tom's explanation lay for a while as they downed their second round. But whether it was just curiosity or something more, he came back at it again later.
“You sure that case is all that's botherin' ya? Not like you ta worry over much. Not still thinkin' about Captain Parker an' the Sixteenth, are ya?”
Tom went on alert. Though Chowder was a friend, Tom wasn't so close to him that he felt free to talk about everything that was going on. The truth was that he was becoming overly wary, not trusting anyone he wasn't absolutely sure of. Tom hated that, hated the necessity of it. Still, he was on guard when he answered.
“Why d'ya say that? What's done is done,” he said. Could Chowder detect the edge to his voice? “Mary's not one to hold a grudge. Don't see why I'm any more entitled to a grudge than her.”
Chowder gave him a quick glance. There may have been a flash of doubt. Tom couldn't be sure, but Chowder went on. “Ach, that's sound thinkin', it is. Nothin' but grief would come of it. What could you do anyway? He's a goddamn captain, an' we're lowly sergeant detectives.”
“Yup. Couldn't do a damn thing if I wanted to,” Tom said over the lip of his glass.
“Exactly. And what would you do if ya could?” Chowder asked rhetorically.
“Can't kill the man. If he were any other fella than a captain of police, I might give it a thought. Can't say I like having Mary busted up like that by any man, but when a cop's involved and a captain no less ⦠well ye've got to step back a bit.”