Inez said, “Earlier, you told me that there were some who did not care for Jamie. Are you saying he brought this upon himself?”
Hee shook his head. “I cannot say.”
Inez regarded him narrowly. Or you will not say.
She decided bluntness might at least have the element of surprise, and provoke a response, perhaps cause him to let something slip. “You were seen at the waterfront that night. Someone, I do not know who, is casting suspicion upon you.”
He paused in the act of raising the curtain to the alcove. Unfortunately, his back was to her, and she could not see his expression. Hee let the curtain drop, and faced her. He didn’t act afraid, or angry. He seemed more amused than anything. “Am I suspected of murdering Mr. Monroe? Why? Because of who I am? Pig-tail. Coolie. The Chinese Must Go! Never trust a Chinaman. Because of this, and I am seen at night, on business for owner of this store, I am accused?” He shook his head. “Ask owner of this store, who makes life possible for me and you, too, Mrs. Stannert. Mr. Donato will tell you I was at warehouse and left after our business was done. I did not see Mr. Monroe. His ill fortune was his own making, not mine.”
“A program for the Chinese Theater was found in his pocket.”
“And eyes go to me? Mr. Monroe want to talk with Chinese musicians about unions. I work there, I told him, no interest in unions. He listen? Most like, no. He was a stubborn young man. Anything more, I do not know.”
When she did not respond, he ducked under the curtain.
Inez backed away, returning to the office. She was not certain she believed him, but found his sincerity had struck a chord. She knew what it was like to be regarded with suspicion for being “different.” Men in Leadville, who did not know her, assumed that any woman who ran a saloon sold more than liquor. How much worse it had to be for John Hee and the others of his kind who lived under constant harassment by hoodlums, the followers of the Workingmen’s Party, and normal citizens alike. No wonder they keep to themselves in Chinatown. Strength came from numbers, at least Jamie and others had the truth of it there.
The tribe of musicians arrived shortly thereafter. They filed in the back door somberly, led by Welles. She said, “Gentlemen, I have some sad news.” She had set out shot glasses and a bottle of Scotch on the round table, thinking that, even though it was before noon, a little liquid courage would soothe the shock of what she had to say. “Jamie Monroe fell upon misfortune earlier this week. How it happened is as yet unknown, but on Monday, he was found in Mission Creek, by Long Bridge.”
“Drowned?” asked William Ash horrified.
“No,” said Inez, wishing someone else was delivering the information. “He was murdered.”
Laguardia crossed himself, whispering “Gesu, Guissepp’…” Other exclamations of shock and sorrow rippled through the group of friends. They huddled closer, as if seeking comfort from each other. All except Welles, who held himself apart, arms crossed, head bowed, lips compressed.
“He needs a decent burial,” said Laguardia. “If we all chip in, we could manage something. Surely Mr. Donato will contribute as well.”
Now, for the rest. “The authorities found his family. They are taking him home to his final resting place. That is all I know.” She hoped her brevity of explanation and denial of additional knowledge would forestall the natural flood of questions about “where” he was going and “who” was taking him.
She moved to the table and poured shots into each glass. “I wanted you all to know, and bringing you together to tell you seemed the best way. Otto was by earlier—he is working this morning—and I told him as well. I’ll just add this. If you have any thoughts, insights, theories as to anyone who might have wished him ill, we could pass that information along. I know you all have your own lives to attend to.” She hoped the vague “we” would encourage them to come specifically to her.
Walter Ash picked up a glass and turned to the rest. “We all came west to reinvent ourselves, right? To find new lives, new hope, here in San Francisco. And Jamie was one of us. Full of hope, looking to the future. And he cared, deeply. We may have shrugged off his passion for organizing, his insistence that we musicians should act together to better our lot, but we are surely all in agreement that he was a staunch friend and a good soul.” He raised his glass. “To Jamie Monroe. May God rest his soul and help the authorities find the evil that brought an untimely end to his life.”
With responses along the lines of “aye,” “absolutament,” “hear hear!” the liquor was tossed down. A second, and then a third round was provided, along with more toasts. Inez, mindful of the visits she would have to make later that day, touched her lips to her glass but did not drink. She noticed that Welles, standing a little behind the group, did the same.
The young musicians scattered soon thereafter, promising to let Inez know if anything came to mind that might help.
Welles turned to Inez. “Does Nico know?”
“About Jamie? No. Not yet.”
“Someone needs to tell him. I can let him know when he comes in this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Inez was mightily relieved to avoid that task. She guessed Nico would not be put off by her vagueness and would push
