Chapter 13: A Clean Plate

Southeast California, 1879. The small town roasted in a three-figure temperature. It was late afternoon and hardly anyone had been outdoors since midday. Now a horseman appeared, coming in from due east. The main street was simply a continuation of the trail and on reaching it he rode its whole length, casting black eyes rapidly from side to side, taking in everything. At the western end of town he came to the livery stable. He left his horse there and walked back eastwards, stopping outside China Joe’s little restaurant.

Pausing on the sidewalk, the stranger slapped dust from his clothing. His high-crowned hat, shirt and boots were black, the short jacket and trousers navy blue, worn shiny in several places. The only contrast to his general appearance of darkness came from the white bone handles of two thonged-down Colt .45 revolvers. They were of the type known as Peacemakers, but the man didn’t look as though that name applied to him. He entered the restaurant by flinging open the door with a force that caused it to rebound sharply from its metal stop, then backheeling it shut with a slam that shook the wooden building.

China Joe had lived in the town for six years and had become a local institution. His real name was not known to anyone but himself and nobody could now remember how the sobriquet had been dreamed up. Though his English was passable, he spoke little and never revealed anything about his background. Within a week of his arrival, he had set up his diner and started providing excellent dishes, both Chinese and American. His fare was so good that the staff of the nearby hotel often passed up their free meals and paid for what he offered. In addition to the gastronomic attractions, people liked to visit Joe’s place on account of his appearance. Six-foot five and beanpole thin, he invariably wore a long, elaborate silk robe with a striking pattern in red, yellow, black and green. No matter how much time he spent in his kitchen, the splendid garment always looked immaculate.

The atmosphere in China Joe’s place was quiet and soothing, as though he had imbued the structure with his own calm personality. The only disturbance had occurred a few months after his arrival, when a young miner got out of hand. With too much drink in him, he refused to pay his bill and became extremely aggressive, finally pulling out a handgun and threatening to use it on Joe. Not one of the other half-dozen patrons was able to follow with any real clarity what happened next. The troublemaker had been standing in the open doorway, waving his weapon, then there was a flicker of movement from Joe and the man was not only disarmed, but sent spinning across the sidewalk to land in the dusty street. From that point on, nobody had cared to antagonise the enigmatic restaurateur.

Joe’s place had only six tables, three on either side of a narrow aisle and all designed to seat four. Diners took one of the chairs with backs to the walkway, or a space on one of four benches, two set against each side wall. The dark-clad man appeared on a Tuesday, Joe’s slackest day. When he stormed in, the only other person in sight was a young man who’d eaten and was finishing his coffee. He took one look at the grim-faced newcomer, left his cup half full and scuttled out.

Joe came out of his kitchen as the stranger shuffled round a table and seated himself on a bench abutting the north wall. He took off his hat, revealing a tangle of black hair, rasped his left hand across several days’ growth of stubble and stared at Joe for ten seconds, then growled: “Get me a big steak an’ some taters, an’ make it quick.”

Joe nodded and returned to the kitchen. He came back a few minutes later and placed before his sole patron a plate laden with a perfectly cooked steak that weighed at least a pound, accompanied by a generous helping of fried potatoes, He also provided a bowl of salad. The stranger looked down for a moment, then glared at Joe. “Call that a big steak?” he barked. “Take it away an’ bring me somethin’ man-sized.” Then he pointed at the salad. “An’ get rid o’ this pap. It ain’t food.”

Without a word, Joe removed plate and bowl and went back into his kitchen. Five minutes elapsed, then he reappeared with an even bigger steak, as well prepared as the first one, plus a larger portion of potatoes. The stranger gave this offering less of his time than he’d devoted to the first one. Pushing it back across the table he narrowed his eyes to slits. “Listen to me, you long streak o’ dog meat,” he snarled. “I want a real big steak an’ plenty o’ taters, cooked right. Now, if I don’t get what I’ve ordered, I’m gonna blow a hole through you that you can put your arm in.”