could bribe my way aboard a tramp steamer for Macao or Shanghai. I knew that I had money. Some of the Genie of the Bank had attached to my clothing.
In an alley beside the Keye Luke Cabana, under a string of apparently waterproof paper lanterns, I peeled the bills off my trench coat and pants. I had forty or fifty thousand in hundreds. The bills weren’t sequentially numbered or marked in any of the large variety of ways I could imagine. I wadded one into my shoulder holster as an ace in the hole, packing it down with the gun. Then I made a fist-sized roll of the rest and shoved it into my deepest pocket. You were never entirely safe from prying fingers in Chinatown, but I had to give it my best shot. A wolfpack of ragged children swarmed through the streets, snatching at whatever was insufficiently guarded. The merchants occasionally killed one, but that didn’t seem discouragement enough; there were always new recruits.
‘Tell you fortune, Mist’ Americano, tell you fortune.’
A decrepit old man, supported by a young boy in a huge coolie hat, was tapping his way down the alley, patterned robes trailing in the rainwater. His face and hands were white and very wrinkled, but any signs of extreme age stopped just below his jawline and just above his wrists. He had huge empty eye sockets wadded with cotton, a scraggly Fu Manchu moustache and a long grey pigtail. A sign hung around his neck, covered with a scrawl of ideographs and a single attempted English word, BLIDN. I had the idea he was a European in disguise. His withered claw reached out and attached itself to my lapel.
‘Tell you fortune,’ he jabbered. ‘Fortune velly good. China girl in bathhouse wait you. She miss you velly much a long time. Much money in stars belonging you. Much good is fortune. Much.’
I shoved a hundred into his hand to get rid of him. He held the bill to his ear and slid it between his fingers. In his grin, several teeth were blacked. He shook with excitement. I realised my mistake; he’d remember such generosity, and his boy would be able to describe me. Hell, under all that gook on his eyelids, he was probably no blinder than a hawk. That made two unwanted witnesses to point the finger at me.
‘Much thanking, Mist’ Americano, much thanking.’ He whispered a long coil of Chinese phrases to his boy helper, and the child looked up at me, almond eyes shining in a brim-shadowed face. The hat nodded up and down in gratitude.
A rattling commotion alerted me to the patrol well before it reached the alley. I shrank back while the fortune teller tottered towards the main street. Merchants folded their stalls and made a run for it, their goods wrapped in voluminous sleeves. A grey guava rolled to my feet. I picked it up and bit deeply. It tasted dry, like pasteboard, but it was food and I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. With what I hoped was an air of raffish nonchalance, I sauntered to the mouth of the alley, munching on the increasingly inedible fruit.
A battered Model T Ford, mounted with a shining machine gun, flying an unrecognisable flag, was lumbering down the street, pushing people and stalls before it. A Chinese officer in a uniform more than adequately equipped with polished belts, straps and full holsters stood up in the front passenger seat of the car like George Washington crossing the Delaware, shouting dictatorially. A tethered goat went down under one iron-rimmed wheel, and the vehicle jolted as the animal was crushed. The officer steadied himself by grasping the windshield, but didn’t miss a beat in his spiel. Three glum soldiers sat in the back of the car, greedily eyeing the machine gun, while a very fat civilian in a dragon-decorated garment did the driving. The car finally ground to a halt against the remains of a silk stall, a knot of scarves caught around one axle.
The officer belaboured the driver about the head with a pair of white gloves, and stepped down to the street. A turbanned,
In an alley beside the Keye Luke Cabana, under a string of apparently waterproof paper lanterns, I peeled the bills off my trench coat and pants. I had forty or fifty thousand in hundreds. The bills weren’t sequentially numbered or marked in any of the large variety of ways I could imagine. I wadded one into my shoulder holster as an ace in the hole, packing it down with the gun. Then I made a fist-sized roll of the rest and shoved it into my deepest pocket. You were never entirely safe from prying fingers in Chinatown, but I had to give it my best shot. A wolfpack of ragged children swarmed through the streets, snatching at whatever was insufficiently guarded. The merchants occasionally killed one, but that didn’t seem discouragement enough; there were always new recruits.
‘Tell you fortune, Mist’ Americano, tell you fortune.’
A decrepit old man, supported by a young boy in a huge coolie hat, was tapping his way down the alley, patterned robes trailing in the rainwater. His face and hands were white and very wrinkled, but any signs of extreme age stopped just below his jawline and just above his wrists. He had huge empty eye sockets wadded with cotton, a scraggly Fu Manchu moustache and a long grey pigtail. A sign hung around his neck, covered with a scrawl of ideographs and a single attempted English word, BLIDN. I had the idea he was a European in disguise. His withered claw reached out and attached itself to my lapel.
‘Tell you fortune,’ he jabbered. ‘Fortune velly good. China girl in bathhouse wait you. She miss you velly much a long time. Much money in stars belonging you. Much good is fortune. Much.’
I shoved a hundred into his hand to get rid of him. He held the bill to his ear and slid it between his fingers. In his grin, several teeth were blacked. He shook with excitement. I realised my mistake; he’d remember such generosity, and his boy would be able to describe me. Hell, under all that gook on his eyelids, he was probably no blinder than a hawk. That made two unwanted witnesses to point the finger at me.
‘Much thanking, Mist’ Americano, much thanking.’ He whispered a long coil of Chinese phrases to his boy helper, and the child looked up at me, almond eyes shining in a brim-shadowed face. The hat nodded up and down in gratitude.
A rattling commotion alerted me to the patrol well before it reached the alley. I shrank back while the fortune teller tottered towards the main street. Merchants folded their stalls and made a run for it, their goods wrapped in voluminous sleeves. A grey guava rolled to my feet. I picked it up and bit deeply. It tasted dry, like pasteboard, but it was food and I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. With what I hoped was an air of raffish nonchalance, I sauntered to the mouth of the alley, munching on the increasingly inedible fruit.
A battered Model T Ford, mounted with a shining machine gun, flying an unrecognisable flag, was lumbering down the street, pushing people and stalls before it. A Chinese officer in a uniform more than adequately equipped with polished belts, straps and full holsters stood up in the front passenger seat of the car like George Washington crossing the Delaware, shouting dictatorially. A tethered goat went down under one iron-rimmed wheel, and the vehicle jolted as the animal was crushed. The officer steadied himself by grasping the windshield, but didn’t miss a beat in his spiel. Three glum soldiers sat in the back of the car, greedily eyeing the machine gun, while a very fat civilian in a dragon-decorated garment did the driving. The car finally ground to a halt against the remains of a silk stall, a knot of scarves caught around one axle.
The officer belaboured the driver about the head with a pair of white gloves, and stepped down to the street. A turbanned,
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