Pirate Vishnu (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery) by Gigi Pandian

there, my friend,” said a voice from the shadows.
    The voice startled Anand. From the hidden shadows of an alley, a young Chinese man stepped forward. Unlike the other Chinese men Anand had seen, this one wore his hair short. He also spoke flawless, unaccented English.
    “Why is that, my friend?” Anand asked.
    The young Chinese man took a long drag on a short cigarette before throwing the last of it onto the street.
    “If you’re looking for a drink after a hard day’s work, you’ll be safer a block over.”
    “Why are you here, then?” Anand asked the stranger.
    “I’m not going inside.”
    Anand turned up his collar as a cold wind picked up. He’d been hoping California would be warmer, but at least it didn’t snow.
    “You like freezing on the street?” Anand asked. “I’ve heard of some of the strange desires of the people in this part of town. You are a masochist, perhaps?”
    The Oriental man laughed. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll show you a better place. Looks like rain. That’s no good for talking to tourists when they exit the saloon.”
    Anand reached for his pocket, making sure this man hadn’t picked it. The man laughed again.
    “I’m not a pickpocket. I offer them--” He paused, and his voice changed when he spoke again. “I give good Chinatown tour. Secret streets, sir...Opium dens, sir.”
    Anand knew many Chinese traders in Kochi, and he recognized the accent. “Your Chinese accent is a little overdone,” he commented.
    “You think so?” The man was back to his American accent. “The tourists don’t notice. My Western clothing puts them at ease enough that they’ll listen. But without the Chinese accent, they don’t think I’ll know the best places to get opium, or to get the thrill of seeing a real opium den. Where are you from, my friend?”
    “Not from anywhere that I need a tour of Chinatown.”
    The man tipped his head before leading them across the street. They cut behind a nightclub, the sound of a woman’s beautiful voice singing a forlorn song escaping through the door.
    “Welcome to the Barbary Coast,” the Oriental man said as they walked past. “I won’t even charge you for saving you from being run out of that place. I’m Li.” He pronounced it like the western name Lee. He extended his hand. “Li Fong.”
    “Anand.”
    “Only one name?”
    Anand had met enough foreigners to know that much of the world had family names that came from their father. Anand’s caste name of Paravar served that purpose for identification once he left home, along with using his father’s name Selvam as a middle name. But he had never understood the need for more than one name.
    “Don’t worry,” Li said, misinterpreting Anand’s hesitation. “We’re going somewhere the police won’t raid.”
    The rain broke as they walked through a low door and under a grimy wooden sign proclaiming the establishment to be The Siren’s Anchor.
    “This used to be a ship,” Li explained as they walked past a giant mast.
    “Wouldn’t it have been easier to build it as a building?”
    Li laughed. “Where we stand today, fifty years ago was the ocean.”
    “I am not as gullible as the tourists.”
    “Faye,” Li called out to the woman standing behind the bar. “Tell my new friend here how The Siren’s Anchor came into existence. This is Faye’s place,” he added to Anand.
    Faye was not an easy woman to characterize. Her features resembled the darker skinned women in Arabia, though her skin was fairer. Her hair was dark red with a texture he’d seen on Nubian women. She wore less clothing than a respectable woman, yet she had an air of integrity about her.
    “He knows the rules of the place?” Faye asked Li.
    “Good liquor, no trouble,” Li said.
    “Any man –- or woman –- of any color is welcome,” Faye added. “But no prostitution allowed, and no shanghaiing.”
    “None intended,” Anand said. He had heard about shanghaiing, when sailors were physically