The Immigrants by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

the next moment as something else entirely.
    At the door to the shanty, he paused and glanced at Feng Wo.
    Their eyes met. He studied Feng Wo carefully from head to foot, then took keys out of his pocket, opened the door, entered, and closed the door behind him.
    Feng Wo sighed deeply and thought, “No use. No use at all.”
    Still he had spent better than two hours here and he had no other place to go. He went to the door of the shanty, took off his hat, and knocked.
    Silence, then steps, then the door swung open, and the tall man stood there, towering over Feng Wo.
    “Well?”
    “You are Mr. Daniel Lavette?”
    “Yes.”
     
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    H o w a r d F a s t
    “Please, sir, with all humility, may I announce that my name is Feng Wo. I am thirty-four years old and in good health, and I am a bookkeeper.”
    “What the hell—”
    “Please, sir, please do not send me away without hearing my argument. Here in the news”—he held out the paper—“where I read your advertisement.”
    “The ad says 4 p.m.”
    “And I am Chinese.”
    “You sure as hell are,” Lavette agreed.
    “And if I appeared at four, as the advertisement says, there would be ten Caucasians here. Then who would hire a Chinese bookkeeper?”
    “Only a horse’s ass, which I am not.” He turned away, beginning the process of closing the door in Feng Wo’s face.
    “Please, Mr. Lavette, I beseech you. I have not eaten today or yesterday.” The words flooded out. “I have a wife, I have a daughter of thirteen years. Give me a chance. I am honest. I will work any hours you choose. Pay me what you will. Please, please, I beg you.”
    The door opened again, and Dan Lavette stood there, staring at him. Moments passed. Feng Wo was acutely conscious of all that his world contained, the warm sun, the salty wind from the bay, the fishermen hawking their catch and calling their prices, and the tall young man in front of him.
    “What did you say your name was?”
    “Feng Wo, Mr. Lavette.”
    “Where did you learn to keep books?”
    “I taught myself, sir.”
    “Do you know what a ledger is?”
    “Yes, sir, I do.”
    “Do you know what double entry is? Have you ever worked with a twelve-column analysis book?”
    “I am not stupid, sir. I can learn anything you wish me to.”
     
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    “I ought to have my head examined,” Lavette said. “I swear I ought to. All right, come on in.”
    Feng Wo followed him into the shanty, trembling now, unable to believe that it was actually happening. Inside the door was a single large room, a rolltop desk, a kitchen table and chairs, a three-drawer wooden filing cabinet, and a rack from which hung two big sea slick-ers, to which Lavette added his oilskin jacket. On the walls a calendar, an enormous stuffed fish, an old-fashioned whaling harpoon, and a shelf of canned goods. A small gas stove and a coffee pot completed the furnishings. A narrow staircase led up to the second floor.
    “I live up there,” Lavette said, indicating the stair case. “This is the office.” He pulled a chair out from the table. “Sit down.
    What the hell do I call you?” he asked as Feng Wo seated himself.
    “Feng—Feng Wo?”
    “As you wish, sir.”
    “Feng—all right, Feng then.” He pulled open one of the file drawers and took out a plate and a fork and spoon and a can opener.
    “I don’t know what a Chink eats. How about canned beans?”
    “I am not here to eat. Please, sir, I am here to work.”
    “Bullshit,” Lavette said, as he opened a can of beans and set it to warm on the gas stove. “You’re shaking like a leaf. You ever work for a white man before?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Where did you work?”
    “I did coolie work on construction, pick and shovel. Then I got sick. I hurt my back. I tried pick and shovel again—I can’t.”
    “I’d give you beer, but that’s no good if you’re starved. Can you drink coffee?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Lavette emptied the half-warmed can of beans into the