Clearing his throat, Riot adjusted his spectacles. “Do you keep records on people who check out books?”
“We do.”
Riot looked to the wall of index card file drawers. “I’d appreciate it if you checked to see if there’s any books entitled John Bennett.” Riot slid a silver dollar across the counter.
The man slid it back. “No.”
Riot snatched back his coin, and started towards the shelves.
“You’ll need to fill out a form to check a book out.”
Riot stopped, and turned as Mr. Stuffy pushed an index card at him.
Isobel had taken one look at the stiff-collared man at the counter, and left him to Riot. Who knew, maybe the man liked men. She smiled at the rosy-cheeked librarian who smiled back, and took a seat. “I’m Miss Amsel, pleased to meet you, Miss…” She said breezily, extending a hand.
“Jennings.”
Isobel clutched the woman’s hand. “I’m in dire need of a professional woman such as yourself. My friends recommended a book, and I can’t for the world think of its name. Do you know Ella? Ella Spencer? Well, Elouise really, but she prefers it shortened.”
“I do know Ella. Are you with her literary group at the church?”
“Why no, I know her through a friend. Madge Ryan.”
The woman nodded. “Of course. I often see the pair of them here. What was the book about? Do you remember?”
Isobel made a pretense of thought. “It had a cat in it. And a pirate.”
The librarian tapped her finger on the table. “A cat you say? And a pirate?”
Isobel was fairly sure there were no literary works of pirates with cats, but one couldn’t be too sure, so she tossed in another twist. “I think she said it was a romantic story. Like Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. Say, do you know her friend Mr. Bennett, too?”
The woman stared, trying to drag her mind out of books and onto the vibrant young woman hopping from one subject to the next in front of her.
“Mr. Bennett?”
“Well, I was thinking of Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Do you know it?”
“I do.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” She cast her eyes towards Riot. “That fellow over there strikes me as a Mr. Darcy, don’t you think?”
The woman blinked at Riot, and then color rose to her cheeks. “Well, I suppose he does. Severe, isn’t he?”
“A touch. Now I don’t think Mr. John Bennett was severe. Dark hair for sure, but Ella thinks him fun despite that scar on his eye.”
The woman adjusted her pince-nez. “Do you mean Mr. Hawkins?”
“Does he have black hair and a scar near his eye? A mustache too?
“Yes.”
“Well, that must be him. Silly me. I get names mixed up all the time.”
“I understand. Easy enough to do,” the librarian soothed.
“What was his first name?” Isobel asked.
“I can’t recall. I only know because he checks out books here and I see him often enough.”
“Drat,” Isobel knocked softly on the desk. “This will keep me up at night now.”
“Now that you mention it…” Miss Jennings placed her hands on the desk, and stood. “Come with me. I have an idea. We can see what book your friend checked out, and we’ll find Mr. Hawkins’ name, too.”
Riot watched as the two women came over. Isobel was rambling on like a mindless young woman. It was startling to watch her don that mask. And where did she dredge up that giggle? He rarely thought about the twenty year gap in their ages, but just now it was hard to ignore.
The act seemed to be working. Whatever Isobel had managed, she wouldn’t get far with Mr. Stuffy standing behind the counter.
“Williams, do you know Mr. Hawkins’s first name?” the cheery woman asked as she joined him behind the counter.
Williams raised his eyes to the ceiling, and stamped another book. “I do not, Miss Jennings.”
Miss Jennings huffed, and opened the drawers. She rifled through, muttering the alphabet under her breath, then pulled out two cards and placed them directly in front of Isobel.
Isobel leaned in with interest. Riot itched to do the same, instead, he continued filling out the required form to enter the library. “Mr. Williams, what do I put here?” he asked.
The man tore his eyes from the index cards. “Your address, sir.”
“Carl Bennett Hawkins!” Isobel exclaimed. “Oh, yes, of course. See, I knew there was a Bennett somewhere in there. Funny how the mind plays tricks, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“The Golden West Hotel. Well, why would he be there? I took him for a resident.”
“Some men live in lodging houses, Miss.”
“I suppose. Do you have a bit of paper and pencil? I’d like to write down these books. Ella and I always discuss everything we read. Don’t you think it adds to the experience? Discussing with a group?”
“Of course. You know the library has a literary group too.”
“Does it? What times?”
“Let me get a flyer.”
“Before you do, can I look at Madge’s book list?”
“Why, of course.”
Miss Jennings rifled through the index cards again.
Noting that Mr. Williams was taking an interest, Riot leaned over the counter and plucked up his stamp. “What sort of device is this?”
Williams nearly had a heart attack. He snatched at his stamp like Watson after shrimp.
Isobel quickly wrote down the desired information. “I don’t think any of these have a cat in them, do you?”
Miss Jennings leaned close. “Maybe you’re mixing it up. The Moonstone here has a Doctor Candy. Or a Sergeant. Cuff. And there are pirates of a sort.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Miss Jennings. I’ll just go get that book.”
Isobel grasped the hands of Miss Jennings, then went off to search the stacks.
“It’s so nice to meet enthusiastic readers,” Miss Jennings said as she tucked the index cards back in place. She shot Mr. Williams a glare. “Some people have no appreciation for books.”
Riot found Isobel at an empty table with a stack of books. She was flipping through the pages, searching each one.
“Look here, Riot,” she said as he took a seat. “On the inside of each book is an index card with all the dates it was checked out, returned, and the names of the borrowers. C.B. Hawkins checked this one out, then E. Spencer. And Hawkins again.”
“Do you think they met at this library?”
“Perhaps. But look here as well. Madge and Hawkins were doing the same for a full three months before it started with Ella.”
Riot glanced at the address of the Globe West Hotel. “If Ella and Hawkins were meeting here, then why did they resort to a wanted ad in a newspaper?”
Isobel thumped the last book closed. “Someone noticed they were spending time together? Maybe they were passing notes back and forth in the books… In any event, her mother really had no idea what her daughter was up to—these are not classics.”
Riot surveyed the titles. They were all of a romantic sort. Some tragic, some lighthearted. “Let’s try this Globe West Hotel.”
26
The Herbalist
Why? That question plagued Sao Jin. Why did men butcher her mother and father? For years, she’d lived in a fog. Mei had coaxed her into the light, and then memories began to assault her. She could not forget.
Jin wished her mind were still enveloped by that fog. Though these past few months had been the most peaceful in a very long time. Jin had not had to worry about food, shelter, or when her next beating would come, but it had also left her mind idle. And now a single question thudded to the forefront.
Why?
Jin stood across the street from a herbalist shop. Memories came in snatches. Her nostrils flared as she fought to control her breath. She would not run this time—no matter how bad her heart clawed at her throat.
The past c
ame alive in her mind’s eye and she seemed to watch from far above, like a bird, detached, as three men from the past walked down the sidewalk. A small child played with a wooden duck in front of the tailor’s shop. The leader smiled at her. The second ruffled her hair as he walked past, and she smiled brightly at the third. So trusting.
The trio walked into the shop—her bahba and mahma’s—and she followed, eager to meet them.
But her father’s face had fallen. Words were spoken. Words that escaped Jin now. She remembered the moment the strangers pulled cleavers from their coats. Her mother screamed as her father threw himself in front of her and attacked the men with scissors.
The blades cut. Blood splattered fabric. A hand flew through the air. An ear. It was brutal. Efficient. And Jin still heard her mother’s screams, night after night.
Blood had run rivers around Jin’s feet as she stood, clutching her wooden duck, and watching the slaughter.
The first man turned to her, and grabbed her chin, lifting her toes off the bloody ground. Transfixed by a pencil thin mustache on his upper lip, she didn’t move. He raised a knife and the blade dug into her cheek, carving a path from nose to chin. She didn’t make a sound.
But the second man, who had ruffled her hair, grabbed his leader’s arm. Quick words were exchanged. She strained to remember them, but could not. Whatever the man had said, it worked. Mustache man dropped her, and the trio walked out, laughing.
Her parents butchered, her childhood stolen.
Jin touched one of the scars on her cheeks. The deepest, the most painful, the one that marked her a coward. She hadn’t even kicked the man.
Jin took a deep breath, and marched across the street. Before she could stop herself she shoved open the door. A bell chimed, and she walked to the center of the store. She was barely higher than the counter. The walls rose up around her, shelves of jars filled with twisted roots and animal parts, and labeled boxes. The shop smelled like the earth.
Jin stared at the worn floorboards, now scrubbed clean of blood. Had the wood forgotten its touch?
A voice brought her back, a kindly one that sounded vaguely familiar. Jin focused on the speaker, and stepped back in surprise. A woman with a face like a prune and missing teeth stood in front of her. The old woman asked another question.
Jin did not understand the words.
“She wants to know what ails you,” another voice said in Cantonese.
Jin looked up sharply. She didn’t like being surprised. But here she was, wandering into an unknown store like a simpleton.
A man behind the counter leaned forward, looking amused. He had short hair, a scruffy goatee, and he wore a dark blue changshan.
The old woman shuffled closer, and Jin took a hasty step backwards.
“She won’t hurt you,” the man said.
Jin was not good with ages. Everyone looked old to her. But she thought the man behind the counter was younger than Atticus and older than Isobel, which left a wide gap between.
The woman spoke again, and the man translated. “My honored mother says you are a ghost. I think she means you look about to keel over. Normally, I wouldn’t agree with her, but in this case I have to.” He smiled down at her, and a wave of nausea hit Jin full force.
She tensed to run, but swallowed down the urge. How would she get answers unless she persisted?
“I am not ill,” Jin said.
The old woman reached for Jin’s hand, but Jin pulled back again.
“She won’t eat you, kid. She only wants to take your pulse and see your tongue.”
Jin glared at the man, but let the woman take her wrist. Her touch was light and sensitive, her skin thin. The woman closed her eyes, and placed two fingers on the inside of Jin’s wrist. She seemed to hum softly as she did so. She opened her eyes, and stuck her tongue out, indicating Jin should do the same.
Jin returned the favor, the woman studied it, and then said something. “You have too much heat in your heart,” the man translated.
The old woman shuffled towards a drawer, and took out a pair of scales.
“I am not sick,” Jin protested. But the woman kept weighing and grinding dried plants into a bowl.
“That won’t stop my mother.”
The mother spoke again to her son.
“She says you have a conflicted heart. You are unbalanced.”
Jin eyed the woman warily. She couldn’t argue with that. “I did not think women were doctors.” Especially not Chinese women. Mei had wanted to be a physician. She had seen so much suffering among women. But women helped the family business, they did not strike off on their own. And now Mei was likely in China, or close to it. Back with her family and already married to a stranger as a second or third wife.
The man chuckled. “Funny, coming from a girl dressed as a boy.”
Jin narrowed her eyes at the man. “How did you know?”
The man nodded to his mother. “Not much escapes my mother. She comes from generations of physicians; she even taught her husband the trade. She’s not as limited with who she can treat in America as she was in China. Some people aren’t as concerned with tradition here. I’m Lo Ka Ho and my honored mother is Lo Tan Ling. I prefer Sammy Lo.”
“Why don’t you have a queue?”
“Most polite young girls give a name in return,” Sammy said.
“I am not polite.”
“I can see that. I’ll answer your question anyway.” He smoothed the sides of his black hair. “I was born here. I’m American. And my short hair drives my mother crazy.”
The edge of Jin’s lip twitched upwards. There was something familiar about this man. His eyes, she thought, but she could not place the memory.
Tan Ling returned with a small package and pressed it into Jin’s hands.
Jin started to argue, but decided that it would be rude, so she bowed deeply in gratitude.
“Steep it in tea twice a day. It will restore your Qi and calm your heart,” Sammy said.
“My what?” Jin asked.
Sammy gave her a puzzled look. “Are you sure you’re Chinese?”
Jin glared at the man. “I am like you.”
“Only more decorative.” He traced a line across his cheek.
Jin hissed. Tan Ling placed a soothing hand on her shoulder and patted it, all the while casting dark looks at her wayward son.
“You have no sense of humor,” Sammy said.
“Easy for you to say.”
Sammy came from behind the counter. He relied almost entirely on a cane, and had a pronounced limp that threatened to topple him with each step. His legs were misshapen, and his left foot was mangled so badly that he walked on the side of it. The foot was in a slipper rather than a shoe, too twisted to conform to anything more. “It is actually easy for me to say. Do you think it would distract people from my legs if I added a scar or two to my cheek?”
Jin felt her anger ebb. “No. People always see the flaw.”
“Wise words for one so young.”
His mother spoke. Jin assumed it was about money. She fished in her pocket and brought out a silver dollar, but the old woman shook her head.
Their kindness rankled her.
“It’s a gift,” Sammy explained. “She lost a daughter.”
Jin hesitated, searching Tan Ling’s face for any recognition. But no, this was not her mother. What a stupid thought. Her mother was dead. But Jin had not seen her parents’ bodies. Not afterwards. She had just stood there. Frozen. And had a vague memory of a woman picking her up and carrying her away.
Could her mother have survived the attack? There had been so much blood. A river of it.
Tan Ling took Jin’s hand between her own and began warming it.
“There’s your ghost act again,” Sammy said, leaning against the counter, a casual motion that took the weight off his bad foot.
If only this were the woman who had plucked Jin from the carnage, how different her life would have been.
Jin slipped her h
and free. She didn’t need to be coddled. Determined, she put to words her worst day. “My mother and father used to have a shop here.”
“Did they?” Sammy asked. “We’ve been here about two years.” He translated for his mother.
Jin’s heart fell. “Who did you buy it from?”
A shadow passed over Tan Ling’s eyes.
Jin seized on that look. “Did you know my parents?” she demanded.
The woman shook her head. “I heard the story. This shop was abandoned when we came. Before us it was a curio shop that catered to tourists.” Sammy translated.
From tailor to curio shop to herbalist. “Do you know why my parents were killed?” Jin asked.
Tan Ling shook her head.
“Who killed them?”
Again, a shake.
Jin growled with frustration. “Where did the curio shop owners go?”
“Back to the mainland,” Sammy said. “Look, the highbinders don’t need a reason to kill. They come and collect protection money from everyone. The only reason we’re still here is because my mother patches them up when they come.”
“She shouldn’t,” Jin said.
Tan Ling gave a sad smile.
“A hatchet man killed her daughter. She heals them anyway,” Sammy explained.
“Why?” Jin demanded.
The old woman spoke softly, placing a hand over her heart. “Because the highbinders have mothers, too,” Sammy translated.
Jin thought the reasoning was foolish, and yet… She had helped Mei’s brother, Wong Kau. He was a hatchet man and he had shot Atticus Riot in the head. She wanted life to be black and white. Right and wrong. But it was so muddled it made her sick. She hastily bowed, and fled the herbalist.
“Wait!” Sammy called.
Jin stopped and waited, as Sammy limped painfully to the doorway. He leaned against it heavily, and she walked back, not wanting him to fall down.
He glanced down the street, both ways, and eyed the few men standing across the way. How many times had Sammy been beaten and mocked for his lame foot?
Where Cowards Tread Page 22
