China is also from the Lee clan, who can prove he is not a true son? So he pays money, sometimes a lot of money. Mr. Lee accepts him as a son and he is allowed to enter. There are many paper sons in Chinatown.”
“And he becomes a true son in the eyes of the law over here? He will inherit if Mr. Lee dies?”
“This is clearly what Bobby Lee hopes. But my employer is a clever and cautious man. I am sure he has drawn up legal documents that state that Bobby Lee is not a son of his body. At the moment Bobby Lee is useful to him in his business. However, if he were to have a true son, as he so fervently hopes, then you can be certain that Bobby would be pushed aside or even sent back to China.”
“He doesn’t seem a very pleasant young man,” I said.
“He is not, and he has let the idea of being Lee Sing Tai’s son go to his head. He behaves as if he owns half of Chinatown. Such a man makes enemies, but unfortunately he is well positioned in On Leong, so we can say or do nothing.”
“Does he live with his father?” I asked, wondering how much he knew about the missing girl.
“He does not. He runs his father’s cigar factory in Brooklyn and he lives in rooms above the factory.”
We continued down Mott Street. “May I ask if Mr. Lee wants you to continue your search for this—jade?” he asked. “I know it’s not my business, but I just wondered…”
I glanced at him. “If Mr. Lee had wanted you to know, I suspect he’d have included you in the meeting,” I said. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but…”
“I quite understand,” he said. “It’s only that I—”
At that moment a voice called out after us. We turned to see Bobby Lee standing on the steps, beckoning. He barked out something in Chinese.
Frederick Lee flushed. “Please excuse me, Miss Murphy, but my employer wishes to have another word with me. If you would kindly wait here in the shade…”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure I can find my own way without anyone to escort me.”
“If you’re quite sure?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “You’d better get back to your employer. I rather suspect he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
He nodded gratefully and hurried back down the street. I was about to go on my way when I realized that I should find out from Frederick where all the various church missions were located around Chinatown. There must be several of them if missionary ladies were seen as a problem. So I stepped under the shade of a balcony and waited. I studied the red silk lanterns hanging from the balconies, the scrolls of Chinese characters pasted to walls and windows, and then I noticed something that I had overlooked before. Across the street, presenting a hostile brick face to the world, was a Catholic church. A small board announced: CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION, FATHER BARRY, and mass times. There were no messages in Chinese here and the studded oak door was firmly shut. It appeared that the Catholics did not want to welcome their Chinese neighbors.
The street remained eerily empty until the two old men appeared again, bringing their caged birds back from their morning outing. I was busy observing them and jumped a mile when a door behind me suddenly opened. I half expected to be grabbed and dragged inside, but instead I turned around and found myself looking at the most unexpected person. She was a big-boned Irishwoman of middle age with a round, fresh-scrubbed face and faded red hair twisted up on top of her head. She was wearing a white apron over her summer dress, and she held a bucket in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, dearie,” she said, in an Irish accent even broader than my own. “Just coming out to do the step. I do like a nice clean front step, don’t you?” And she gave me a warm, friendly smile. “I saw you passing by yesterday. And I notice you’re wearing a ring on your left hand. So I thought I’d be bold enough to find out whether you’ve joined our ranks yet.”
“Ranks?”
“Are you marrying that nice Chinese boy I saw you with? Frederick Lee, isn’t it?”
“No! What gave you that idea?” I suppose I sounded shocked.
“Well, you don’t look like one of those earnest missionary ladies, so I couldn’t think of any other reason an Irish girl would be walking through Chinatown on the arm of a Chinaman. There’s quite a few of us, you know.”
“Married to Chinese men?”
“Exactly. Mrs. Chiu’s the name. Aileen Chiu.” She held out her hand to me. I shook it. It felt as rough as old leather.
“Molly Murphy,” I said.
“A fellow Irishwoman. I knew it.” She beamed at me. “What part of the old country are you from?”
“County Mayo. Near Westport.”
“Are you now? I’m from Limerick myself. I couldn’t wait to get away, but now I long for those green hills and that soft rain, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Especially when the weather is as hot as it’s been lately.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” she said. “Like most of the neighborhood, we’ve taken to sleeping on the roof this summer, it’s been so unbearable in the house.” She hesitated then said, “Look, this may seem forward, but would you like to come in for a spot of tea, Miss Murphy? The kettle’s always on and I don’t get much company from the outside.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that very much.” It had occurred to me how useful she might be, watching the street from behind her lace curtains. And besides, I liked the look of her face. I followed her into the darkness of a small entry hall. Only a couple of steps inside we came upon a screen, similar to the one in Mr. Lee’s apartment with a large painted dragon on it.
“Watch yourself,” Aileen warned as she steered me around it. “My man insisted on it. He’s a Christian, you know, but he can’t do away with all the old Chinese superstitions. ‘We have to have a screen, Aileen,’ he says to me
