Page 18 of Blowing Off Steam

“No,” said Maurice. “Kwok Lee changes all the time. Next minute, he be friendly.”

Sure enough, after a minute or so, Kwok Lee became disheartened with the safe and fell back onto a cushion with only enough energy to lift another pipe to his lips. Next to the opium layout of spirit lamp, needle, scissors, and scales also sat a large ominous bottle of some clear Celestial liquor that did not bode well. Field shared glances with Rushy, who stepped forward to catch the blasé fellow’s eye.

“We have gold,” Rushy started, showing him one of the many eagle’s quills they had brought with them. “We come to exchange it for the chickens stuffed with opium. O-fuyung. Tobias Fosburgh?”

Perhaps it was the mention of the headmaster’s name, but now the majordomo lurched off his feet and came toward Rushy with outstretched claws like some lumbering swamp creature. It was so unexpected when he started choking Rushy, Rushy dropped the eagle’s quill of gold. Kwok Lee picked it up.

Field dashed forward to knee the majordomo in the testicles from behind, causing him to loosen his grip on Rushy’s throat. Luckily Kwok Lee noticed what was happening then and joined in, kneeing his majordomo in the face, so the fellow was getting it from both ends.

“Pipie!” Kwok Lee said to his partner with disgust.

“What is pipie?” Field asked Maurice in desperation.

“Pipie is a smoker of o-fuyung,” Maurice answered placidly, apparently accustomed to such fisticuffs.

Pipie was not a good moniker, apparently, for the majordomo snarled and spat at Kwok Lee, swiping at the Celestial spirit bottle and chugging from it heartily.

“If this is how they do business in this joint,” Calliope said to Field, “I’d say we should run like sixty.”

“Yes,” Field agreed. “They appear to have a screw loose.”

But Kwok Lee now had at least one of their quills and was shrieking at them to sit on some rancid floor cushions. Even odder, from behind a curtain came a wee nipper, toddling after a bug he seemed to be chasing. Neither riceman noted the kid’s appearance, and now Kwok Lee was yelling at Field.

“Open safe!”

Rising, Field inquired of Kwok Lee, “Is the o-fuyung in there? Stuffed inside chickens?”

Maurice did some babbling and interpreted for Field. “He got safe from American store. He put o-fuyung in there, and now he can’t get it out.”

“Well,” Field told Kwok Lee. “That’s why it’s called a ‘safe.’”

But they wouldn’t get their commodity just sitting around like this, and Kwok Lee was now bashing the majordomo over the head with a long bamboo stick, taunting him about being a pipie. Rushy was casually playing with the Celestial toddler and the bug. Field, figuring he’d be safer with a sledgehammer in his hand anyway, decided to give it a go, but his assessment had been correct—there was no way this was going to open the safe. He only succeeded in making sparks fly.

Just as he was starting to think this was a losing proposition and that they could find many more o-fuyung proprietors in Chinatown whose product wasn’t locked in an American safe—and who weren’t out of their heads—the two tussling ricemen knocked into a tall pillar-like table. One of the several lit spirit lamps was knocked to the floor and rolled toward Rushy and the toddler, where it erupted into flames three feet tall, not a foot from the poor filthy toddler.

Everything happened all in a flash. Rushy leaped to his feet, handed the baby to Calliope, and whisked a cloth from another pillar to smother the flames. Kwok Lee’s decision was to stomp on the iridescent beetle with enraged glee, making the toddler cry.

“Hey!” yelled Rushy, standing between Kwok Lee and Calliope. “Enough with these shenanigans! If we can’t make the deal, give us the gold back and we’ll leave!”

This caused the majordomo to start for Rushy again, his hands held out in the shape of Rushy’s throat. Field could have easily conked him on the head with the sledgehammer but had a sneaking feeling that would just set in motion an entire chain of actions that would end with an army of ricemen chasing them down the street with bullwhips. Luckily, Kwok Lee took action then, shoving the majordomo back so that he hit his head on the edge of the safe, and he was out like a light, his mouth open like so many of those pipies lying on shelves in the other room.

Nobody tried to rouse him, and everyone breathed sighs of relief. Rushy tried afresh. “Listen, Kwok. There’s no way we’re going to get that safe open without the key.”

“Or some dynamite,” Field suggested, logically.

“No, don’t!” Calliope cried. “These ricemen love their dynamite. He probably has some around here somewhere.”

Rushy spread out a calming hand. “OK, forget the dynamite. So give us our gold back and we’ll be on our way. Maurice, translate.”

But when Maurice translated, Kwok Lee only became more enraged, staggering to the bottle of clear liquor and draining it, then ranting about fan quai, white people.

“What is he saying?” Field demanded to know.

Maurice listened intently. “White people have ruined Kwangtungmen. They force them to bring women slaves over here and only allow men to work on farms. Now you say you won’t do business with him and his o-fuyung.”

“That’s not true!” Calliope cried. “Those hookers came here because ricemen told them to, not white men! I’ve seen those poor girls who never leave those alleyways their entire lives.”

“You know,” Field said. “The dynamite might not be a bad idea. I could light it, then we leave the room. I just need to make sure the charge is sufficient.” He chuckled. “Might wake up those stone-dead cadavers in the next room.”