Bitter Spirits

THIRTEEN

“WINTER MAGNUSSON, THE VIKING BOOTLEGGER. IT IS GOOD TO see you, my friend. It has been several months. We’ve missed you.”

With polished black hair and a big smile, Ju was rather dashing and well attired. He looked like someone who should be in Hollywood pictures, not running an underground gang in Chinatown. Aida guessed him to be in his forties.

“You’ve got more goons around than usual,” Winter said. “You worried I might steal something?”

Ju’s smile grew. “You are big and slow—easy to catch. This must be the woman we spoke about on the telephone.”

“Aida Palmer, this is Ju-Ray Wong.”

“Everyone calls me Ju, my dear.” He held out his hand, inviting her to step forward. When she took it, he kissed her knuckles. “It is an honor to meet such an extraordinarily lovely woman.”

“Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Please, have a seat. My grandmother is making us a very nice meal.”

It did smell rather nice, whatever it was. Winter held out a chair for her, then sat down next to Ju. Bo hung back until Ju prompted him forward. “Go on, Mr. Yeung. You’re Magnusson’s trusted man. You can sit with us.”

Bo didn’t act like he was comfortable doing so, but he sat to her left. Several of Ju’s men joined them. And if Aida felt uneasy being the only female seated at a massive table full of gangsters, it only got worse when an army of women began bringing dishes out to the table, under the instruction of Sook-Yin. Their faces were painted, their dresses traditional. Several of them placed platters of steaming vegetables and seafood on a rotating wooden tray in the center of the table, while others brought green bottles of Chinese beer.

Aida had grown accustomed to tasting unusual dishes since living over Golden Lotus, but the style of food presented here was much more rustic—no pretty dumplings and hand-pulled noodles. She didn’t recognize the vegetables, and Ju laughed as she stared at the intimidating spread. “You need a knife and fork?”

“I can use chopsticks,” she said proudly, having been taught by Mrs. Lin.

“Everything is very fresh. Have some chicken.”

She peeked at bubbling liquid inside a clay pot, from which a serving girl speared small, unfamiliar pieces of chicken, each glistening with rubbery dimpled skin and strange bone fragments. One piece was definitely the chicken’s clawed foot.

“The Chinese butcher chicken differently,” Bo explained in a soft voice.

“Killed fresh this morning,” Ju said, while making an enthusiastic hacking motion with his hand.

“I can practically see the cleaver marks,” Aida agreed.

Ju chuckled and translated to the table. A round of male laugher erupted. Winter draped his arm across the back of her chair and gave her quick wink.

The women filled her plate with this and that, while Bo steered her away from some dishes and encouraged others, his advice mostly on the mark. Winter ate heartily, his steely leg pressed against hers, while conversing with Ju.

“So tell me your story, Magnusson. Why were you really in this neighborhood yesterday? I know it’s not for acupuncture. Bo has been poking around asking questions about other tongs. You finally deciding to do what your father would not and take over the alcohol business in Chinatown?”

“Not in a million years. I’m making plenty of money, Ju. If I made more, I’d have to find something else to spend it on.”

“You’ve certainly gotten your daddy’s business all shipshape. Cleaned up all his messes. Everyone knows you are a much better boss than he was. A born leader. Maybe because you have all your marbles?”

Winter narrowed his eyes at Ju. “Watch it.”

“I’m not telling you anything that you and I don’t both know. All I am saying is that people around Chinatown are talking. They see you’re more successful than your father—so successful that they covet what you have.”

“Someone’s coveting, all right. And when I find out who, they’ll wish they’d minded their own business.” Sook-Yin bent low to pour beer into Winter’s glass. Aida didn’t like how close the woman got, or how she put her hand on Winter’s shoulder. “You haven’t heard about anyone in particular, have you, Ju?”

“I’ve heard rumors about a handful of different tongs. If any of those rumors had substance, I’d share them. We’ve always had an understanding, you and I. I’ve treated you well. You’ve treated me well.”

“That understanding hasn’t changed on my part. Has it changed on yours?”

“You are speaking of yesterday’s insult. Let us take care of it.” He whistled and said something in quick Cantonese to one of the men behind him, who turned and headed through a doorway. A few moments later, the cauliflower-eared man and his companion were hauled out and pushed in front of the table.

“These are the men who accosted you yesterday?” Ju asked. It took Aida a moment to realize he was speaking to her, not Winter.

She glanced at the first man’s bandaged nose and the discolored burn on his companion’s cheek. “Yes, that’s them.”

Ju motioned to the guard holding them, who immediately pulled out a revolver and stuck the muzzle against the head of the man she’d burned. “Do you want his death as payment, Miss Palmer? I will gladly do this.”

Good grief! “That’s not necessary,” she said.

“Are you sure? It is within your right. They acted out of turn and insulted you.”

“I was just hoping I’d never see them again.”

Winter put down his chopsticks. “If Miss Palmer doesn’t mind, I’d like to propose a trade.” Aida nodded her consent. Winter continued. “Instead of their lives as payment, maybe you can give me some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“The private kind.”

Ju dismissed everyone from the table but one guard, and Aida let out a long breath as their attackers were marched out of the room.

When they’d gone, Winter asked, “Have you heard of a fortune-teller named Black Star working at a local joss house?”

Ju’s brows shot up. “A fortune-teller? Why do you need to know this?”

“Because another tong is using him to try to scare me. Do you believe in superstitious things, Ju? In spirits and ghosts?”

Ju chuckled nervously, looking between the three of them. “Are you teasing me, or is this an honest question?”

“It’s honest. Someone’s playing around with witchcraft, and I need to hunt them down.”

“The alleys of Chinatown are crawling with dark magic. There are some things I don’t want to stick my nose in, and that is one of them.”

“So you won’t help me find this man?”

The tong leader considered it and let out a heavy sigh. “I should refuse, but you’ve been good to me. If I do this for you, and another tong catches me, I will ask for your protection.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Then I’ll see what I can learn. Might take me a few days. I’ll need all the details you already have.”

“Thank you.”

Ju sighed and said something to his guard while pulling a silver cigarette case out of his pocket. “That is all you want? Just the location of this man? Usually I’d offer you something else, but in light of your company—”

Winter made a loud growling noise.

Ju held up his hands. “I was only going to suggest something for Miss Palmer. My dear, would you like a new gown? My ladies can make beautiful things.”

“That’s not necessary,” Aida said.

“Go on,” Winter encouraged. “They do nice work.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Ju said. He fired off another string of Cantonese commands to someone. Several minutes later, two women carried bolts of silk into the room. “Sook-Yin will take you to be measured and show you gown styles.”

Winter’s face was blank. Should she be worried?

“It’s a high honor,” Bo whispered as he gave her an encouraging prod. So she followed Sook-Yin and her two girls into another part of the home. Someone’s bedroom. It looked too feminine to be Ju’s. The girls unwound measuring tapes and deftly coiled them around her—bust, waist, hips, wrists. You name it, they measured it. Sook-Yin spoke to her while they worked.

“I have seen freckles on the Irish women’s faces and arms, but never so many.”

“Yes, I hear that a lot.” She suffered through Sook-Yin’s brash inspection as the girls worked, jotting down figures after each measure. “I’m not Irish.”

“I wondered why Winter had not visited me in so long, but now that I see you, I guess I understand.”

“Pardon me?”

“You are to be the new wife, yes?”

“New wife?”

“Second wife.”

Aida stared at her. “You were married to Winter?”

Sook-Yin’s eyes widened, then she laughed. Loudly. “Me? I am Ju’s woman. You do not know Ju’s business?”

“Sewing?” Aida guessed, unhopeful.

“The other business.”

Aida stared at her.

“I am a paid woman,” Sook-Yin said. “All of Ju’s women are paid.”

“Prostitutes?” Aida squeaked.

Sook-Yin held her chin high. “I am one of Ju’s honored women. These girls”—she gestured to the girls taking her measurements—“are whores. They are lower than me. They have no choices. Ju tells them to work in the factory, they work. Ju tells them to work in the bed, they work. But I have choices—I can say no, and I earn more money. Do you understand?”

“You’re a concubine.”

“Yes, you could call me that. I only choose the best men. Winter was one of my favorites.”

Aida studied Sook-Yin, seeing her in a different light. She was pretty, her figure slim. It was hard to tell her age, but she was fairly certain the woman was many years older than her. Maybe older than Winter. Aida’s stomach knotted painfully. She worried she might be sick. “Were you in love with him?”

Sook-Yin laughed. “No, but he was very kind. I always liked to make him smile. I could see he was ugly after accident, and Ju warned me that he was angry and sad, but he smiled for me. I made him forget about his wife.”

“Which wife?” Aida said carefully.

“First wife. She died. You know.” Sook-Yin used her finger to make a slash over her eye. “Accident.”

Aida tried to swallow and failed. Her mouth was dry as dust. “His parents . . .”

“Yes,” Sook-Yin said. “Mother, father, first wife. All together in automobile with Winter. All dead but him. Very sad. Last year, Winter began coming to see me. I made him forget about dead wife.”

Understanding hit Aida like a punch to the stomach. The “other” house that Bo had moved into with Winter—the house that Mrs. Beecham had brought up at the séance. The one Winter had clammed up about. It belonged to him and his dead wife.

She felt sick and confused.

“Did they have children?” Aida dared to ask.

“No children. First time I saw wife was three years ago, before accident. She was very sad. Sick and frail. Unhappy. Too serious. Not a good match for a big man like Winter. But I watched you at the dining table.” She nodded toward the front of the house. “You are much better match.”

“We aren’t a match,” Aida said weakly. “It is only a business arrangement.”

“Like me?”

“No,” Aida said angrily. “Not like you at all.”

Sook-Yin didn’t ask any more questions, and Aida was ashamed to have snapped at her. Didn’t she herself hate when people turned their nose up at her profession? What made her think that she was any better than someone like Sook-Yin?

When they finished, Sook-Yin led her back into the courtyard, where the boys were joking and talking boisterously. She glanced at Winter and felt a tumble of conflicting emotions. Anger. Pity. Hurt. Disappointment. When he lifted his face to smile at her, she turned away.

“Which silk?” Sook-Yin asked, poking her shoulder. She pointed to the bolts of fabric.

Aida couldn’t have possibly cared less. She didn’t want the gown. She just wanted to get out of that house and go back to her room at Golden Lotus, as far away from here as she could get.

“Red is pretty but would not look good with your freckles.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aida answered. Why didn’t he tell me any of this? Why? A fresh wave of anger and hurt renewed itself inside her constricted chest.

“What about yellow, like mine?” Sook-Yin gestured to her own gown.

“No,” Winter said unexpectedly behind Aida’s head, making her jump. “Use that.” He pointed to an oyster color, softer than gold, darker than cream, with a hint of gray.

“The very best silk from China,” Ju said, joining the discussion. “Magnusson has excellent taste. A peacock feather design embroidered on silk means royalty and beauty. A very good choice for you.”

Aida stared at the fabric until her sight blurred. Standing in a room with Winter’s whore, she thought. How utterly delightful. She had to get out of there, or she’d cause a scene and embarrass herself.

She glared at Winter, defiant and bitter. “I’ll take the yellow.”