Again there was the instant contrast between the chaos of the Bowery and the relative tranquility of the Chinese street. I spotted Kitty Chiu playing jump rope with some friends and a couple of old Italian women in black veils, huddled together and clutching each other’s arms for protection as they went into the Catholic church. Then I heard the sound of footsteps and a loud American voice booming, “This way if you please, ladies and gentlemen.” And around the corner from Park Street came an unlikely procession. It was led by a large, florid man with that typically Irish face. He was wearing a bowler hat perched jauntily on top of an impressive head of hair, and a jacket adorned with a row of pearl buttons, in spite of the warm day. He was carrying a megaphone. Behind him came a group of well-dressed and respectable-looking American men and women—mostly women, it must be noted, and mostly women of my own age.
“What you are about to see will shock you to the very core,” the Irishman boomed through the megaphone to his wide-eyed charges, his voice echoing back from the tall buildings on either side. “Please, ladies, do not faint. Deese streets here are particularly dirty underfoot and you would spoil dose pretty dresses.” In spite of the Irish appearance, he spoke with the strong accent of the New York gutter. He paused outside an open door with steps leading down to a basement. “Down these steps you will see the ultimate in depravity. Deese poor people are slaves to the opium habit. They have spent the night in this sqalid den, smoking opium, not knowing if it’s one day or the next. Why, they even do it on the Lord’s day—think of that. The ultimate heathens.”
One of the ladies gasped and had to fan herself. Her friend grasped her in case she fainted. I tried not to smile because I had realized that this was the slumming tour that Mrs. Chiu had told me about and the so-called opium den they were about to see was a fake one. The Irishman looked at me with interest as he passed me.
“And can you imagine this,” I heard him saying, not through the megaphone this time, “there are Irishwomen of such depravity that they actually enter into so-called marriage with Chinamen.”
Another gasp from the crowd and I suspected that he was probably pointing at me. I reached the Golden Dragon Emporium and stood outside, hoping that someone would come out and thus make this task easier for me. Nobody did. The Irishman and his slumming tour had descended into the fake opium den and the only sound on the street was the rhythmic chanting of the girls as they turned the rope. I peered into the store. The interior was so dark that I could detect no sign of movement. I took a deep breath and stepped inside. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness I could see that the walls and ceiling were richly carved, like the screen at the front of Mr. Lee’s apartment. There were displays of bolts of silk and stacks of porcelain on one side, and open boxes of teas and spices on the other, producing heady and exotic scents. I waited, expecting someone to come forward, but nobody did.
From a backroom beyond I heard a clattering sound and then a sudden shout. I plucked up my courage and went through beaded curtains, down a narrow hallway. The room beyond was dark and full of smoke, but I could make out the long braids of men sitting around a table. As I watched they slapped down tiles, yelling out excitedly. By this point I had realized I was looking at a gambling den, and the moment I had taken this in, I knew that I shouldn’t be here. I tried to retreat quietly. I crept back down the hallway, past the bead curtains, but they made a tinkling sound as they fell back into place.
A voice called out behind me. There was no point in trying to run or hide. I turned to see Bobby Lee coming after me.
“You—what you doing? What you want here?” he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at me.
I decided that attack was the best form of defense. “Such a gracious welcome,” I said. “Your father greets me most politely. Don’t you think he’d expect you to do the same?”
He frowned. “What business you have with my father? You not missionary lady?”
“I told you before that I am not a missionary lady,” I said. “And I understand that Mr. Lee is only your paper father, not a blood relation at all. What’s more, I’m afraid I can’t tell you the nature of my business with Mr. Lee if he hasn’t chosen to share it with you.”
His frown deepened; in fact he was positively scowling now. “What you want here?” he demanded again.
“I was hoping to see Frederick Lee,” I said. “I went to his office but it was shut.”
“Frederick Lee no work there no more,” he said, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.
“Oh, has he been transferred?”
“Not work for my father. Gone.”
“He’s left Mr. Lee’s employment?”
“My father dismiss him. He not trustworthy,” Bobby Lee said.
“I see.” I had a strong feeling that Bobby Lee had something to do with this sacking. I had witnessed his intense dislike of Frederick yesterday. And the feeling was reciprocated. But whatever the reason for their dispute, Bobby Lee was the paper son. He had won.
“So why you need to see Frederick Lee?” he demanded. “You his sweetheart?”
“Certainly not,” I said. “I came to see him as your father’s secretary. I had a letter I wished to give to your father.”