A-Splendid-Ruin(43)
I heard Dante LaRosa’s voice in my ear: “You’re no coward, Miss Kimble.”
Go forth, I told myself. I opened the door.
It opened onto stairs—one flight up, another down—and a gloom that seized my drunken bravery and flung it into dread. The haze was fragrant with incense and the stink of tobacco and something else, heavier, sweeter, nauseating. There was light above, sounds of life. Below was quiet.
I swallowed hard. I had no business here. Suddenly I remembered Goldie telling me about tongs and how Chinatown was dangerous at night, and my foreboding increased, yet even so I found myself going up those stairs, into a warehouse-like room even more heavily clouded with smoke. Everywhere were tables filled with men and women. Many were Chinese, but there were plenty of others too. There was no one I recognized. I didn’t see Goldie, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed at that. At least she would have been an ally in this place. I felt my strangeness keenly as people glanced up with curiosity. Too many eyes, too little talk; clicking tiles, shuffling cards, clinking coins served as the common language.
I should not be here. Time to go, and quickly. I turned, but before I took a step, a heavy hand on my arm stopped me. A Chinese man with an angular face and a long braid—a queue, Shin called it—said in heavily accented English, “What will you play? Faro? Poker? Pick what you like.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
“Ah. What you want is downstairs.” He pointed toward the stairs.
“No. No, thank you. I—I’m going now.”
His gaze sharpened. “Who are you? Who brought you here, rich girl?”
“No one.”
His frown deepened, and he raised his voice, speaking in Chinese. My mouth went dry. I wished I hadn’t come. Another man, a white man this time, heavyset and squat, with a grim expression, rose in response.
“I—I was only looking for someone,” I explained quickly. “I only came because—because . . . my cousin. Goldie Sullivan.”
The Chinese man waved off his lackey and regarded me with interest. “Ah, Goldilocks.” The nickname, his tone, raised a different kind of fear. “Yes, yes. Go downstairs. You want Joe. He knows what she likes. You will like it too.”
But I liked that tone no better, and I had no wish to go downstairs into that darkness.
“Go now,” he said insistently, gesturing to the squat man, who rose again.
In dread of escort, I muttered, “Thank you,” and hurried off.
I was here now, after all. I would not have the courage to come back again. And if Goldie was downstairs . . . I did not want to think what she might be doing there, but I could not leave her in this place. What if she was in danger? I kept my hand to the wall, down and down to a small, battered foyer, each step raising a panic I could not swallow. Don’t let her be here. Let it all be a mistake. A curtain blocked off a doorway. Beyond glowed a soft and rosy light.
“Hello?” I stepped to the curtain, gently pulling it aside.
The room was lit only by a lamp covered with a red scarf. Hats and coats on hooks polka-dotted the dingy walls. Pallets were strewn about haphazardly; nearly every one held someone lolling in dreams. A woman drooled onto her pillow. A rough-faced man murmured restlessly. The words of the Bulletin column came back to me, Alphonse Bandersnitch’s—no, Dante LaRosa’s words . . . Devotees of the long pipe . . . mentioned in the society news . . . That debutante (everyone knows her name) . . .
Goldie.
A man with a gray scarf bound about his black hair looked up from where he and another bent over a small flame and a long pipe. Their eyes glittered in the half dark. I stepped back and heard myself answer their silent question with a bare whisper. “Joe?”
The man with the scarf called something, and a curtain at the back was pushed aside. Through it came another Chinese man. I could not tell his age, not in the rosy light, which flattered everything it touched. He had the kind of sculpted face one saw on statues, chiseled cheekbones and skin stretched so tautly over them it looked as if it might split with any movement. His hair was thick and straight and he wore no queue. The man upstairs had frightened me, but this man’s menace thickened the air. It was already quiet—now the room became deadly silent.
He spoke quickly to me in Chinese—that face was remarkably mobile after all—and I shook my head, trying not to appear as frightened as I was, and swallowed hard. “They told me upstairs to ask for you. Goldie. Goldie is my cousin. Where is she?”
The same remarkable change came over him that had come over the man upstairs, but his smile was more disturbing, and more possessive too—he not only knew Goldie, but knew her better than I could ever hope to. And there was more to it too, something darkly threatening. I had never before been afraid of a smile, but his was terrifying. When he said “Goldie,” lingering over her name, polishing it like a smooth stone in his mouth, I knew suddenly and completely that this man had a relationship with my cousin that I did not want to understand. Involuntarily, I stepped back.
He noticed. He noticed every move, I thought, every flicker. His eyes narrowed. “Goldilocks is gone, but she will be back. She always comes back. Tell her when you see her that I expect my money this time.” Again that horrible smile. His voice fell to a husky whisper. “If you remember.” He gestured to me, a cupped hand, come, but I was done with this. My cousin wasn’t here. I let my fear take me, and I shook my head and ran, racing up the stairs so quickly that I tripped on my skirts and slammed against the door.