CHAPTER 27

Anna selected an exquisite tooled leather purse with flowering vines and the image of a peacock. She chose it because it was the least expensive of all her purses—though it had been very expensive—and it was roomy enough to keep her gun. She dressed in her worst dress, which was yellow and actually quite stunning. After solving the Chinatown trunk murder, Anna was intimately acquainted with the most dangerous beat in the city, with its muddy streets tramped by men and almost no women. Most of the Chinese men wore loose-fitting tunics and pants in dark hues. She knew she would stand out like a daffodil in the mud. But stealth was not her objective. She came to exonerate Georges, wherever he might be.

She rode the trolley to the Plaza, adjacent to Chinatown and crossed to Los Angeles Street. The cheerful lanterns from Chinese New Year no longer swung from the eaves. The quarter resembled a run-down Wild West town, but instead of cowboys, there were Chinese men with long black braids. Vendors from the morning produce market were packing up, and wagons dispersed, leaving the ground littered with vegetable waste and horse manure. Being there again, Anna felt panic fluttering in her chest, a remnant from the riot, the tong war, and the deaths she had witnessed. She stopped and collected herself for a moment, simply breathing. She took the gun from her purse and secreted it away in her skirt pocket.

Mr. Jones’s still operated his herbal remedy shop on the corner. She would like to see him again and peeked in the window, but a different fellow was manning the till. She wandered down Los Angeles Street to the burned-out hull that was once the Presbyterian Mission. Its tragedy had compelled her, though it was blocks out of her way. Anna crossed herself.

She cut down to Alameda Street. The gun swished among her flounces as she walked. Most of the gambling, drinking, and whoring done in Los Angeles was done on the fifteen or so streets and alleys that made up Chinatown. The city was deliberately zoned that way, whether the Chinese liked it or not. Chances are, Samuel Grayson played cards here, on Alameda Street. Every second shop was a front for a lottery, fan tan parlor, house of ill repute, or opium den, but Anna knew Samuel’s game. He played poker. Most joints offered the normal fare—poker, fan tan, lotteries—all illegal, all under the protection of the mayor, the police chief, and the Chinatown Squad, who took their cut. Ladies were not allowed, except in secret backrooms with separate entrances. She would go door-to-door until she found a gambling joint that offered poker, and where the proprietor recognized the picture of poor dead Samuel.

Anna went window to window, peering inside, her guts in a knot. The first three establishments were Chinese-only—at least she saw no other races. Each time, curious faces peered back at her, and one old proprietor shooed her away, waving his hands and speaking sharply in Chinese. Anna skedaddled. The fourth saloon had black paint over the windows. She cleared a hole in the paint with her fingernail and peeked through. Mexican, white, and black patrons were watching a woman in harem pants dance with a large white snake, her midriff bare. No gambling. Fascinated, Anna lingered to watch the dancer skillfully rolling her hips and writhing with the snake, until a man, spotting Anna’s eye, covered the hole with his hand.

White and brown men played poker in the fifth establishment. Anna eschewed the back door because she didn’t believe in back doors. Graciously, the man behind the bar spoke to her as he threw her out. But he didn’t recognize the name Samuel Grayson, nor the photograph.

The next saloon, the Cock of the Walk, nestled between what purported to be a barber shop and a brothel. Anna arrived at the front entrance just as an Indian was being manhandled out. She felt a camaraderie with the man. It was illegal to sell liquor to Indians, just like it was illegal to serve women in bars.

Anna swung through the door. All eyes rested on her, disapproving. She maintained her poise, chin tilted toward the tin ceiling and bellied up to the bar. She showed the bartender Samuel’s photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Sure.” He poured whiskey into a glass and set it on a tray. “But you gotta leave. You can’t drink here.”

Anna took the whiskey and tossed it back.

“I just did.”

“You have to pay for that.”

“Why should I pay for a drink that I didn’t drink because women can’t drink here, so how could I possibly have—”

“Martin!”

A man emerged from the back wearing a great, drooping mustache. “What is it?”

“We have a problem.” He nodded his chin toward Anna.

“Yes, we do, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey I did not drink. I need to speak with the owner.”

“Let’s get you out of the bar before I get fined.” The man named Martin grabbed Anna by the arm and pulled her through a curtain and into a dark hallway.

Anna struggled. “Unhand me!”

He didn’t. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for my brother, Samuel Grayson. He owes me money. I know he gambled here.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence. He owes me money, too.”

“Well you won’t get it now. He’s dead.”

Martin’s nostrils flared. He had food in his mustache. “What?”

“So, he owed you a lot of money?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

Anna whistled. “That’s a lot of money. Are you angry about it? Angry enough to kill him?” Joe had said that if you enrage a suspect, they are more likely to lose control of their tongue. Anna continued. “Or did you send someone to do your dirty work for you? Maybe you don’t have the stomach for that sort of thing. Maybe you’re not man enough. I’d guess you’re as squeamish as a little—”

Martin’s face contorted, and he pushed Anna roughly against the plaster wall. He needed to brush his teeth. His mustache twitched. His eye tooth was black. He ran his hand down her thigh through the layers of her gown and petticoats. “You’re a pretty thing. Maybe you can pay off his debt.”

Anna’s own hand went into her pocket and drew out her gun. She pressed it into his belly.

He sneered. “You’d never shoot me.”

She cocked her rod.

He took a step backward, but his face retained its offensive expression.

Anna backed slowly down the hall, passing the open door to the ladies’ section where charity girls drank, trading favors for gifts and liquor.

“Good evening,” said Anna, because manners were important.

Martin stalked after her, too proud to admit she might kill him.

A big redhead slurred, “You okay, sister?”

Anna smiled politely, keeping her eyes on Martin. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

“Just fine.” She sounded sleepy. Or possibly doped.

Anna continued edging backward on the rugged planks in her high heeled shoes, past the ladies’ lounge, toward the alley door, keeping her gun up and pointed at the bad man.

One of the ladies shouted. Martin turned his head toward the sound.

Anna’s heel hit a snag in the wood. She stumbled awkwardly, jerking her arm, jolting her hand, and squeezing the trigger. The gun went off, bruising her hand with the recoil.

Martin yelped.

Half his mustache was gone. The place above his lip paused a moment before seeping blood.

Anna winced. “Ooh. That might not grow back.”

Martin grabbed his mouth. Anna ran out the back door that was specifically for ladies, and through the mucky alley, soiling her shoes.