Bitter Spirits

TWELVE

LATE AFTERNOON SUNSHINE BROKE THROUGH THE DRIZZLE A couple of hours after Winter left Aida at Gris-Gris, happy as a clam. The taxi dropped him off at his house. He returned a couple phone calls, made a couple more, then stepped out onto the side porch and waited for Bo to return. They needed to recalibrate the search for this Black Star sorcerer and focus on fortune-tellers at the Chinatown temples.

The Queen Anne didn’t have much of a yard, but what little grass they had stretched out from the driveway to the tall wooden fence that separated his property from the Victorian on one side and the Italianate on the other. A fragrant bay laurel tree stood in the corner near a wooden swing. Winter used to sit there and watch the boats glide across the bay until the neighbor across the street added a wing to his house last year and blocked the view, the bastard.

He leaned against the spindled porch railing, thinking of Aida. It was hard to keep his mind on anything else, truthfully. The way she looked up at him in the taxi with those big, haunting eyes of hers, the surprise he’d felt when she kissed him. How warm and plump her backside felt in his palm. How she’d lustily rocked against his lap.

Thank you, God.

But what he was thinking about now was the feel of her slender fingers tracing his tender knuckles. They were sore as hell, and though she’d been careful to use a light touch, her explorations had caused jolts of pain to shoot up his arm. He’d refrained from telling her this, because . . . well, because she was touching him, unafraid, and nothing else mattered.

And when she’d turned her face up to him and he saw the longing blossoming there, he was gone. Despite promising himself that he would try to be a gentleman around her, if she hadn’t kissed him then, he probably would’ve instigated it himself.

She was just too irresistible. So beautiful. So full of life.

Christ. He was crazy about her.

The Pierce-Arrow’s maroon and black body pulled through the open iron gate near the sidewalk and squeezed into the driveway next to his mother’s old Packard. Jonte, a middle-aged first-generation Swedish immigrant who did most of the driving for the household, called out to Winter as he climbed out of the car. “You want the gate closed?”

“Leave it,” Winter answered. “Bo and I are going out to the pier when he comes back with the truck.” He leaned over the railing while the back door of the car opened. His sister’s lemon blond hair bounced into sight.

At seventeen, Astrid Magnusson was thirteen years younger—a surprise, his mother had said when she was conceived. And she was the spitting image of their mother, which was painful for Winter at times. But where their mother had been soft-spoken, Astrid was loud and opinionated. She acted like the world was hers, carrying herself with a defiant tilt to her chin and a fearlessness behind her eyes. And for that, he was eternally grateful. He already had enough to worry about, raising her. Knowing she could stand her ground was a small comfort.

God bless the modern female.

Astrid strode toward him in a striped blue dress that cost him more than the monthly grocery bill for the entire household. But it made her happy, and he was a pushover when it came to anything that did. “How was school?”

“A waste of my good looks and devastating charm. Why are you in such a good mood?”

Aida’s freckled face popped into his mind. Was it that obvious? It couldn’t be. He narrowed his eyes at Astrid in challenge. She lifted one blond brow. Too observant for her own damn good.

“The sun’s shining,” he answered.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll assume you just made some unseemly amount of cash, and I’ll be dreaming of ways I can spend it. Speaking of, I need new art supplies. Can Bo take me to Hale Brothers on Market tomorrow after school?”

“Why didn’t you ask Jonte to take you on the way home?”

She hefted her book satchel and smacked a mouthful of gum. “I forgot.”

“Then he can take you tomorrow.”

“I don’t like the way he sits in the car at the curb waiting. Bo goes inside with me.”

“Bo’s not being paid to be your nanny.”

Astrid gave him a cross look. “I just feel safer when he’s around.”

“That better be all you’re feeling.”

She tucked a blond strand of her bobbed hair behind one ear and leveled him with a look so tragically bored, he almost believed it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The screen door creaked open. Greta poked her white head outside. “Telephone, Vinter. It’s some man named Ju with heavy Chinese accent. Very polite.”

“Coming.” Winter urged Astrid ahead of him. She flashed him her middle finger. When he pretended to chase after her into the house, she ran, laughing. The screen door banged against the wood frame behind him as her blond bob disappeared into the hallway.

“Is this man Ju responsible for the ghost trickery?” Greta whispered as she held the mouthpiece of the downstairs telephone against her stomach.

Winter’s good mood darkened. “I sure hope not.”

Aida finished her happy hour show and took a streetcar back to Golden Lotus, returning home before nine. The early slot hadn’t drawn the same crowd that her usual ten o’clock show did, but it was successful enough to make Velma happy. In turn, Aida was happy to be home at a decent hour.

When she passed by the counter, Mrs. Lin leaned around a paying customer to flag her down. “A note for you was dropped off.”

Aida warily accepted the envelope from her landlady’s hand and studied the front. Nothing but her name scrawled in long, bold script on the front and a gold leaf monogram inside a diamond on the back flap, with a prominent M in the center.

Her heartbeat quickened. M for Magnusson? Why did he write? Did this have something to do with what happened in the taxi?

She mouthed a thank-you to Mrs. Lin and hurried to her room. Once the door was locked, she kicked off her shoes and set the envelope on her nightstand like it might explode, nervous and curious at the same time. Pondering its purpose, she stripped down to her step-in chemise and rolled down her stockings. Her leg was aching. She decided to take care of that first, just in case the letter was bad news.

In her small bathroom, she wet a washrag with cool water and gathered up her supplies, plunking them upon the nightstand next to the envelope. She laid the cool washrag over her hip, where the lancet pricks from the show were pink, swollen bumps, and used rubbing alcohol to wipe down her lancet blade.

Once she’d smeared medical salve over her wounds and put everything away, she had no choice but to read the letter. Wedging her pillow against the wall, she lay back and opened the envelope. Two things spilled out: a letter, and something slightly smaller wrapped inside opaque tissue paper that had been taped shut. She opened the letter first.

Dear Cheetah,

I have received word from the boss of the two gentlemen who accosted us today in the apothecary shop. He would like to apologize to us in person, and has requested we join him for luncheon tomorrow. In spite of his employees’ bad behavior, I feel confident that we will be treated with respect, and would not put you in further danger if I believed there was a chance that this wasn’t safe. Please trust me. Bo will drive us. I’ll pick you up at noon.

Yours,

Mr. Bootlegger

P.S. I hope your show went well this afternoon.

P.S. #2 I’m not sorry about what we did in the taxi, in case that wasn’t clear.

A bubbling giddiness replaced Aida’s previous anxiety. She read it twice more and admired the severe slant of his masculine cursive, written in heavy hand. Then she thought of that hand on her skin, and how his big arms circled her as he smothered her throat in kisses. Goodness. She fanned herself with the letter and used a fingernail to pick open the tape on the smaller flat package. It weighed nothing, and she couldn’t for the life of her guess what it was. But when the tissue fell away, she dropped the letter beside her onto the bed.

It was the pornographic postcard of the freckled woman.

Dreary skies greeted Aida the following morning when she headed downstairs to wait for Winter and Bo. It wasn’t quite noon, so the restaurant wasn’t full. Mr. Lin was manning the counter instead of his wife. He looked at her strangely when she stood by the door, squinting against the plate glass window. It hadn’t gotten warm enough to burn off the fog that lingered around the building tops.

Unlike the overcast weather outside, Aida was burning up. Being anxious made her overly warm. Every minute that she waited for Winter’s car increased her nervousness by another degree. By the time his devil-colored limousine rolled up, she was almost sweating in her thin coat.

The shades were pulled down in the back windows, so she couldn’t see inside. Bo hopped out of the car before she made it to the curb. “Hello, Miss Palmer,” he called out. “This promises to be interesting.”

For a moment she was mortified, thinking of the last time she’d crawled into a backseat with Winter . . . wondering if Winter had told Bo anything.

“This meeting,” he clarified.

Oh! “Yes, I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Ju is a small tong leader, but it’s still an honor that he’s inviting you. I doubt many white women have seen the inside of his home.”

“I’m always up for a new experience.”

He laughed and opened the back door, offering her a hand as she entered the car.

It was dark inside.

Scents of shaving cream and starch wafted as her knee bumped against muscled shadow. The door shut behind her. A tiny light clicked above the shaded rear window, and she found herself looking at Winter’s bear of a body lounging catercornered on the seat. She sucked in a quick breath as her eyes darted over his expensive suit and the fantastical breadth of his shoulders . . . the endless length of legs stretching across her section of floorboard. Her gaze climbed those long legs, skimming over his torso, to settle on his face.

He stared back at her, one eye shining like polished pewter, the other blue as the Pacific. High cheeks were ruddy from the heat that radiated throughout the car. His mouth opened slightly, as if he intended to speak but suddenly forgot what he wanted to say. Yes, me, too, she thought. They remained mute. All of her practiced casual questions fell out of her mind. She couldn’t have formed a word if her life depended on it.

The moment stretched out, suspended like a fly in honey, while an unexpected tumble of feelings rose inside her like the first slow notes of a violin concerto: a foreign, desperate hope, quivering with possibility and a longing so painful, it stuck in her throat like regret. He was right there, his face only a few feet away, his knee touching hers—but it was like sitting in front of a cake so luscious, you cannot bear to take a bite for fear that you will never want anything else.

Only, she’d already stuck her finger in the frosting, hadn’t she?

“Hello, cheetah.”

“Hello, Mr. Bootlegger.”

“You got my note.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Something playful and mischievous sparked behind his eyes.

Do not think about the postcard, she told herself, but it was already too late. “I could get arrested for owning something like that, you know.”

“Good thing you immediately tore it up and threw it in the trash.”

“Well—I was busy, but I’m definitely going to do that.”

“Might should burn it, just for good measure.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Ready?” Bo said as he climbed into the front seat. The privacy window was lowered. Probably for the best, all things considered. She had no desire to repeat yesterday’s behavior in front of Bo, and if Winter continued to tease her about the postcard, she wasn’t certain she’d be able to concentrate on being proper.

“Ready?” Winter repeated, tossing the question to her.

“Yes, I think I might be.”

The corners of his mouth curled like paper on fire.

Bo turned the Pierce-Arrow onto Grant, and the three of them chatted casually as they retraced the same path Winter and she had walked. Only, instead of navigating through the narrow streets and cul-de-sacs toward Doctor Yip’s, Bo slowed in front of an unmarked garage and waved a hand out the window. A man smoking a cigarette waved back, and Bo waited while the man hauled open a massive door on wheels, allowing them access to a dimly lit garage.

Once they’d parked, the man pointed at Winter while asking Bo something in Cantonese. Winter must’ve recognized a word, because he opened his jacket and flashed a holstered gun. “That stays with me, buddy. You can forget it.”

Bo translated and shooed the man, urging him to back off. He yielded.

They were led through a series of dingy corridors, out a door, across an alley, and into another building, passing several men she could only assume were guards along the way. A dull anxiety settled over her as they headed into a massive warehouse space. Just what did Ju do, exactly? She assumed it was bootlegging, but all she could hear was loud machinery.

Sewing machines.

Several rows of them, all operated by Chinese women, who looked up with blatant curiosity at Aida and Winter.

“One of Ju’s enterprises,” Winter explained near her ear as they passed bolts of brightly printed silk stacked on shelves. The warm air smelled of fabric dye and machine oil.

Aida removed her gloves and pocketed them. “This is his fishing company?”

“Exactly. He makes costumes for theater productions. Quality stuff.”

“Ah.” The sounds of sewing machines faded as they headed down a dark corridor to an open area with several carved doors, the middle of which was flanked by two armed men. Their guide spoke some aggressive words in Cantonese to the men and knocked on the door.

A tiny woman in a bright yellow traditional Chinese dress answered. Her black bob was shinier and straighter than Aida’s. She smiled at Winter; her front teeth had an attractive gap.

“Nei hou, Mr. Magnusson.”

Winter groaned under his breath. “Hello, Sook-Yin.”

Their guide snapped at Sook-Yin and a short argument ensued in Cantonese. The spat ended with her looking angry and saying, “Follow me.”

Her quick strides led them through a gilded foyer, past a set of heavy wooden doors, and into a large six-sided room—an indoor courtyard with double-high ceilings and a second story ringed with balconies. Like Golden Lotus, the room was decorated with traditional ornamental flair: gilded screens, silk curtains, and ornate trusses lining the ceiling.

In the center of the great hall was a large, round dining table. A lone person sat at the table, two bodyguards at his back. The chair he sat in was so wildly thronelike, Aida could only assume that the person lounging in it was Ju.