Hatchet Men: The Story of the Tong Wars in San Francisco’s Chinatown (27 page)

It was in Bartlett Alley in the ’80s that the Chinese whore Selina held court in her own three-room building. She rivaled even pioneer Ah Toy in notoriety. The little street became a combat zone in the tong wars, as did Brooklyn Alley and the bizarrely named Cum Cook Alley where more than once hatchets flashed in the moonlight.

It was in Cum Cook Alley that Sing Lum shot Ah Cheng in the head in 1880. This case differed from run-of-the-mill tong murders. In the first place, Sing was captured; in the second, he lacked the courage and stoicism of the better grade of tong assassin. He tended to worry and brood. Although convicted of murder in the first degree and his attorney’s motion for a new trial denied, he appealed to the Supreme Court and won a stay of execution. But this only gave him more time to think. The chief of police ordered a death watch kept on the brooding Sing as he paced his cell. The only furnishings there were a sink, two wooden bunks and two straw mattresses. When the guard relaxed his vigil for a moment Sing hurriedly tore up the ticking of the pallets, forming two long strips; these he doubled for strength. He tied one end around his neck and the other around a small sag in the gas pipe which ran along the ceiling. Sing Lum, murderer of Cum Cook Alley, then stepped off the sink into eternity, cheating the hangman. As his body swung back and forth the hammers could be heard outside his cell as the construction of a new gallows—just for Sing—went on.

Other dark and deadly avenues of the Quarter were Washington Alley—better known as Fish Alley or Butchers’ Alley—redolent of poultry, fish, squid and shrimp. St. Louis Alley (aptly named Murderer’s Alley), St. Louis Place, and the Palace Hotel courtyard were other murderous mews. But all these were only pale imitations of a thoroughfare even more dangerous as time went on. This was Ross Alley, or Stout’s Alley. Here lived Chin Tin Sen, alias Tom Chu, called the King of Gamblers. Suey Kwei lived there, too, with his white wife. Many others resided on the little street, but more important, many died there, their lives leaking away with the blood spilled on the cobbles.

If the police were puzzled and angered by the conspiracy of silence which prevailed in the streets and alleys of Chinatown, the Chinese were dumbfounded by the attitude of Chief Crowley. Instead of crushing the guilty tongs, Crowley—clearly at a loss—lashed out at the Six Companies. He publicly stated that he would put an end to what he called their oppressive jurisdiction over the population. Thanks to the pressure he and others exerted, the Felton Act was passed. This ended the traditional exit-visa power of the companies. Surreptitious methods were quickly substituted, with departing Chinese stopped on the streets on their way to the Embarcadero rather than on the docks themselves. Nevertheless, this was another body blow to the prestige of the already weakened Six Companies. In his Irish ignorance, Crowley had hurt badly the allies of whom he was yet unconscious and had strengthened the hand of his real foes—the tongs—which were still shrouded in mystery.

The bull-headed Crowley compounded his error by pasting signs in Chinese all over Chinatown. They read:

NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN TO ALL CHINESE IN CALIFORNIA, WORKMEN OR MERCHANTS, THAT ANYONE WISHING TO RETURN TO CHINA MAY, HIMSELF, GO TO THE OFFICE OF THE STEAMSHIP COMPANY AND PURCHASE HIS PASSAGE TICKET. IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO GO TO ANY OF THE SIX COMPANIES TO BUY A PERMIT, BUT ANY CHINAMAN WHO HAS BOUGHT HIS PASSAGE TICKET AND HAS HIS POLL TAX RECEIPT MAY CO ABOARD THE STEAMER. IF ANYBODY IN THE LEAST OFFERS TO HINDER THEM, THEY MAY CALL UPON THE POLICE OFFICERS ON THE WHARF WHO WILL PROTECT THEM AND CERTAINLY SEE THAT THEY MAY GO ABOARD THE STEAMER. LET EVERYONE ACT ACCORDINGLY.

Then the chief added a stem postscript deemed necessary because of past experience:

LET NO ONE TEAR THIS NOTICE FROM THE WALL!

The friction between the police and the Six Companies—and thereby the merchant class and most of the decent people—now increased. The Six Companies responded by posting a notice of their own which was soon seen all over the Quarter. It threatened would-be absconders with warrants and American court trials for nonpayment of debts. Greatly excited crowds milled about in the streets opposite these broadsides. The irritable Crowley, instead of being pleased at the Six Companies’ recourse to American courts of law, took their response as a veiled threat not only against the poor emigrants but against law and order itself. He speedily sent an extra force of men to Chinatown. He told the press that he feared trouble. With this excuse, he had his squad tear down the Six Companies’ posters. They next arrested two innocent Chinese: Ah Chin, proprietor of the Oriental Printing Office; and Sing Yee, a poor, harmless bill poster. As the two men were dragged off to the Hall of Justice to face charges of conspiracy the officers must have almost brushed against many of the real lords of the Chinatown underworld who lazed against buildings on street corners. Perhaps these
boo how doy,
with hatchets up their sleeves or revolvers concealed under their blouses, smirked at the misguided and confused actions of the chief and the pained bewilderment of the harmless pair.

Had any of these racketeers been either interested enough, or expert enough in English, they would have laughed over the next day’s
Alta California.
The paper paid fuzzy-headed praise to Crowley for stamping out the extortion racket attempted by the Six Companies. An anonymous Chinatown “expert” testified in a masterpiece of reverse thinking, to Crowley’s success in “breaking up the system of highbinders.” One might have thought
Alta’s
editor were speaking tongue in cheek. But they were deadly serious.

The Chinatown squad, although hampered by lack of information thanks to the conspiracy of silence in Chinatown, and in spite of the zeal with which Crowley dispatched it on fools’ errands, was a rather effective police unit. The squad proved its worth in the Choy Cum case of October, 1881. Choy Cum was a prostitute who had accidentally thrown dirty water on a passer-by. This was not the simple annoyance it might have been had the pedestrian been a
fan kwei,
but the dampened stranger turned out to be a tongman. Not only did he believe in the Chinese superstition that water spilled on one meant bad luck, but he considered the wetting as an affront to his dignity—to his “face.” The
Alta
described the man as Fung Ah Sing, “a chief of the society of highbinders and well known as one of the most desperate characters in the Chinese Quarter.” Immediately after the drenching Fung entered the building and demanded a present from the quaking girl. She gave him what money she had and thought the matter settled. But the very next night Fung Ah Sing returned to the house. He did not upbraid the girl again; he did not say a word. Instead, he drew out a revolver and shot her in the face without warning, firing through the window of her room. Sergeant Tom Fields of the Chinatown squad started in immediate pursuit and apprehended the hatchet man on Brenham Place. His prisoner, wearing three coats’ and carrying a fourth over his arm (he was either ready to go underground or else he feared a knifing), did not lapse into the traditional Chinese stoicism. Instead of the usual “Me
no sabe”
he blurted out a denial of having shot the girl. Crowley had him taken to the hospital where the wanton lay dying; she identified him as her attacker. Of course the word quickly began to go around Chinatown that anyone who testified in her behalf had better make himself scarce. Someone tipped Crowley, however, and he arrested the girl’s companion and placed her in protective custody. She readily told him that she had been threatened with death by friends of Fung if she were to give any testimony. Under police protection she told the jury exactly how the gunman had fired through the window into her friend’s face. A verdict of guilty was returned.

Equally shocking was the cold-blooded killing of Leong Ah Sing in Church Alley in broad daylight. This took place two weeks before Christmas of 1881. Highbinder Harm Ah Kee stepped up behind the unsuspecting pedestrian, pressed a pistol into Leong’s back, and shot him. Harm threw the pistol beside the body, as was the hatchet man’s custom, and ran. His brief dash ended in the arms of two officers. Friends of the murdered man told the police that there was no reason for the shooting, but the murder proved to be the outcome of a feud which had originated with a trivial quarrel. Leong had crashed a feast at which Harm had dared him to take a seat. Harm had had his revenge.

These were highbinder crimes, not related to the burglaries, robberies and occasional assaults endemic to Chinatown; these were the harbingers of running vendettas and wars to come. The following April saw another such case, when Lee Kin and Wing Ah Bang quarreled over a woman in front of a Ross Alley bagnio. Bang hurried away, only to return with reinforcements—three highbinder pals. They grabbed Kin and held him while Wing plunged a dagger in his back. When Wing was picked up it was found that he already had a record. A year earlier he had been arrested for murder, but acquitted. One of his partners in the attack on Lee Kin was Ching Ah Too who—like Wing—typified the criminals now openly patrolling the streets of Chinatown. He had been arrested for the murder of a fellow Chinese but had escaped conviction. And although he had drawn an eight-year term in San Quentin in 1879, for grand theft, he had secured a new trial and acquittal after the complainant had conveniently left town. Already the close alliance between hatchet men and unscrupulous shysters was well established. By 1888, District Attorney E. B. Stonehill would complain to the Board of Supervisors of the extent to which Chinese criminal cases were being drawn out. He singled out the cases of two of the most desperate men to hold power over Chinatown: Lee Chuck and Little Pete. Lee Chuck the murderer, and Little Pete the briber and Lee Chuck’s boss, had trials which ran to more than a month each. The attempts to wear out witnesses, juries and judges did not always completely succeed, however. Lee Chuck was unlucky enough to be the only one of six hatchet men murderers of the period to draw a death penalty, and Little Pete got a term in San Quentin for his bribes, but was soon out; Lee Chuck cheated the gallows by going insane in prison.

Symptomatic of the suspicion felt by the Chinese toward the Americans—explaining in large measure the Oriental
omertá
which prevailed—was the fantastic farrago of rumor which swept the Quarter in June, 1882. It was started ironically, in central police station by some imaginative Bohemian, but soon had Chinatown agog. According to the story, body snatchers were after the corpse of Li Po Fun, the president of the Ning Yeung Company, who had just died and been honored with a fine funeral parade. Before the rumor was killed it had changed into a story that the body had actually been secured by ghouls. Bartlett Alley was in such an uproar that Special Officer McLaughlin came dashing up with drawn revolver. “I thought some highbinder had added to the plethoric record of Chinese crime,” he explained picturesquely. Officer Selwyn of the Chinatown squad quickly organized a meeting of the officers of the Ning Yeung Company and they reported to the public on the wild rumor’s complete lack of foundation. Order was restored, but company officials took the precaution of removing the body from the burial vault to an undertaking parlor over which they placed a constant guard until a steamer came to take the body home to China.

Shortly after the Li Po Fun incident dramatized the hysteria breeding in Chinatown, Abbott Kinney examined the Quarter carefully. He denounced the mounting tong feuds and particularly the role played by their killers in the black slouch hats. “In cases involving the Hip Yee tong,” he said, “it is almost impossible to secure adverse testimony. This company is composed of the highbinders who import and own lewd women, control most of the gambling houses, and engage in pretty much all kinds of villainy. These men do not hesitate to raise from five hundred to three thousand dollars, and by proclamations posted on the city walls set that price on the head of an enemy....”

Because of the alarming reticence of the Chinese population, Crowley and his officers had to place great reliance on their Chinese interpreters—the main bridge over the widening gap between the two peoples. But according to Kinney these men were craven with fear. He explained how the Hip Yee tong could so brazenly operate the slave-girl ring: “The terror in which Chinese interpreters live makes this possible. About half of the linguists have thus far lost their lives by acting in cases opposed to the highbinders. Their fate has generally been to be chopped to pieces by hatchets.”

The hatchet men were careful to confine their attentions to the Chinese. They left Caucasians strictly alone, perhaps fearing another sand-lot invasion by mobs or because they did not want to upset the police, who preferred to let the Chinese take care of themselves. The only member of the Chinatown squad who lost his life during this decade was Officer E. J. Norman, and it was a white hoodlum who stabbed him to death on Dupont Gai at the corner of Pacific Street; not a hatchet man. The highbinders made an exception, however, in the case of the white harlots whose places of business circled Chinatown. lanet Starr, a madame of Dupont Street, was stabbed by a highbinder in 1884, and one of her girls, Flora, was clubbed by a Chinese tough at about the same time. The police interviewed Miss Starr’s girls after the stabbing, and one officer said to them, “I think you ought to give whatever assistance you can to the police so that we may find the assassin, for if he is not caught he may become emboldened by success and you may be the next one against whose life an attempt will be made.” The officer spoke the truth; only a month later Lena Wallace, another of Janet Starr’s outfit, was sent to the hospital with deep glass wounds in her face, hands and arms after a Chinese bomb exploded under her window.

These raids of the highbinders were as nothing compared with the event that highlighted the winter of 1884. A pitched battle was fought, and when dusk settled over the city on November 24, one hatchet man lay on a slab at the morgue while two others were being worked over by a police surgeon. The day had opened serenely enough and had continued that way until 2:30 P.M. At that exact moment the dozen Chinese quietly playing dominoes in the basement of an old brick building on the corner of Bartlett Alley and Pacific Street had looked up and frozen as a hush settled over the room. A murderous-looking trio had entered the doorway and stood mutely at the top of the stairs. A player shouted something in rapid-fire Cantonese, and players, dominoes and chairs went scattering in all directions. A single shot boomed and echoed in the basement, then a fusillade filled the room. Knives, were drawn, and a short, fierce fight ensued. Five police officers rallied to the scene and succeeded in arresting two of the several bleeding men who staggered through alleys and dived into doorways.

A search of the two men, Leong Ah Get and Young Ah Gin, dispelled any possibility of their being unlucky passers-by winged by stray shots. Each carried a heavy Colt revolver and a knife. The third man found by police lay dead in a puddle of his own gore in Baker Alley with a half-empty revolver at his side. He wore a padded cloth “coat of mail” under his blouse; it had stopped one bullet, but a second ball had severed the man’s femoral artery, and he had bled to death in the street. The police followed the bloody trails of at least eight men who had been wounded, but lost them in Chinatown’s maze of alleys.