“Is that what it was?” she inquired for no particular reason. “A spur of the moment impulse?”
A minute passed; she could almost hear him testing different answers. But in the end, he only said, “No. To tell you the truth, Gracie, I’ve been planning it all day.”
Another trick, of course; a man like Reuben would know better than anyone that a supposedly candid confession could be more disarming than the sincerest denial. But he’d called her Gracie. She could just barely remember her mother calling her that, years and years ago; nobody else ever had, not even Henry. She felt a deep, dangerous softening inside.
To fight it, she said, “Let’s get one thing straight,” holding up a stern index finger. “You and I aren’t really friends, Mr. Jones, and so far we’re not even partners. The only thing we have in common is a mutual financial mishap and a pressing need to recover what some thugs stole from us. Maybe we can help each other, maybe we can’t—we’ll probably know the answer to that by tomorrow. Either way, I’d like it understood that there won’t be any repetition of what happened just now. Do you agree?”
“Do I agree with what? That you understand it, or it won’t happen?”
She stamped her foot. But when he stood up and started toward her, she had to force herself not to give ground. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. No more games, Reuben. If you won’t promise to keep your hands off me, I’ll leave. I’ve got plenty of money now, I don’t have to stay here.”
He studied her in silence, and she imagined he was weighing his chances of eventually seducing her against the discomfort of an unknown number of future nights spent on his sprung couch instead of in his own bed. He might also be thinking that she hadn’t resisted his advances with much vigor, but she hoped he’d be too chivalrous to point that out.
“Well?”
He put his hands in his pockets and said, “Okay.”
She let her breath out slowly, appalled by how disappointed she felt. But really—wasn’t he even going to argue? Not even a little? “Okay, what?”
“We’ll play it your way, if that’s what you really want. But answer one question for me, Grace.”
“If I can.”
“What’s the game now?”
She frowned at him, perplexed.
“I thought I’d played ’em all, but this is a new one on me. And frankly, I don’t see the point.”
Coolness seeped inside her, into all the places where she’d been warm before. “You don’t see the point of what?” she asked softly.
“You playing hard to get. I’m just trying to figure out where you think it’ll take you. We’re even now as far as the money goes, so it can’t be that.”
She made her clenched hands relax. “No,” she got out, “it can’t be that. And it can’t be that I’m not accustomed to giving myself to men I’ve known for a day or two if I think it’ll get me where I want to go. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything.
Anger made her cheeks burn. Stupid, inappropriate anger. She wanted to laugh in his face to show him how little his opinion of her mattered. But her lips felt too stiff even to smile. “Thanks for an educational evening, Mr. Jones. I’m feeling tired all of a sudden.
I’ll see you in the morning.” She said it through her teeth, and left him standing there, looking mystified. “Grace—wait! I’m sorry. Hold it! Grace?” She kept going, and closed her ears to his stupid, inept apology.
7
Every crowd has a silver lining.
—P. T. Barnum
“HOW ARE YOUR WAFFLES?”
“Fine, thank you,” said Grace. “And your eggs?”
“Good, they’re very good. Really very good.”
“Good.”
Things must be looking up, Reuben thought grimly; that was the longest conversation they’d had all morning. He watched her take a sip of her coffee and look away, as if the scattering of diners enjoying a late breakfast at Belle’s fascinated her. In profile, she had a small but definite bump in the center of her nose. She probably disliked it, but he didn’t. In fact, he couldn’t say which of her so-called imperfections he liked better, the bumpy nose, the crooked eyetooth, or the little mole under her left ear.
Actually, his eggs were cold and runny. He put his fork down and slouched in the corner on his side of the booth, sipping his coffee and brooding, shooting furtive glances at Grace. He’d hurt her feelings last night, and so far all his efforts to make up for it had failed. It wasn’t that she’d clammed up or frozen him out; if anything she was more polite than usual, insisting he take his turn in the bathroom first, offering to make the coffee. That was it she was too nice. Between that and the fact that she wouldn’t laugh at his jokes, he knew she was furious.
Why, though? He’d spoken his mind last night, asked a simple question—which, in retrospect, he could see hadn’t come out very tactfully. So she was sensitive. He’d remember that, do better in the future. But in his own defense, he could point out that the conclusions he’d come to about her weren’t all that out of line, considering the circumstances. Were they? She was no blushing virgin, he was pretty sure of that. By her own account, she was on her second husband, and if half of what Reuben had heard about Mr. Rousselot was true, he wasn’t what you’d call doting. Invalid or not, any man who’d send his wife hundreds of miles from home on a dangerous swindle, completely alone, with nothing but a nun’s habit and a derringer for protection—that man sure as hell didn’t have her best interests at heart. And what about a man who didn’t mind his wife living in another man’s house, sleeping in his bed, for a stay of unknown length? It sounded like a marriage of convenience to Reuben. At best. There was another word for it, a less attractive one that he hoped didn’t apply.
Not that it Was any of his business. You went along to get along, and Reuben would be the last person to make moral judgments based on appearances. Based on anything, come to that.
Still. A woman who could kiss the way Grace did had to have been around the block a few times, he figured, and not just with an old geezer with a bad heart. But then there was Giuseppe, the suicidal count. Could any of that story have been true? She’d told it well, and she’d even eked out a tear for Giuseppe. But if she was as good as Reuben thought she was, that would’ve been part of the act. He liked to think of himself as practical, not cynical, and right now his practical side was telling him to be careful. Believing what you wanted to believe invited disaster, and women were almost always more trouble than they were worth. Two rules to live by.
Seconds after coming to that sage conclusion, he surprised himself by blurting out, “Sorry about last night, Gus.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Pardon me?”
“You know. What I said and all.” Ah, what silver-tongued eloquence. She regarded him blankly for a full minute. He wanted to look away, but he knew if he did, she’d think she’d won and then say something like, “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” So he held her gaze, and finally it was she who looked away.
“Never mind,” she muttered. “Already forgotten.”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She folded her napkin and looked around for the waiter. “I guess we’d better—”
“I’m not apologizing for the kiss,” he pointed out in a lower voice. “Just for the mess I made of it afterward.”
He thought he saw one corner of her mouth twitch in the beginning of a smile. “Thanks for clarifying,” she said dryly. In that moment, he liked her better than he ever had.
“What I said was really stupid, Grace. I thought about it all night, wishing I could take it back.”
“Why did you say it?” she asked, watching him. “I’d be interested to know what made you think I was that kind of woman.”
He hadn’t expected directness from her. It threw him off. “Well,” he said slowly, “I guess partly because of the way we met. You being on your own and all. And, you know, you
seem to … know your way around. What I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
She had that steely look again, and he knew he’d lost ground. He could’ve reminded her that the free, inviting way she’d let him kiss her had been the biggest clue of all, as far as keys to her worldly experience went. Instead he said contritely, “Honest, I never meant to offend you. If I made a mistake, I apologize. I can see now that you’re not that kind of woman, Grace. Hell, anybody could see it. Last night I got carried away, that’s all. You’re a real lady, a perfect gentlewoman, and I was a complete …” He trailed off when she burst into a tickled laugh.
“Oh, Reuben, you overdid it. You should’ve quit while you were ahead.” His deliberately baffled look made her laugh again. “I thought you had more subtlety.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. I may not be what you think I am, but a ‘perfect gentlewoman’ is taking it way too far. I think it’s time for you to shut up.”
“Oh. Okay.” He felt chastened, but at the same time the good humor in her wide blue eyes cheered him enormously. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Last night you said we weren’t.”
“What difference does it make to you if we’re friends or not?” she asked alertly.
Hell’s bells, there was a female for you, always wanting to pin things down, put everything into words. He was sorry he’d asked. “None at all,” he said airily. “If we end up being partners for a while, it would make things simpler. That’s all.”
“Fine,” she snapped, as if his answer didn’t suit her. “Let’s wait and see if we’re going to be partners, then we’ll decide if we’re going to be friends.”
“Fine.” She definitely looked prickly again, so he stuck his hand out across the table to disarm her. “Shake on it?”
She hesitated, then shook. She wanted it short and businesslike, so he hung on. Gradually her stiff fingers relaxed; when he smiled at her, she couldn’t resist smiling back. And then she looked so damn pretty, it was all he could do not to lean across the table and kiss her.
“Ready to go?” He glanced at her plate; she’d hardly touched her waffles.
“They were terrible,” she confided, her eyes dancing.
He laughed for the sheer pleasure of seeing her like this again—the old Grace. He’d missed her like hell. “Eggs were inedible,” he confessed.
She stood up, letting him help her with her cape. “Why do you come here?”
“Belle lets me run a tab.”
“Don’t tell me—out of friendship?”
The smell of his soap on her skin beguiled him; he kept his hands on her shoulders long after settling the cape over them. “Can’t help it if I’m a friendly sort of fellow.” She made one of her humming noises, low, sexy, and heavy with humorous skepticism. He was growing extremely fond of the sound—and used to it, since it was the one with which she greeted most of his quips. Feeling better than he had all day, he followed her out of Belle’s, and together they set off for Old World Curios.
The curtained door in the rear wall of Doc Slaughter’s shop led to another room, one that was just as cluttered as his store but with different things—easels, jars of oil and watercolor paints, half-finished paintings, covered lumps of clay, lacquered statuary, porcelain, pottery—all the works in progress of Doc’s lucrative “reproduction” business. Here he also carried on a popular printing enterprise that specialized in altering documents or creating new ones. Reuben had known Doc for years, but he’d only been invited into the back room once, to inspect a batch of counterfeit autographs he’d commissioned him to create. Hobby collectors were the easiest people in the world to fool, and could always be relied on to pay top dollar for “authenticated” signatures of people like Benjamin Franklin, Cotton Mather, or Stonewall Jackson, on fake canceled bank checks, old letters, the flyleaves of books, the battered family Bible. So Reuben was surprised when Doc invited Grace, whom he’d met only once and who could’ve been anybody, into his workroom without a second’s hesitation. The old thief must be going soft. If so, he wasn’t alone, Reuben thought crossly; he hadn’t met a man yet who could resist her.
Doc led them to his cluttered desk and offered Grace the only chair, taking a paint-spattered stool for himself; Reuben cleared off a corner of the desk and leaned against it. Fireplug’s letter lay on top of the scattered piles of paper. “Did you find out what this is?” Reuben asked, tapping the white lotus drawing with his finger.
“I did.”
“And how much is it going to cost us to find out?”
Doc smiled his slow, somewhat unnerving smile. He was so pale he always looked half dead, or recently dug up. “Ah, Reuben, ever the mercenary. Let’s discuss petty fiduciary matters later, shall we? But you were wise to come to me and advise discretion, my friend, because it’s as I thought.”
“What’s as you thought?”
“This.” He lifted the paper and let it flutter back to the desk. “A dangerous document, this. It contains the terms of allegiance for new recruits into the Bo Kong. Which,” he explained for Grace’s benefit, “is one of the most vicious tongs in Chinatown. And now I really must ask you to be more candid with me about where you found it. The name of the initiate on the document is Loke Ho, a brand-new Salaried Soldier, or hatchet man, for the Bo Kong. Forgive my skepticism, but I doubt that Mr. Loke Ho gave this to you.”
Grace was looking at Reuben expectantly; obviously she’d decided to trust Doc as completely as Doc had decided to trust her. Reuben sighed. What the hell—Doc had been straight with him in the dealings they’d had so far. Besides, if the scheme went any further, they’d need his help, and they wouldn’t get it without leveling with him.
“Loke Ho is a fellow Grace and I met, in a manner of speaking, while we were traveling from Monterey to San Francisco.”
Doc registered no surprise. “That wouldn’t have been on a Wells Fargo stagecoach, would it?”
“Always ahead of me, Doc. Amazing, isn’t he?” He winked at Grace. “We’ve been calling this Loke Ho character ‘Fireplug’; it’s like an endearment, since we’re so fond of the guy. He’s cooling his heels at the California Street Station, where I hear he’s not saying a word.”
“Ah,” Doc said in the low, tuneful intonation that sounded as much like a musical instrument as a voice. “This is most unusual.” As always, he’d seated himself so that the scarred side of his face stayed in the shadows. “Corruption and violence are routine among gang members in Chinatown, but it’s extremely rare for tong-backed crimes to be perpetrated outside the ghetto on white people. Extremely rare.”
He stooped to open the bottom drawer of his desk, bringing out the pillowcase-wrapped statue of the tiger. “That’s one odd aspect of the Wells Fargo robbery. Another is that the thieves made off with only a small part of the booty on board the stagecoach, and they seemed to know exactly what they were looking for. They stole exclusively funerary sculpture, even though there were older and more valuable pieces there for the taking.”
“We noticed that ourselves.”
“According to the newspapers, the police are baffled. But I have a theory.” He shot them a shrewd glance from beneath his heavy eyelids.
“What?” Grace asked obligingly.
“That if the authorities could make your friend Fireplug reveal his connection with the Bo Kong tong, they wouldn’t be baffled anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because the leader of the Bo Kong is a very unusual man. A cultured eccentric in some ways—a scholar, a poet, a calligrapher—and an old-fashioned thug in others. His name is Mark Wing. He was implicated in the seventies in a plot to murder the regent to the Chinese throne, and fled to this country about twelve years ago. Now he’s an exile. Here he’s known as Kai Yee, or Godfather.”
“Mark Wing,” Reuben repeated thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s not surprising. Secrecy surrounds him, as it does all the t
ongs. Outside Chinatown, very little is known of these people, and inside, fear keeps most of my informants’ mouths closed. But not all.”
He pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his jumper and lit it with long, bony fingers, stained yellow from nicotine. “The Bo Kong began in China as a secret anti-Manchu movement. In this country, it’s become corrupt, like so many of the tongs. Here it’s a gang of hoodlums with no principles except devotion to vice and violence. Because of the secrecy and the fear, it’s often hard to separate fact from fiction, but it’s well known that Mark Wing is involved in the gambling and opium trades, as well as the importation of slave girls from China for prostitution.”
Grace made a disgusted sound.
“A few years ago, he tried to enter wealthy white society by frequenting places like the Palace Hotel and the opera house, escorting beautiful Caucasian women. He cut a strange figure, dressed in Western clothes but always surrounded by his sword-wielding bodyguards. He’s very rich, and outwardly quite smooth and cultured, so he was never denied admittance or thrown out of any of the fancy establishments he tried. But he never got anywhere in white high society—an experience he must have found humiliating, because after a short time he retreated back into the bowels of Chinatown, and now he never leaves his residence on Jackson Street.”
“Never?” marveled Grace.
“I exaggerate. The exception is on Friday nights, when he invariably dines at the Placid Sea restaurant, buys a lottery ticket from a street vendor, and then goes to the Chinese theater, always surrounded by his cadre of boo how doy—hatchet sons—for protection. On the way home, he checks on his gambling dens in Waverly Place, of which he’s reputed to own at least half a dozen, and most of the opium parlors on Dupont Street as well. He owns the brothel next door to his own house, which must be very convenient. It’s called the House of Celestial Peace and Fulfillment.”
Grace was wide-eyed with fascination. “Is he married?”
“Not currently. He’s had innumerable concubines and at least two wives, whom he divorced when they failed to bear him children.” Doc dragged deeply on his cigarette, lifted his head, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “He’s reputed to be an art collector, although I don’t know of anyone who’s actually seen the collection. It’s said to be as eccentric as he is, and consists mainly of—Can you guess?”
Crooked Hearts Page 12
