Now it was Pinkerton’s turn to smile again, clapping Morrow’s shoulder once more for emphasis, like he was congratulating him on having knocked up his wife. “It proves you’re no magician, Morrow — not even the beginnings of one. So we don’t have to worry over you givin’ us a false positive.”
Thank God, was all Morrow could think.
“W
hat do you say, son? You up to the task?”
Worth a promotion, Morrow knew, if he said “yes.” Better pay. Some way of building a secure life for himself at the end of all this, ’stead of dying alone or starving on an uncertain pension after a bullet shattered something beyond repair. Wasn’t like you could ever hope to live your whole life without dealing even once with hexslingers — not as a Pinkerton, and for damn sure not out here. Just wasn’t . . . practical.
“Yes sir,” Morrow said, at last, “I somewhat think I might be, at that.”
Which was always what they liked best to hear, down at the front office — and easy enough to say, before he’d actually spent any sort of time in Reverend Rook’s company.
Three months ago, and counting; an age, seemed like. Eighty days and nights, twice the length of time God took to drown the world, or Jesus to wrestle Satan in the desert. And in all that time spent standing idly by while Rook and Chess cut their bloody double swathe over an already-wounded landscape, he’d never yet been able to get close enough to take the reading which would kick him free from this whole nightmare for good.
Or remembered to do so, anyhow, whenever he had gotten that close.
So here he was, and here he stayed. Would stay, however long it took — until he finally got it right.
CHAPTER THREE
The Present
“They call this Whore City,” Chess said, balancing back on his heels and surveying the area with a cold eye. “Though why folks make that distinction, given the rest of this crap-heap . . .”
“Weren’t you born here?”
“That’s how come I get to say so.”
To the casual observer, ’Frisco’s Chinee-town — or at least the part of it known as China Alley, a dingy passage extending from Jackson to Washington Street — was completely given over to a sprawling tangle of semi-respectable bagnios on the one hand, outright cribs on the other. It had begun to rain sometime during their trek down, reducing visibility considerably, with mist and mud conspiring to further dim the overhanging lurch of shadows. Outside the bagnios red paper lanterns had been posted, casting a hellish light.
Morrow thought they all looked tolerably enticing destinations, when compared to the cribs: cramped, one-storey raw-board shacks, at whose small barred windows girls leaned straight out into the alley, shamelessly bent on advertising their wares. Their top halves were covered with brief silk blouses, but the minute a man’s eyes fell upon them, they opened their drawstrings wide and called out.
“China girl nice! You come inside, please?”
“Two bittee lookee, flo bittee feelee, six bittee doee!”
And most inexplicably: “Your father, he just go out!”
“A white woman would have to be pretty much on her last inch of trim, to end up like that,” Morrow remarked. “‘Course, this is where the smoke all comes from, I’ll bet.”
“There’re plenty,” Chess said, shortly. “And not all of ’em opium fiends, either.”
For a split second, Morrow wondered how he knew — but he made sure not to let it show.
“Songbird’s house should be along here somewhere,” the Reverend broke in. “Selina Ah Toy’s, they call it. Chess?”
“I ain’t been down here in five damn years, as you well know, and my Chinee ain’t worth squat ’cept for negotiating very specific points of sale.”
The Rev fixed him with a sidelong warning look. Chess snorted, and grabbed hold of the next old pigtail who clattered by them.
“Ai-yaaah!” the man yelled out — then stared a bit closer. “You Ingarish Oo-nah’s boy, wei?” he asked, at last.
Morrow noted how the tips of Chess’s ears flushed bright red at being thus identified. But seeing how it was under the Rev’s watchful eyes, he conjured some vile parody of a pleasant expression, replying, “Uh huh. Nee how, uncle — long time no see. Songbird ah?”
“Songbird? No can do!”
“Can do, uncle. Selina Ah Toy’s, cash money ah. This fella jootping, same as her. You bring.”