China Dolls Read Free Page B

it’s just my legs …
    “Please tell me where to go,” I said.
    I waited while he exchanged looks with his buddies. All I needed was one name to give me a start.
    At last, he said, “Wilbert Wong has the Li Po—a cocktail lounge on the next block. He’s changing it into more of a club. Andy Wong—not related—runs the Chinese Penthouse. It opened last December with all-Chinese entertainment.”
    He rattled this off like a town booster. This place was turning out to be a lot more like Plain City than it looked on the surface: a small town, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, especially when it came to the taboo.
    “I heard Andy Wong is going to change the name to the Sky Room,” the smallest boy ventured, which earned him an elbow to the ribs.
    “There’s Charlie Low’s new club. It’s not even open yet,” the oldest boy continued. “Two years ago, he opened a bar here on Grant Avenue. No Chinese girls or women allowed. What am I saying? No Chinese went, period!”
    “How would you know?” I asked, challenging him.
    “I know ,” he responded.
    Any boy could spout off about the birds and the bees—and other naughty things—but he often got the details wrong. It would now be up to me to figure out how much of what this little boy said was accurate and how much was gobbledygook picked up from listening to the whispers of older kids.
    “Charlie Low’s wife is a singer,” he continued, “and he’s giving her a showplace called the Forbidden City. It’s on Sutter Street—”
    “Not even in Chinatown,” the smallest boy interrupted again.
    That appealed to me, because Chinatown was too scary for me.
    “Can you point the way?” I asked.
    “First, you go …”
    His voice trailed off, and his eyes widened. The other two boys stared gape-mouthed at something over my shoulder. I turned to see what they were ogling and saw a girl about my age gingerly step off the curb and come toward us. She wore a practical outfit: a gray wool pleated skirt, a long-sleeved black sweater, charcoal-gray wool stockings, and oxfords. She was Chinese, with flawless porcelain skin. She looked rich , like out of a movie, except that I’d never seen a Chinese who looked like her in the darkness of the Rialto.
    “I know how to get to the Forbidden City,” she said in melodious voice. “I’ll take you.”
    Although Joe and the man on Treasure Island had both been perfectly nice to me, I wasn’t accustomed to kindness. Now here was a girl, offering to help, as if magically sent. I glanced down at the boys, trying to get a sense of what I should do.
    “She’s Helen Fong,” the ringleader said in awe. “If she wants to help you, let her!”
    The other two boys, acting their young ages at last, covered their mouths and giggled. The girl named Helen gave them an unyielding look, and they went quiet but fast.
    “Kew, Chuen, Yee, I don’t think your mothers will be too happy to hear you aren’t in school,” she observed coolly. “You’d better hurry along now.”
    The boys stood and brushed the sand off themselves. When they held out their palms, I paid them their promised nickels. Once they scampered off, I turned to Helen.
    “Where to?”

HELEN

    Calling to the Heavens
    “This way,” I answered, but what in the world was I thinking—skipping work, walking through Chinatown unescorted, and talking to a total stranger?
    My pace was brisk, and I felt the girl wordlessly tagging along behind me as I wove down Grant. She caught up at a red light.
    “My name’s Grace,” she said.
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Thanks so much for helping me,” she went on, trying to appear composed, I thought, but actually sounding as scared as a fawn panting in fear at the sight of the moon.
    “It’s nothing,” I responded, but it was everything . This morning, my brother Monroe had walked me to the door of the Chinese Telephone Exchange, where I worked. After he left me, I’d simply stood there, unable to bring