see a red door under the stairs at the back of the saloon. He knew the stairs led up to the singsong girls above, but he had no idea what was behind the red door. During the poker game he’d seen a number of red-clad fellas coming and going through it, which meant that the Tong was probably down there in numbers. “Go down two flights. At the bottom, go through the black door, down the long hallway and through another door. You will probably find him there.”
Lasater turned back to Hang with a calculating eye. “That’s a short road, Hang. Rest assured, I’ll be able to find my way back if it turns out he’s not there … or someone else is. I’ll see you soon.” Lasater walked off without another word, made his way to the door, opened it and stepped inside.
Hang pulled a red rope hidden behind the bar, which disappeared through a hole in the floor, tugging it with three short pulls, two long and a short one. “Perhaps,” Hang said under his breath with vicious intent as he watched the red door close on Mister Jake Lasater.
The spiral of worn wooden stairs creaked under Lasater’s boots, and he made his way down them as quietly as he could. The faint, warm light of an oil lamp shone up from the bottom of the stairwell. One rotation of the spiral presented him with a dark hallway that stretched back underneath Hang’s saloon. Lasater could smell the opium and hear the occasional giggle or moan coming at him from the dimly lit hallway of red curtains that faded away from him through the thick smoke. Another rotation brought him to the bottom and a black door. Lasater put his left hand on a Colt, the other on the doorknob and opened the door slowly.
The hallway beyond was well lit with a lamp set on either side, each lamp set between a pair of doors along both walls. He picked up a scent of jasmine incense and old blood. Jasmine was something he’d never smelled before coming to San Francisco, but soldiers who lost limbs in Army tents never forgot the smell of old blood dried on wood and canvas. Lasater walked down the hallway and tested each door, finding every one locked. There was a door at the far end of the hall with a small iron bracket on each side bolted into the doorframe. There was no mistaking that the door could be barred from this side, but there wasn’t a plank lying around to drop into the brackets. Pulling the hammer back on the Colt, Lasater took a deep breath and twisted the doorknob, pulling the door open slowly and looking in with his good eye. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, but the room beyond wasn’t anything he would have thought up, even in a bad dream.
The swinging door carried with it an even stronger smell of dried blood, and he could see lines, splatters and splotches of deep brown on the pine floor and walls beyond. The room had eight walls, about eight feet high and fifteen on a side, and in the middle of each was a lantern with a big, hinged lid. Under each lantern was a door just like the one he’d opened. Here and there the smooth pine walls were dotted with the splintered wounds of what could only be bullet holes. Lasater could see a railing going around what was clearly a fighting arena, and from the looks of it, these boys played for keeps. He didn’t see anyone on the upper level, but Scar was on the far side of the pit wearing black silk instead of red, and he held a slim sword in each hand. Courage and rage filled Scar’s face, and the flush of blood set off the pale line running down his cheek, looking like a white bolt of lightning in the flickering light.
Scar slowly moved into a fighting stance, his body twisted to the side, one sword held high the other low, both points aiming directly at Lasater’s heart. The bag was just behind Scar, lying on the floor, and all Lasater could do was look Scar in the eyes and sigh. He took a look at the half-inch planks of the door and doorframe and shook his head as he stepped into the room.
Clearly Lasater
Lasater turned back to Hang with a calculating eye. “That’s a short road, Hang. Rest assured, I’ll be able to find my way back if it turns out he’s not there … or someone else is. I’ll see you soon.” Lasater walked off without another word, made his way to the door, opened it and stepped inside.
Hang pulled a red rope hidden behind the bar, which disappeared through a hole in the floor, tugging it with three short pulls, two long and a short one. “Perhaps,” Hang said under his breath with vicious intent as he watched the red door close on Mister Jake Lasater.
The spiral of worn wooden stairs creaked under Lasater’s boots, and he made his way down them as quietly as he could. The faint, warm light of an oil lamp shone up from the bottom of the stairwell. One rotation of the spiral presented him with a dark hallway that stretched back underneath Hang’s saloon. Lasater could smell the opium and hear the occasional giggle or moan coming at him from the dimly lit hallway of red curtains that faded away from him through the thick smoke. Another rotation brought him to the bottom and a black door. Lasater put his left hand on a Colt, the other on the doorknob and opened the door slowly.
The hallway beyond was well lit with a lamp set on either side, each lamp set between a pair of doors along both walls. He picked up a scent of jasmine incense and old blood. Jasmine was something he’d never smelled before coming to San Francisco, but soldiers who lost limbs in Army tents never forgot the smell of old blood dried on wood and canvas. Lasater walked down the hallway and tested each door, finding every one locked. There was a door at the far end of the hall with a small iron bracket on each side bolted into the doorframe. There was no mistaking that the door could be barred from this side, but there wasn’t a plank lying around to drop into the brackets. Pulling the hammer back on the Colt, Lasater took a deep breath and twisted the doorknob, pulling the door open slowly and looking in with his good eye. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, but the room beyond wasn’t anything he would have thought up, even in a bad dream.
The swinging door carried with it an even stronger smell of dried blood, and he could see lines, splatters and splotches of deep brown on the pine floor and walls beyond. The room had eight walls, about eight feet high and fifteen on a side, and in the middle of each was a lantern with a big, hinged lid. Under each lantern was a door just like the one he’d opened. Here and there the smooth pine walls were dotted with the splintered wounds of what could only be bullet holes. Lasater could see a railing going around what was clearly a fighting arena, and from the looks of it, these boys played for keeps. He didn’t see anyone on the upper level, but Scar was on the far side of the pit wearing black silk instead of red, and he held a slim sword in each hand. Courage and rage filled Scar’s face, and the flush of blood set off the pale line running down his cheek, looking like a white bolt of lightning in the flickering light.
Scar slowly moved into a fighting stance, his body twisted to the side, one sword held high the other low, both points aiming directly at Lasater’s heart. The bag was just behind Scar, lying on the floor, and all Lasater could do was look Scar in the eyes and sigh. He took a look at the half-inch planks of the door and doorframe and shook his head as he stepped into the room.
Clearly Lasater
Similar Books
