A pungent fish aroma punctuated by roast duck wafted from one eatery, soon vanquished by the sickly sweet scent of garbage and rotten-egg odor of stagnant water wafting from a narrow passage just beyond. That in turn was washed away by a cloud of warm steam carrying the biting scent of lye from a laundry. This constantly shifting olfactory kaleidoscope was blanketed with the inevitable scent of sweat and unwashed bodies accompanied by the waxing and waning floral notes of opium and incense.
For de Bruijn, the sensory assault was a siren song, breathing life into memories he preferred stayed buried. The detective dragged his attention back to the erhu, which bobbed along as its owner wove his way through the crowd. De Bruijn slid past a group of gawkers, their guide saying, “This here sign reads Hang Hi, but means not what you might think. Instead, it is the Chinaman’s sign for prosperity.” The rest of the lesson was lost to de Bruijn as he moved on, his gaze fixed on Hee’s large-brimmed hat and musical instrument.
An intense knot of people blocked the sidewalk ahead. Hee stepped to the side and vanished. De Bruijn hurried to the spot to find his quarry had gone into a narrow alley.
A dark, narrow alley.
Luckily, it appeared short and uninhabited.
De Bruijn hesitated. Peering into the alley, he twisted the handle of his walking stick and pulled, revealing the blade hidden in the shaft of the cane.
A shadow detached from the gloom, and John Hee’s distinctive silhouette emerged from the other end. Determined not to lose sight of his quarry, de Bruijn gripped the handle more firmly and dashed into the alley. The detective was nearly out the other side when Hee crossed Washington Street, heading toward the Chinese Theater.
He only had time to think, ah, that explains the erhu, before a hand from behind gripped his sword arm. He tried to turn, block and parry…
Darkness.
A piercing screech was his route back to consciousness. That, and a voice. A child’s voice saying, “Copper Mick! Stop that! You already scared ’em away with that thing!”
“It’s a police whistle,” said another voice, older-sounding, somehow. “We need the police.”
He was falling, back into a dream, with no sound, no vision, only pressing pain.
“Mr. Brown! Are you dead? Wake up! Mr. Brown!” The child’s words—he knew that voice—blasted through the mist.
The other person said, “Look, if he’s dead, he sure isn’t gonna be able to say so, right?”
Now a third voice chimed in, softer, older, foreign. “What happen here?”
“John Hee! Am I glad to see you!” The child sounded relieved. “It’s me, Antonia. You gotta help us. This here is Mr. Brown, he’s a detective, and he was following you, and we were following him, and he was attacked in the alley. Mick scared ’em off with his police whistle, but that scared off everyone else too. We can’t lift him, and he won’t wake up. Look at all the blood! D’ you think he’s dead?”
Antonia. John Hee.
The names scrabbled through the dark of his muddled mind, reaching for the light.
De Bruijn opened his eyes to a world he could not, for the life of him, bring into focus. A world he couldn’t even remember.
Where am I? What am I doing here?
The ground beneath his back was hard, lumpy, cobbled. Dampness ran around his shoulder blades. His head throbbed with a dull ache.
Three blurry faces peered down at him. Two boys and a Celestial.
The youngest boy yipped. “His eyes are open! Mr. Brown, I’m sorry, your cane is gone. They took it when they scarpered.”
Who?
He must have said it aloud, because the older boy said, “Dunno who. Muggers. Hoodlums. Cutthroats. Lucky for you all they did was bash you in the head and take your walking stick.”
“Who are you?” He heard his own voice, thick, distant. He felt as if he had slept a long time and awakened in a strange land.
“I’m Antonia! Antonia Gizzi!” said the young boy, no, the girl, yes, Antonia, of course. She pulled something out from under the layers of jacket and shirt.
A locket.
“Remember?” She swung it in his face. “You gave this to me. It was from Maman. Mr. Brown, don’t you remember anything? Did they steal your wits too?”
It was as if his thoughts struggled through gauze, red, red as blood, embroidered over all, the finest Chinese silk gauze.
Chinese.
John Hee. Chinatown. San Francisco. Gallagher.
“Ah.” The exclamation came out as a grunt. Memories returned. Where he was and what he had been doing. Following this man, this John Hee. The very man who was now holding out his hand, offering to help him up. De Bruijn lifted his head. Pain exploded in his skull. He grabbed his head with both hands, then pulled them away. They were slick with blood.
“Come,” said John Hee. “You must go. Rest. See doctor. Where you stay?”
De Bruijn, focused on not vomiting and keeping his head from flying off his body, could not answer.
Antonia piped up, “He’s staying at the Palace Hotel.”
John Hee looked from her to the boy Mick. “I cannot go there. I must go to the theater soon, for performance. It is final act.”
“The final act?” Antonia sounded confused.
Mick said, “Don’tcha know, Antonia? The Chinese theater puts on plays that go on for nights and nights and sometimes months and months.”
“I didn’t know,” she snapped, then looked down at de Bruijn. “Mick, we can’t carry him, just the two of us. We need John’s help. John? Can you help us get him to the music store? Up the stairs to where we live? It’s just a few blocks. He can rest on my bed until Mrs. S gets home, and then maybe she can call
