Gambler’s Boots

LILLI

An original audio story

There had been no food in the house for a week. No rice. No fish. No vegetables. The chickens had been killed last season. Even the chickens’ coarse feed was long gone.

Yesterday, Mother found some garbage scraps. Rancid. Smelly. Covered in creatures. She boiled it to make a soup. But not enough charcoal for the fire to heat it. Mother asked the children to eat it. They tried, but soon became sick.

Father had been a relatively wealthy man. In his business, he bought saddles and bridles from the Portuguese traders and re-sold them to the Chinese. His was a well-known business. Many customers came from far away to buy his leather goods. Finely tooled with excellent designs. A quality product for any many who rode a horse.

But Father no longer had money. His business was closed. He had been a man of distinction. A man who made his family proud. No.  He was a failure, one who could not feed even his own family.

It was not opium that did him in. No. He never touched the foul weed. He told his children that it was a tool of the demons. A way of draining one’s energy, strength, and character.

His undoing came, rather, from the “numbers room” next to the local opium den. It was, in fact, owned by the same conniving individual. The “numbers room” had a large wooden board with many numbers written on it. Each time a number was drawn, it would be covered by a colored token. Patrons bought strips of paper with numbers printed on it. If the numbers on your paper matched the ones covered by a colored token, you would win.

For years and years and years, Father would visit the “numbers room” and would be blessed with the special gift of luck. He seemed to have fortune in his sleeve. He would win almost every time. Then, one day, the dark forces conspired again. His good fortune turned to bad.

He returned to the “numbers room” the next day, but his misfortune continued. Then, the next day and the next and the next. Then, he had no money. He sold things, but luck never blessed him again.

Finally, he had to leave his lovely home and move to a hovel. He had no pride. He had no business. He had no money. He had no luck. He had no food.

Li Li was the youngest daughter and her father’s favorite. She was small. Yes. But very smart.

Father had nothing else to sell. His two older daughters were already betrothed. One would never sell sons, so Father could not sell his one son. That left only Li Li.

Thus, at age nine, Li Li was sold into slavery. Nearly all the money that Father received for her went to pay his previous gambling debts. The “numbers room” had men who ensured the debts were fully paid.

When most Americans think of slavery, they visualize enslaved Africans toiling on either a cotton or a sugar plantation of the South. Few think of the equally insidious enslavement of young Chinese girls as prostitutes working in the brothels of the West.

Nearly every western boomtown, whether it was a mining town like Virginia City or a cow town like Dodge City or a transportation hub like Denver, had at least one Chinese-owned and operated brothel. Many of these brothels were quite large, some having as many as fifty women working in them. Most operated close to Chinese-owned opium dens and gambling halls. Very few of the customers of these establishments were Chinese men. The “coulee” wages paid to Chinese men were not large enough to afford frequent visits to the oriental pleasure palaces.

This story is based, in part, on the memoirs of Mrs. Lilli Bardie, who came to the West as a sex slave, but eventually became (it is reported) the wealthiest woman in Idaho. She owned mines, an ore-hauling transport company, an ore stamping mill, various hotels and restaurants, and (probably) a string of brothels. Of course, since she was Chinese, she could own none of these in her own name. Her role had to remain hidden. All her properties and enterprises were legally controlled by her personal attorney.

Of all her properties, her favorite was her large ranch on the Salmon River. She asked to be buried there on a hill where she could hear the roar of the fast-moving river.

I had been waiting in the hot August sun for over an hour when the three-twelve train arrived, and its passengers spilled out.

One of the last to emerge was Bicycle Guy. That’s what I called him. It would only be much later that I would know his name.

Bicycle Guy pulled his bike, three knapsacks, and his guitar off the commuter train and began to amble toward us. He was smoking a cigar. His aroma reached us before he did.

That’s how it began.

Sometimes, you’ll hear a song and it stays with you all day. Sometimes it will change your life.