Bitter Spirits
Page 19
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Sadly, a slap from her would probably just make him harder.
It had been years since he’d wanted someone, not something. Desire itself, well, he felt that every day. It was like breathing. Hunger for food. Thirst. And he sated himself in the easiest way possible—by his own hand, or with someone willing. Since the accident, the only willing women were fast flappers—too drunk to care that he was anything other than a meal ticket until the next party—and the women he paid to pretend that they enjoyed his scarred, lumbering body on top of theirs.
Simple transactions. Interchangeable. They were about the act itself, not the person. Now he was combining the person and the act in one ridiculous fantasy. He’d gone out of his way to see her again, chasing her around like an eager pup, tongue wagging. Couldn’t blame the damned poison this time.
He moved out of the way as two feathered chorus girls strolled by, chatting as they headed backstage. Now there, see? That’s exactly what he should be chasing: a pretty girl without a name. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? A couple of months . . . three? Too long.
Maybe Aida was just the first person to step into his sights. She was attractive and vivacious. Any man would appreciate that. It was natural to want a girl like her, especially one who was so easy to talk to. Just a sign that he was getting back to normal, nothing more. Sure, he’d been thinking about her a lot—too much—but he thought a lot about bacon, too.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started for the alley exit, where Bo was waiting with the car. It wasn’t until they were driving away from the club that Winter realized he’d been so wrapped up worrying about his feelings for Aida that he hadn’t taken a second look at the half-dressed chorus girls.
SEVEN
THREE DAYS LATER, ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE SEA CLIFF DINNER party, Winter sat in a barbershop chair and called Florie Beecham from the barber’s phone. The operator let the call ring ten times, and then another ten, but no one answered. He slammed the earpiece down on its hook and handed the telephone back to the barber. His overcast mood took a nosedive.
The bell above the door jingled. In the wall of mirrors, Winter watched Bo stride into the shop. He pocketed car keys and plopped down on a nearby swivel chair. “Is the spirit medium coming to Mrs. Beecham’s dinner party?”
“Apparently Mrs. Beecham’s staff is too busy to answer the damn telephone,” Winter replied gruffly as a white barber’s cape was snapped open and draped over his torso.
“I’m sure she’ll be there,” Bo said.
“She’s had three days to accept the job.” And as of last night, Florie said she hadn’t received a definite yes from Aida yet. Did she have another engagement? Because he’d already called Velma and knew Aida wasn’t scheduled to work tonight.
“Maybe she accepted late because she’s been busy getting rid of other suicidal ghosts.”
Or maybe she’d had second thoughts about seeing him again. “Aren’t you supposed to be tracking down the person who tried to kill me? Remind me why I pay you?”
“Because you trust me and I’m the only one who’ll put up with your bullshit.”
Winter shot him a warning look. He wasn’t in the mood.
“As soon as I drop you off at that party, I’m following some leads,” Bo promised.
“It’s taking too long.”
“A tong leader in the booze business was found dead this morning. Locked in a room filled with bees. He’d been stung to death. Allergic, I suppose.”
Sounded like a horrible way to die. “Interesting, but I’m not sure what that has to do with curses and ghosts.”
“Maybe nothing, but I’m checking into it on my way to talk to someone I’ve had asking around Chinatown about Black Star. I’ll let you know what I find.” Bo exhaled a cone of smoke as he watched another barber sweep hair around the white tile floor. Traffic rushed by the plate glass window, where a red, white, and blue pole jutted out near the doorway. “Look, I’m sure she’ll be there, so stop worrying. Hell, I’d dress up like a gypsy and do the séance myself for that kind of cash.”
“Makes no difference to me whether she comes or not.” A lie, but he didn’t want to sound overeager. It made him feel weak.
“No reason why she wouldn’t. She has no idea what a pain in the ass Florie Beecham is, and for some reason, you didn’t frighten her away with your big, hairy body last time you saw her.”
“God only knows what’s on any female’s mind,” Winter complained.
Even the barber made a noise of agreement.
God help him, but he wanted to see Aida again. He should’ve just asked her to a proper dinner. That way, if she turned him down, at least he could be out drowning his sorrows at a nightclub tonight instead of putting on a monkey suit and pretending to give a damn about Florie Beecham and her tedious friends.
“She’ll be there,” Bo assured him again as the barber picked up a pair of scissors.
• • •
On her way out to Mrs. Beecham’s séance, Aida ate a quick meal of jasmine tea and Chinese doughnuts—long strips of not-too-sweet fried dough—then stopped by the front counter to drop off her weekly rent money. It was a slow night for the restaurant. Mrs. Lin was sitting on a stool behind the register, a pencil balanced behind her ear, reading a Cantonese newspaper printed in Chinatown.
“Evening. Any mail?”
It had been years since he’d wanted someone, not something. Desire itself, well, he felt that every day. It was like breathing. Hunger for food. Thirst. And he sated himself in the easiest way possible—by his own hand, or with someone willing. Since the accident, the only willing women were fast flappers—too drunk to care that he was anything other than a meal ticket until the next party—and the women he paid to pretend that they enjoyed his scarred, lumbering body on top of theirs.
Simple transactions. Interchangeable. They were about the act itself, not the person. Now he was combining the person and the act in one ridiculous fantasy. He’d gone out of his way to see her again, chasing her around like an eager pup, tongue wagging. Couldn’t blame the damned poison this time.
He moved out of the way as two feathered chorus girls strolled by, chatting as they headed backstage. Now there, see? That’s exactly what he should be chasing: a pretty girl without a name. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? A couple of months . . . three? Too long.
Maybe Aida was just the first person to step into his sights. She was attractive and vivacious. Any man would appreciate that. It was natural to want a girl like her, especially one who was so easy to talk to. Just a sign that he was getting back to normal, nothing more. Sure, he’d been thinking about her a lot—too much—but he thought a lot about bacon, too.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started for the alley exit, where Bo was waiting with the car. It wasn’t until they were driving away from the club that Winter realized he’d been so wrapped up worrying about his feelings for Aida that he hadn’t taken a second look at the half-dressed chorus girls.
SEVEN
THREE DAYS LATER, ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE SEA CLIFF DINNER party, Winter sat in a barbershop chair and called Florie Beecham from the barber’s phone. The operator let the call ring ten times, and then another ten, but no one answered. He slammed the earpiece down on its hook and handed the telephone back to the barber. His overcast mood took a nosedive.
The bell above the door jingled. In the wall of mirrors, Winter watched Bo stride into the shop. He pocketed car keys and plopped down on a nearby swivel chair. “Is the spirit medium coming to Mrs. Beecham’s dinner party?”
“Apparently Mrs. Beecham’s staff is too busy to answer the damn telephone,” Winter replied gruffly as a white barber’s cape was snapped open and draped over his torso.
“I’m sure she’ll be there,” Bo said.
“She’s had three days to accept the job.” And as of last night, Florie said she hadn’t received a definite yes from Aida yet. Did she have another engagement? Because he’d already called Velma and knew Aida wasn’t scheduled to work tonight.
“Maybe she accepted late because she’s been busy getting rid of other suicidal ghosts.”
Or maybe she’d had second thoughts about seeing him again. “Aren’t you supposed to be tracking down the person who tried to kill me? Remind me why I pay you?”
“Because you trust me and I’m the only one who’ll put up with your bullshit.”
Winter shot him a warning look. He wasn’t in the mood.
“As soon as I drop you off at that party, I’m following some leads,” Bo promised.
“It’s taking too long.”
“A tong leader in the booze business was found dead this morning. Locked in a room filled with bees. He’d been stung to death. Allergic, I suppose.”
Sounded like a horrible way to die. “Interesting, but I’m not sure what that has to do with curses and ghosts.”
“Maybe nothing, but I’m checking into it on my way to talk to someone I’ve had asking around Chinatown about Black Star. I’ll let you know what I find.” Bo exhaled a cone of smoke as he watched another barber sweep hair around the white tile floor. Traffic rushed by the plate glass window, where a red, white, and blue pole jutted out near the doorway. “Look, I’m sure she’ll be there, so stop worrying. Hell, I’d dress up like a gypsy and do the séance myself for that kind of cash.”
“Makes no difference to me whether she comes or not.” A lie, but he didn’t want to sound overeager. It made him feel weak.
“No reason why she wouldn’t. She has no idea what a pain in the ass Florie Beecham is, and for some reason, you didn’t frighten her away with your big, hairy body last time you saw her.”
“God only knows what’s on any female’s mind,” Winter complained.
Even the barber made a noise of agreement.
God help him, but he wanted to see Aida again. He should’ve just asked her to a proper dinner. That way, if she turned him down, at least he could be out drowning his sorrows at a nightclub tonight instead of putting on a monkey suit and pretending to give a damn about Florie Beecham and her tedious friends.
“She’ll be there,” Bo assured him again as the barber picked up a pair of scissors.
• • •
On her way out to Mrs. Beecham’s séance, Aida ate a quick meal of jasmine tea and Chinese doughnuts—long strips of not-too-sweet fried dough—then stopped by the front counter to drop off her weekly rent money. It was a slow night for the restaurant. Mrs. Lin was sitting on a stool behind the register, a pencil balanced behind her ear, reading a Cantonese newspaper printed in Chinatown.
“Evening. Any mail?”
