De Bruijn cast his eyes skyward as well. The birds wheeled toward the channel, no doubt searching for edibles in the floating garbage. “I believe I see an eagle.”
Lynch nodded. The possibility of gaining a ten-dollar gold piece to talk about what he already knew seemed to reassure him and smooth his ruffled feathers. He replaced his hat and pointed across the street. “Henderson’s saloon, The Three Sheets. Your man worked there on and off. It is also a gathering place for some who follow Frank Roney, organizer of the Seamen’s Protective Union. Used to be, you could find Roney there as well, until he became persona non grata with Henderson for his talk. If you haven’t considered the possibility that your man got involved with the union movements and got out of his element with the rough and tumble trades, I’d suggest that as a possible avenue of inquiry. Roney’s an odd duck. Doesn’t see the Chinaman as a threat to the lot of the common workingman.” He didn’t try to hide the bafflement in his voice. “If your man was of the same mind, there’d be those who’d take a dim view of that.”
De Bruijn nodded. “The young man was indeed a vociferous defender of workingmen’s rights. It sounds like a visit to Mr. Roney might prove insightful.”
“And to Henderson,” added Lynch. “He keeps an eye on everything that goes on in and near his den. If the victim crossed paths with a passing cutthroat, Henderson might know something of it. Now, speaking of ruffians, there are two others in particular who, shall we say, don’t ‘belong,’ and who have drawn the watchful eye of the night patrolman. Enough so that he spoke to me about them after this most unfortunate death.”
He gestured to the building next door to the saloon, which sported the sign “Hand Laundry.” “Now, ye’d maybe think that business would be the province of a Chinaman. Instead, it’s run by the May sisters and one a’ them has,” he hesitated, “a colored son. Big, strong young fella. The night patrolman has seen him walking around, late nights. Thinks he might be looking for trouble.” He cocked an eyebrow.
De Bruijn nodded encouragingly.
The detective continued, “A block closer to the bay, there’s a warehouse for some downtown music store. A Chinaman comes and goes, slips in and out at odd hours. The officer thinks he’s up to no good but cannot say for certain. Problem is, he’s in league with an Italian toff with a lot of pull, so it’s hands off, no questions asked.”
Sounds became sharper, vision clearer. De Bruijn said, “I’d like a closer look at the warehouse.”
“Suit yourself,” said Detective Lynch. “I need to get back to headquarters, but I’ll show you where it is.”
They crossed the street and walked up Berry, with de Bruijn taking note of the various businesses that lined the street. It was the usual sort one would expect by wharves that delivered lumber, bricks, and hay.
Lynch paused at the corner. “Halfway down the block. Brick warehouse.” He leaned in close. “One more thing I happen to know because I’ve been here more years than I want to count. The Italian, he had the Chinaman on the payroll back in 1879, when it was illegal. I’ve always wondered what they are up to, besides selling pianos.” He pursed his lips. “Also, in the pocket of the victim was a notice for the Chinese Theater in Chinatown. It struck me as odd that the victim, who was a musician, should have a program from the Chinese Theater, which employs Chinese musicians, and not a block away is the warehouse of a music store that employs a Chinaman.” He shook his head. “It was something I thought to pursue, but,” he gave de Bruijn a crooked smile, “other cases take precedence. Perhaps you’ll find this information useful.”
De Bruijn shook the patrolman’s hand, pressing an eagle into it while he did so. “Thank you. I hope I can call on you again if questions arise that you might be able to shed light upon.”
The coin vanished into a pocket in the dark blue uniform. “Happy to cooperate, as the captain ordered. If I hear of anything pertaining to your investigation, where could I find you?”
“Palace Hotel.” De Bruijn handed him one of his business cards.
Lynch squinted at the simple card. “De Brew…?”
“Pronounced ‘Brown,’” said de Bruijn, who had long ago given up on trying to correct the mangling of his name.
They parted ways, and de Bruijn continued up the block at a slower pace until he reached the front of the brick building. It was padlocked shut, silent, with dark dirt-caked windows that provided no clue as to what lay inside.
It would have been easy to keep on walking by without giving it a second glance. But de Bruijn was rooted to the spot, his gaze trained on the small brass plate affixed to the door. The words, etched in an ornate Italianate script, read “Donato’s Music Goods and Curiosities. Store at the corner of Kearney & Pine.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Antonia straggled alongside Copper Mick, who had started talking the minute he saw her after school and hadn’t stopped. “Where were you yesterday? You missed an all-around muddle of a brawl in the schoolyard. Two ruffians from seventh—Red McCain is a basher likes t’ terrorize all the little ’uns, stealin’ their lunches and all, and Curly Lou sets trash fires by the fence after the bells ring and knocks the hats off anyone smaller ’n him— you know ’em? Well, they got to fisticatin’ over something or other, and Curly Lou got snatched bald-headed by Red afore the principal came and pulled ’em apart. And then all of us boys in seventh got a lecture on how fightin’s no way to settle differences. Ha! We boys got a good laugh on
