Clayton Honeywell, III pushed on the rough plank door and stepped into the noisy, odorous, Howling Dog Tavern. The building was European in design; two storied and narrow, with the tavern on the ground level. The owner and his family lived on the second story. The stale smell of beer and urine was almost overwhelming, but in time, one got used to it. It was here dockhands, and ship"s crews came to drink and raise hell. At a table near the door, four men looked up as Clayton entered. "Americans," Clayton thought as he took in the room.
Closing the door, he took a second look at the room. It was nearly full with forty to fifty men seated at tables. Two Chinese women were delivering drinks to the tables while the owner, a German, waited the bar. The German was a short man with a shaved head
