"Hugh Lessig - Black Book, White Deaths" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

"I know this man, Mr. Smith."
"Tell it if you can, Woo. I need to know."
He took a deep breath and started talking: "My grandfather came to this country perhaps 50 years ago. Sometime around 1880. He started this business. Chow Fat came around the same time. He also started a bar. It was on Augustus Street."
"The next street over?"
"Yes. Except Chow Fat wanted all the tavern business for himself in this entire ward. He bribed the local councilman to get tax breaks and ran gambling out of his kitchen. And that still wasn't enough. My grandfather could cook, and built up a lunch trade. Chow Fat hired people to beat up my grandfather on a regular basis. There are some who say Chow Fat was the forerunner of organized mayhem in Chinatown."
"The Tong Gangs?"
"Correct."
"What happened to your grandfather, Woo?"
The barkeep smiled. "He never backed down. Chow Fat's men would come into the bar once a week and rough him up, sometimes wreck the place. My grandfather kept rebuilding. People began to see that he was not to be swayed. They came to his bar."
"That's a pretty good story."
"My father, in time, worked for my grandfather. He was -- how might you put it -- not as peaceful as my grandfather. When Chow Fat's thugs would come in, my father finally began to take them on."
"Hey, wasn't your father a boxer or something?"
"Golden Gloves champion, featherweight division, city of San Francisco, 1910 to 1915. Very often, Chow Fat's thugs would leave this bar missing several of their teeth. As a symbol of defiance, my father would keep the teeth in a cup by the door. The cup stood against the wall underneath a sign that read: 'If you cause trouble, you will contribute to this cup.' That is how 'The Chinaman's Tooth got its name, Mr. Smith. When I took over this bar, I renamed it in honor of my ancestors who fought so hard, and who knocked out so many teeth."
I took another drink and studied my mug for a moment. "It sounds like you have a major ax to grind with Chow Fat. But I feel funny about asking for your help, Woo. He's still your countryman."
Woo shook his head. "Chow Fat is a thug and a coward. Besides, Mr. Smith, I owe much more to The Frisco Foil than I do to him. You forget, this is where The Frisco Foil began."
"I didn't forget, Woo."
He didn't have to tell me that story. Every Foiler knew it. Back in the 1880s, a man came out from Iowa looking for gold. His name was Tiberius Kirk. He never found gold, but he found a lot of poor saps who got swindled by liars promsing riches. Tiberius decided to start a newspaper to skewer all those phonies, and he called it The Frisco Foil. For a time, he published it with a hand-crank press -- out of this very bar, with Woo's grandfather giving him the space.
"You still have the old press out back, Woo?"
"Still there."
"Mr. Kirk was good for a few newspapers I guess," I said.
"When people didn't read the paper," Woo recalled, "they used them for placemats."
"Or as fishwrap."
We had a laugh. Woo was all right. "Listen, bartender. If I go see Chow Fat, you think you might be able to find me a good interpreter? Someone who won't back down? I gotta grill him on a story. There's an old woman who's going to be on Death Row, and one of his thugs might be behind it."
Woo leaned across the bar. He half-smiled, then the smile disappeared.
"When do we leave?"

Chapter Five

We needed a cover story. Something to get us through the front door of the worst tonsorial parlor in Chinatown. I had never worked a grift with Woo, but we put our heads together and came up with something.
"Will Chow Fat recognize you?" I asked.
"I doubt it. It's been 15 years since he's walked down this street. But I'll know him."
The time was 6 p.m. It had been four hours since Harriett Hill walked into the newsroom to tell her story. We could have waited until tomorrow, but I had the feeling the meter was running on this story. Once in prison, she could wake up dead 20 different ways before even seeing a judge. Hell, the food might kill her on general principle. We took a cab to Chinatown. We got out in front of Chow Fat's place. I smelled fish and spices and a few things I couldn't place. We dodged a couple of bicycles and went inside. We found ourselves in a small foyer: to the left was the barbershop and to the right was the bar.
"We go right," I said.
Inside the bar, the air hung heavy with scented smoke from hookahs that sat at every table. We walked up to the beer taps like we owned the place. Woo said something to the bartender and pointed to me. The bartender gave me a look that suggested I was in the wrong place, I took out my notebook and slapped it on the bar. The bartender disappeared out back.
"I don't know if this will work, Woo."
"Have faith, Mr. Smith."
I thought for a moment. "Faith in what? Do Chinese believe in Jesus? I thought you were all Buddhists or something."
"Hey, watch it. I'm Episcopalian."
The kitchen door swung open. The bartender motioned for us to follow. The kitchen had tiled floors and gas stoves. Large metal vats bubbled merrily and released gouts of steam. One vat had greenish tentacles hanging over the lip. The tentacles seemed attached to something alive. A worker came by and beat it with fork.
"Squid?" I asked.
Woo shrugged. "Maybe you don't want to know, Mr. Smith."
The kitchen opened into a narrow hallway with doors off to either side. The bartender pointed to a large, ornate door at the end of the hallway. Woo nodded his thanks. I walked ahead and opened it. We found ourselves in a large office. A small lamp on the desk provided the only light. The room was done in dark wood and tapestries. The desk was fit for a vice president of Standard Oil. Behind the desk sat a man half-hidden in the shadow.
"Come in Mr. Smith. Bring your friend."
I walked ahead. Woo closed the door behind me.
"It has been some time since The Frisco Foil visited this place." Darkness hid the top half of his face. The bottom half showed a thin mouth with colorless lips that just now broke into a smile.
"Are you Chow Fat?"
"No, Mr. Smith. I am Gene Autry. Shall I sing you a song?"
"Just asking, bub." I pushed up my fedora. "See, Chow Fat is a candidate for businessman of the year. Before our editorial board votes, we like to conduct interviews with all prospective candidates. So if you're him, I'd like to know a little bit more about your business operation. It could mean some good publicity. This is my interpreter, Wang. I brought him along just in case."
The man stepped out from behind the desk. He was of medium build and wore a white dinner jacket, black pants and a string tie. He had no hair except for a pencil-thin mustache that curved expertly above his upper lip. His eyes revealed nothing.
"I am Chow Fat, and no, you will not be needing an interpreter, although I welcome him nontheless." He nodded toward Woo. "I am more interested in you, Mr.Smith. Why would the Frisco Foil consider me for businessman of the year? I have been the victim of shamless, biased journalism for the past year, mostly at the hands of your so-called columnist, Mr. Forbes. I find it difficult to believe that your editorial board has had a change of heart."