Page 17 of Blowing Off Steam

As promised, Calliope stood before a couple of wooden posts with Celestial characters carved into them, a sort of gateway to the more sordid, and real, Chinatown. From here they would plunge down Fay Chie Hong, “Fat Boy Alley.” Kwangtungmen were thick here, barbers, laundry men, laborers, pigtailed men padding by in slippers. Cobblers, tailors, and tea-sellers packed this block, and Field wasn’t sure whether to be enticed or nauseated by the odors emanating from the shop fronts. They ducked under a low-hanging laundry line to greet Calliope, today resplendent in a shimmering, tiered sapphire gown with mother-of-pearl buttons. Field had the odd urge to purchase her a new gown, something he could easily do once they brought these chickens to Sacramento.

What was wrong with him? Field had been asking himself that since first viewing Calliope boarding the El Dorado. Field’s wife had died eight years earlier, and he hadn’t had fond romantic emotions toward a woman since, preferring only hookers to satisfy him physically and temporarily. He had no wish to feel that strongly about a woman again. The pain of losing a beloved woman had crushed him almost beyond recognition, and it was only his son’s financial need that had driven him to California.

Now he found himself amused and pleasantly elated to be around Calliope. That she was standing next to a ten-year-old boy probably hearkened him back to happier times, too, even though this boy was wearing a long straight robe and a little cap. He liked this Calliope woman, with her cheerful determination and perky disposition. Not to mention, he was sure he would strive harder than Rushy to win her over. Rushy seemed satisfied with a fistful of Field’s cock, a situation that was also to Field’s liking. There was nothing shameful in male congress, Field was discovering, when the other man was a hale, athletic fellow with gusto who smelled of wood smoke.

“Did you get your groceries?” Field asked her now, as Rushy already tugged the boy Maurice up the street. Field took Calliope’s arm to guide her.

“Oh, yes! This place is absolutely fascinating. I’ve been spreading myself to find everything I require, but I sent a bunch of baskets back to the boat with some other Kwangtung boys.”

At Calliope’s mention of “spreading herself,” Field’s prick expanded in his trousers. That her wide skirts brushed his thigh didn’t help matters, and they clutched each other’s arms to wend their way through the Celestial throng of conical hats, none of whom were even as tall as the steamer chef herself. Aromas of turnips, rice, and bamboo shoots wafted by. “All right, we just have to get these chickens. Then we can be back to the boat. I don’t like you wandering about this part of San Francisco alone.”

“Oh. Well.” Calliope waved off his concern. “I’ve always got my Arkansas toothpick, and I appear to be capable of taking on these shrimps. They seem very docile and serious. What could go wrong?”

“Is this the place?” Field asked Rushy.

Rushy stood before a large oak door studded with brass so it could not be broken down, the entry to a two-story building. Rushy shrugged and pointed. “Well. Tobias said it’s right next door to the herbalist with the dried dead monkeys hanging from the rafters. That’s where he gets his Spanish fly.”

Calliope recoiled in horror, but not at the dried monkeys with their human hands stretched out in their death throes. “Spanish fly?” Field felt her shudder under his hands.

“And here’s the little window,” Field pointed out, releasing Calliope’s arm. “Maurice? Tell the fellow we’re here to do business with Kwok Lee.”

Maurice frowned. “Kwok Lee?”

“Yes!” Why was the nipper hesitant? “Tell him!”

So Maurice did as he was told, and the fellow in the window apparently pulled a string that opened the door. Once inside the nearly black hallway, they felt their way along the wall that led them through at least two other doors until they reached what was apparently a gambling den. Lit by a myriad of tiny lamps, ten-foot-long tables upon which Chinese characters were drawn were scattered with many black and white buttons. A dealer would scoop these buttons out of a bag on the side of the table, dump them, and the betting would start. The three Americans towered head and shoulders above the hunched gamblers, who ignored and pressed them back against the wall, thick with opium smoke.

Calliope shouted to be heard over the din. “I saw many chickens for sale outside. Why do you need to come in here?”

“I’m sorry we brought you,” Field agreed. “Rushy, this is no place for a genteel white woman! Why did we come in here?”

Rushy regarded him with bulging eyes. “Because we need to, Field, if you don’t disremember! Hey, now, Maurice. Find Kwok Lee for us!”

A few men turned to them with slight interest when Rushy uttered the kingpin’s name, but Calliope’s eyes were shining, and she inched toward a table. “What an adventure! I think I already see the logic in this game. The dealer removes four buttons at a time. They’re betting that the last four buttons might all be white or all black. Or see? That fellow is betting they’ll be a mixture of black and white.”

Field fingered her sapphire silk sleeve. “You’re breathing in opium fumes, my puss.”

He’d drawn so close to her that when she turned, she was nearly face-to-face with him. Her eyes already watered red from the smoke that permeated everything. She took on a knowledgeable, lecturing expression. “The largest group of opium imbibers is women with ‘female problems,’ of which I’ve had my fair share.” She wiggled her eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “I happen to know that the women of Sacramento would pay highly for such a soothing shipment. Especially if it isn’t squashed next to any chicken gizzards. My possum.”

Was she calling him a…possum? Surely that word had erotic possibilities? A possum didn’t just indicate a smuggler, now, did it? They were being crowded so closely together by the milling, robed bodies, her cinnamon scent wafted up to him and even overpowered the musty library odor of opium that imbued his shirtfront. Her uplifted bosom was pressed against his abdomen, and if her lap wasn’t covered with layers of frilly satin, she would have definitely felt his bulging erection pressed to her hip.

Field lifted a hand and touched a thumb to her lower lip, as though to smooth away a smudge there, although there was no such thing. “My puss…” he repeated, glad that the chattering voices that filled the room probably made it impossible for her to hear. Was it his imagination, or did her eyes shine up at him with emotion? It was probably just the smoke stinging them.

“Field!” called Rushy, and Field had to bring Calliope up a rickety staircase to the next level.

Here, they navigated a room lined with bunks, each containing at least one naked being. Some drew on their long pipes while others stared with barren, inanimate eyes. Some humans appeared quite dead, and they had to pick their way over an open central drain that was floating with indescribable filth.

Rushy said, “I can’t imagine that this kingpin is such a big dog, if he runs such a shoddy shop.”

Field was helping Calliope keep her skirts from touching the floor. “Yes, and these smokers are making me feel like I’m walking through a boneyard. Let’s just get this over with and get out.” To Calliope, he said, “I’ll buy you a whole new get-up when this is over. Some fine rig with all the latest Paris finery.”

Calliope was quite game, all things considered. A couple of well-attired buffalo let them in the final pair of doors and things were looking up. Surely Kwok Lee would be a high muckety-muck and would serve them tea before exchanging their gold for the chickens stuffed with opium.

That wasn’t to be, however.

The big Celestial frog, although wearing grandiose robes with gold embroidery and having an especially long pigtail down his back nearly to the floor, was engaged in hammering away at an iron safe. The safe was nearly four feet tall and had the words “Excelsior Safe Co., Cincinnati, USA” emblazoned on it. Kwok Lee hammered with rage, using a sledgehammer that appeared to have been used to drive railroad ties, but hadn’t put a dent in the safe as of yet. Uttering all sorts of Celestial curses, his long moustaches flew as he pounded ineffectually at the safe, and the three Americans backed up against the wall. Of course no one would disturb him in his efforts, the only other person present being a majordomo sort of fellow who sat in a corner on a scarlet mat puffing away at an enormous jade pipe.

Field asked Maurice from the corner of his mouth, “Should we come back later?”