"Adam, this come for you." Hoss tossed the envelope at me while I was eating my favorite dinner-pork chops and fried apples; I was shocked that he had left his food long enough to answer the door but I had refused to rise.
I had heard a gruff voice at the door so I asked who had brought it. Hoss said that if was so interested, I should have gotten my ass up to answer the door. Then as Hoss sat back down, he said that it had been some man in a bad suit.
It was a note from Murfee asking me to drop by The Crown that evening about eight—to discuss a business proposition. I considered not going except that my curiosity was piqued, if by nothing else, Murfee's signature made me wonder about him. It was an elegant scrawl with a swirl underneath to give it emphasis—Thaddeus Murfee—almost too showy but then it's what I would expect from the owner of such a grandiose business. Or from a pimp.
I told my pa and Hoss who had continued to eat while I read the missive but had stopped all conversation until I had finished, folded the paper and laid it on the table, that Mr. Murfee, the owner of The Crown, wanted to talk business with me.
"What kind of business could you have with him?" my father asked with obvious disapproval. I let it go by. I knew he had been trying to treat me less as a son and more as an equal partner so I was determined to behave less as a son who bridled at any criticism. With so much behind me, I think my father was just happy I was alive and veritably unchanged—at least on the surface. I hadn't told him of my night terrors or my attitude on the inherent cruelty of man—that we all have that primeval beast within us that will rise to the surface under the right circumstances and rip out the enemy's throat. I didn't confide in him how I had marched with Sherman's men strung out for miles, sweeping across the southern countryside and burning as we went, leaving women, children and old men, white and Negro, homeless, terrified and bereft. I didn't tell him that despite orders to leave the citizens unmolested and not to loot, the generals and other officers looked the other way as the Union soldiers stole silver and jewelry and upon occasion, satisfied themselves with the body of a young woman—or not so young. It all depended on what some thought they could accomplish. Some soldiers struggled under their load of loot which became a burden. I, as a captain, tried to keep my men in order but there was only so much I could accomplish; I wasn't a mother hen and they weren't my chicks. And as a lieutenant told me, "All southerners are hostile combatants and they're lucky we don't put a bullet in their brains."
"I don't know that I have any business; he just wants to discuss some," I replied.
"Think it has anything to do with the Chinese?" Hoss asked. He looked quickly to make certain that Hop Sing hadn't heard. It was a touchy subject around the Ponderosa, especially since the Tong, in an effort to have more financial power and clout in the west, took advantage of the fact that there were far more Chinese men than women. The wealthiest of the Tong had begun to import Chinese girls, paying their passage and then forcing them into prostitution once they arrived. What to Hop Sing had once been innocent games of Fan Tan or Mah Jong had now been taken over by organized gambling gangs and while men guarded the doors of the back room games, their arms crossed and guns and knives in their swathed waistlines, tall, muscular Chinese man in western suits walked among the players to ensure there was no cheating—or excessive winning; the innocence was gone.
"Wouldn't surprise me," I told Hoss, "only I don't know what he could think I can do about it?"
The Territorial Enterprise had lately been full of stories about the immigrants from the "Celestial Empire" as they called China, who were starting trouble. It seemed that the owners of the Chinese whore houses were waging war against the bordello owners of Virginia City in order to keep them from hiring any Chinese workers—whores or staff. But with the Chinese, the whores weren't stabled in a building as a normal brothel was, but basically put in one of a row of pens facing the narrow streets in Chinatown and a man with the key stood nearby to take the money and unlock the door to let the man in. The pens weren't large enough for a person to stand up and the young girls would sit in front of the barred window of her pen on her pallet so that the men could judge her desirability. Then, he would motion to the guard who would unlock the door and the man would crawl in a do his silent business, pay the guard and leave while the girl waited for the next customer.
Sheriff Roy Coffee was unable to control the hostilities between the Chinese pimps and the "round eyed" madams and pimps of Virginia City, which were conducted under the cover of night; a man could have his throat slit and his body left in the bloody mud of an alley and no one would even report it except for the person who tripped over the corpse in the morning or saw it when they tossed out a slop pot—and even that might not be cause enough to report it. Many people just turned a blind eye. And every so often a Chinese man would be found on the outskirts of Chinatown with a well-placed bullet between the eyes
Finally Roy had to hire another deputy besides Clem Foster.
"I tell you, Adam," Roy said to me one afternoon a few weeks ago as I passed the time with him on the walkway in front of the Sheriff's office, "It's getting so that Virginia City is really two cities—one for the white and one for the Chinese and no matter what happens, those Chinese don't let me in to solve any crime. I could really help them but they just don't trust me."
"Why don't you hire a Chinese deputy," I suggested. "Might make it easier."
"What if he's loyal to the Tong, maybe even being paid by them? I mean things used to be different but the Chinese, well they handle their own justice and Hai Tung is the new boss, or so I heard."
"Oh?" That was news to me. "What happened to Chao Chen?"
"A farmer dragged his body in town tied to the back of his wagon. Found Chao's body in his potato field, split open like a fish—gutted too. The man, a homesteader by the name of Marlowe, said that he went out to see what the crows and buzzards were about and saw the body and beside it, a pile of guts and the man's heart along with his balls and prick. He said that so many ants and flies were on it that he had to poke it with his shovel to figure out what it was. Apparently, if a Chinese person—male or female—isn't buried intact, all his body parts together, it's some kind of dishonor or something like that and if he's mutilated—well, that's how he spends his eternity. So to answer your question, Adam, he's dead. From what I can find out, the new Tong leader, that Hai Tung—is a mean one. Knowing about him even makes me try to keep my back to the wall."
That did give me pause and that very night, I wandered into the kitchen after dinner and watched Hop Sing washing the pots and pans. I poured myself a cup of coffee and then leaned against the butcher block and watched him.
"What you want, Mistah Adam?" He glanced at me nervously. Actually, now that I thought about it, Hop Sing had been edgy all week and not as annoyed with small things as he usually was; it was as if his mind was on something bigger.
I scratched my ear and then sighing, asked. "What about this new Tong leader—Hai Tung, I think?"
Hop Sing muttered in rapid Chinese and then spat on the floor. I guess he can do so; he mops it.
"I hear he's a powerful new boss, been bringing in plenty of Chinese girls to work the brothels."
"Hop Sing not know about that." He continued to scrub a roasting pot that already looked plenty clean to me.
"I also hear that he's trying to break up any casual, back room Fan Tan games. That true? Is that why you haven't been gambling lately?"
Hop Sing turned to face me. "Hai Tung come from big city—he speak English and Chinese and he bring many men with him. He take over Tong—kill Chao Chen and wife and two sons, three grandsons—kill all—make Chao two daughters work in pens. We know Hai order it done—everybody know. Then Hai Tung make all girls work for him." Hop Sing paused, weighing how much to tell me. "Hai Tung dangerous man. He take part of all gambling rooms' money. If he not like—Hai Tung kill—slit throat, cut belly open like hog." The last two were emphasized with Hop Sing's index finger pulled across his throat and up his torso.
"I see." I walked over and put my hand on Hop Sing's shoulder. He was afraid, truly afraid—I could feel it. Things were shifting in Chinatown and an underworld was developing that threatened to suck down the older generation such as Hop Sing and his relatives. "Let me ask you something, would the law have any place there? Could we get a finger-hold?"
"Not white man law. Only Chinese law—that law given by Tong but Tong not same. Mistah Adam, all Chinese know who run all things now—shops pay money to Hai Tung—what known as 'cut'. They pay or shop burned to ash. Bad times in Chinatown now."
I was disturbed by what Hop Sing had told me and I feared for him and had trouble sleeping that night. I was used to violence and cruelty but this was something I didn't understand and that was what disturbed me the most. I know about power and that it must be held mainly by threats and unexpected acts of violence; one must strike down any attempts at insurrection and I suppose that Hai Tung knew that as well. He was taking over.
So a few days later, Roy informed me that he had taken my suggestion and hired a young, second-generation Chinese man named Hang Lu, who was as eloquent in Cantonese as English. He went by the name of Luke and Roy depended on him to act as interpreter and also to inform Roy of any alien customs or beliefs that he and Clem as ignorant round-eyes might break and therefore, unknowingly offend. But Luke told him that the "Whore Wars" as the newspaper coined them, was inevitable and that there wasn't much that Roy Coffee or Luke or Clem or anyone else could do about it.