A-Splendid-Ruin(80)

I’d seen how the elegant facade had slid from its metal structure like melting chocolate. The walls had been pulverized. Years to build and the pride of San Francisco, and it was a sandcastle of a structure that had trapped several in its collapse—there had been a hospital and an asylum in its basement. It was the building the newspapers and everyone else pointed to when they spoke of needing new codes and updated standards for rebuilding. City hall was a disaster. My uncle’s fault, and China Joe had the proof of it.

Joe watched me with an expression I could not read. Amusement, perhaps, or perhaps he was only watching to see the moment when I put it all together. This time, when he turned the pages of the book and handed it back to me, I was afraid to take it.

I feared the name on the pocket was my own.

I was right to be afraid. The pocket was full of newspaper clippings. The society page, every time I’d been mentioned. The notice of my arrival in San Francisco. The drunken frivolity at the Cliff House. The picture of me in the bathing suit. Then, after that, the articles of my madness, the accusations of murder, my commitment to Blessington.

He reached for one of the papers in the pocket and pulled it out, holding it until I took it between numb fingers. His gaze ordered me to read it.

I glanced down. It was the Classifieds section of the San Francisco Call.

Found: Italian boy, 3 years old, from Union St.

To ANYONE at the ST. FRANCIS HOTEL, SF, who knows anything about my son, Robert Fletcher. Please notify Mrs. Francis Fletcher, Valencia Hotel, Los Angeles.

Just like every other day. Advertisements like this had been running since the earthquake. Lost children, missing relatives, requests for information. I had no idea what it had to do with me, but when I looked up at him in question, he nodded for me to keep reading.

Found: Green parrot. Says “Hurry sailor” constantly. Please claim.

Seeking information about BLESSINGTON HOME FOR THE INCURABLY INSANE, regarding certain patients from the facility. Please contact David Emerson, Private Detective, temporarily at West 1922.

I stopped, hoping I’d misread, but I knew I had not. I understood what Joe meant by showing me this. The Sullivans had hired a private detective to look for me. China Joe would make certain the man found me unless I did what he wanted—whatever it was. Had Shin known this? Had she brought me here only to cross me?

Joe’s gaze was slow, sweeping; his little smile made me think of rosy light, a heavy sweet smoke, and the languorous drawl in Goldie’s voice. His had not been a benign smile then, and it was less so now. Beside me, Shin shifted from one foot to the other. She said something quickly, but he did not answer. To me, he said, “It is simply information, Miss Kimble. Information I believe you should know.”

My instincts told me otherwise. I could barely get out the words as I asked him, “What do you want from me?”

He sighed. “I have worked very hard to make my kingdom, Miss Kimble. It has taken years of planning and special . . . shall we say, negotiations? And now, I find—we find, my friends and I—that after all the favors we have done, all the allies we have made, we are betrayed by those who owe us the most.”

“I see.” Actually, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I understood secrets, and I listened.

“They wish to take Chinatown from us. They wish to move it to Hunters Point. Do you know of these plans?”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Then I think you will not be surprised to know who is at the center of these plans.”

“My uncle.”

Again, that slow, considering look. Again, a frisson of unease down my spine. “You help me stop them, Miss Kimble, and I will help you with your . . . difficult . . . relatives. Perhaps also I can help you—or not—with this Mr. Emerson.”

Again, I understood. China Joe had me neatly trapped.

He went on. “And I give Shin what she asks for.”

I was confused. “What she asks for? I’m confused.”

“She is my eyes and ears on the Sullivans,” he said. “If we keep Chinatown, Chen Shin’s debt to me will be paid. She will have her liberty. You will do this for me. Agreed?”

“You still haven’t told me what I need to do.”

Joe reached for a wooden box on the wagon. It was small and inlaid with leaves of a lighter wood. He opened it and took out a cigarette, which he lit. Joe drew heavily, held it, and opened his mouth, releasing the smoke in a ring. He looked so pleased at its perfection that for a moment he seemed a child, or would have, if child’s play had held such threat. “I need a reporter to remind the city what they owe us and what they would lose if they choose to go against us. You know one, I think. At the Bulletin. He is a good friend of yours.”

How easily it came together. So much so that I was suspicious. Shin had said he knew everything. Even my own intentions, it seemed. “He’s hardly a good friend.”

Joe said, “You convince him to help me keep Chinatown safe from the city schemers and Jonathan Sullivan.”

I had no idea what he meant or how he expected a society reporter to help him accomplish that. But before I could ask, he went on, “You get me that, I give you the proof you want, and I give Chen Shin what she wants. If you do not—” A shrug. He looked at Shin, such a cold look. “Shin stays in my employ; your cousin finds out what happens when I don’t get paid, and you . . .” He didn’t have to say it. David Emerson.