Bitter Spirits
Page 37
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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.”
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.”
