A-Splendid-Ruin(83)

So I told him. To his credit, he took no notes, but only listened. When I got to the part about following Goldie to China Joe’s, he whistled low and patted his pockets, searching. “Christ, I need a cigarette.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’re afraid of China Joe.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

I told him about my meeting in Chinatown. By then we were sitting on the ash-and rubble-strewn floor.

“China Joe wants me to help him keep Chinatown,” Dante said when I finished. “How exactly?”

“He said something about needing a reporter to remind the city what it owes the Chinese. I’m not sure what he means.”

“Hmmm.” Dante mused. “He means that for all the city complains about the Chinese, we can’t exist without them. Imagine it . . . the Chinese are driven out, and with them go most if not all of San Francisco’s servants, as well as all the men willing to work for low wages. Entire industries would be crippled—cigars, boots, men’s clothing . . . The landlords would find the rents they can charge for their Chinatown properties cut in half; white tenants won’t pay those prices, and they won’t be quiet about it, either. Most of the gambling halls close down, prostitution, opium dens . . .”

“You can’t tell me that wouldn’t be a good thing.”

“Except revenues from vice run the city. They’re all in on the graft. The board of supervisors—your uncle included—the police, the commissioners . . . The Chinese who run Chinatown are more powerful than the city wants to admit; they’ve got their hands in everything. And that’s not even to mention China itself. There’ll be no more silk imports for society dresses, not to mention opium. San Francisco would fall to its knees without Chinese investment.”

“China Joe knew what he was talking about when he suggested you, then,” I said with a smile. “You’re very well informed.”

Dante waved that away. “I wouldn’t be any kind of reporter if I didn’t know this.”

“Once you write the articles China Joe wants, he’ll help me. He has the proof I need to ruin Goldie and my uncle.” I heard the chill in my voice, and I saw Dante note it, his stilled attention.

“What about Farge?”

I frowned. “What about him?”

He rose and held out his hand for me. “Come on. I want to show you something.” I let him pull me to my feet, but halted as he started off, and he paused and looked back. “What is it?”

“I probably shouldn’t be seen with you.”

“Why not?”

“The advertisement. The detective. I can’t risk being noticed.”

He frowned. “No one knows who I am, remember? Thanks to Alphonse Bandersnitch.”

“Ellis knows who you are. And don’t be so modest. You draw attention. You know you do.”

He looked genuinely puzzled, and then he grinned. “Maybe it’s only that I draw your attention.”

“Dante,” I said patiently, “I’ve escaped an asylum. I’ve been accused of murder. I’m in hiding. My family is searching for me. I cannot be recognized.”

“You don’t look like yourself. You look like you’ve been through a disaster, honestly. Here.” He took the hat from his head and tossed it to me. “Put this on and tuck your braid under it. Swagger a bit. Pretend you’re a man. I’ve got a reporter’s pass to keep us from being inducted into a work crew. Now come on, it’s important.”

I did as he suggested, put on the hat, shoved my braid beneath it, and followed him back into the street. I was mystified as to what he wanted to show me, and why now, this minute. He gave me no clue, but walked quickly. We were stopped twice for work crews, and Dante offered his pass with an ease that told me he was asked often, took firm hold of my arm when they looked askance at me, and said, “My fellow reporter, Mr. Hardy,” and then led me away before the officer had a chance to question us.

“Mr. Hardy?” I asked.

“A good name, don’t you think? You’ve proved to be a hardy soul.”

As if to belie his words, I nearly tripped over the edge of twisted steel poking from a cascade of fallen brick. “Where are we going?”

“Not much farther now.” All the humor left his face, his full lips pressed tightly together. “It was just completed, so of course they worked hard to save it. It should rightfully have burned to the ground.”

I frowned in confusion. “What should have burned?”

“This.” He stopped as we turned the corner.

There before us was a building I’d never before seen. It was obviously new, three stories, stone and brick, with stairs rising to a pedestaled front. Like the Fairmont, it showed earthquake and fire damage, cracked stairs and pillars, soot from flames staining the stone, and several windows missing glass.

I turned to Dante. “What is this?”

“The new Parson Library for the Arts.” His expression was strange, wary and hesitant. I had the sense that, although he’d felt it necessary to come here, he regretted it. “It was built while you were away.”

Uncertain what reaction he hoped for, I said, “It’s very nice.”

“Let’s go inside,” he said grimly.