Bitter Spirits Part 9

Quick as lightning, Winter hurtled the coin into the street. The ghost immediately changed directions and lunged for it. The moment he had the coin in his grip, he . . . disappeared.

Aida's breath returned to normal. It worked. Would she have been able to send the spellbound ghost away on her own? She didn't know. She'd never encountered a solid ghost.

They stared at the street, both of them wary, but when it was clear that the thing was truly gone, she turned to him. "Someone put those coins in your pocket to attract that ghost."

"It must've happened at Florie's."

"Someone at that seance isn't your friend."

The taxi driver was heading toward them, a young boy in a gray uniform, his pants tucked into tall black boots. Up the sidewalk, several guests from Mrs. Beecham's began spilling out of her house. Someone called out to them, inquiring if everyone was okay.

"Winter?" Aida asked in a low voice.

He made a vague noise in acknowledgment.

"You said you knew the ghost when he was alive . . . ?"

He nodded his head once, then looked away. "I couldn't place him at first, but I realized where I'd seen his face when he started picking up those coins."

"Where?"

Winter waited so long to answer, she almost thought he wouldn't. "He was a spy working for a small bootlegger out of Oakland. Pulled a gun on my father when we caught him snooping around one of our warehouses." Winter turned his head and looked Aida in the eyes. "His name was d.i.c.k Jepsen. He was the first man I ever killed."

NINE.

SOBER AND BROODING, WINTER ACCOMPANIED AIDA BACK TO Golden Lotus after calling for his own car. They did not discuss the ghost's ident.i.ty any further.

They also did not discuss the kiss.

Granted, it wasn't an appropriate topic for conversation after what transpired in the street. Aida shouldn't have even been thinking about it. And she tried not to; after all, the man was clearly upset. If she were a decent person, she'd be upset, too-she'd kissed a killer. That's what he was, wasn't he? He did say d.i.c.k Jepsen was the first man he'd killed, implying there was a second. A third? Fourth? How many? It was easy to forget the dark side of what he did for a living. He'd said he was defending his father's life the night he shot Jepsen, but maybe there were other times when he was the aggressor.

Could it be possible Winter was bloodthirsty like the racketeers and gangsters reported in the newspapers? No. She didn't believe that. Not after the gentleness he'd shown when he'd kissed her . . . the restraint he'd used to tease her.

Goodness, how he'd made her body melt.

She tried to tell herself that it wasn't the absolute best kiss she'd ever had, but that was too monumental a lie for her poor heart, which was madly pitter-pattering beneath her dress the entire way home.

Before she made her way up to her apartment, he stepped outside the car and gave her a business card that said MAGNUSSON FISH COMPANY, with an address off the Embarcadero, on a pier that housed his legitimate business. He penciled his home telephone numbers on the back: a private line that rang directly to his study, and the main line that his housekeeper Greta answered.

"I'd like to retain your services on an ongoing basis. Whatever you think is fair pay, let me know."

"Uh . . ."

"If you aren't working at Velma's, I want you to be available to me in case I need you."

"For business," she said, thinking of the kiss.

He hesitated. "Yes. As a medium. Or an exorcist." He was being very stern and serious, and she felt quite sure this was how he spoke to his own men-as if he wouldn't take no for answer. And if it were anyone else throwing out this kind of gruff demand, she'd likely tell him to go to h.e.l.l. But he'd just kissed the bejesus out of her and broke the sensible part of her brain, so she said yes.

In fact, she said, "I'm all yours," but it was lost under the sound of a loud truck rolling by.

At noon the next day, Aida headed down to Golden Lotus to have a quick lunch of tea and dumplings and collect her mail. "Why so anxious?" Mrs. Lin asked behind the counter as she stuck a pencil into the knotted bun of black hair at the nape of her neck.

"Excuse me?"

"Anxious. Jumpy."

"Oh, I don't know, my mind is elsewhere. Listen, you wouldn't happen to have heard of any superst.i.tious practice in the Chinese community having to do with old coins?"

She considered this. "Don't think so. Why?"

"I'm trying to figure out why someone would use four old Chinese coins to attract a ghost."

"A ghost?" She looked around. "Not here, I hope."

"No, no-at that seance last night."

"Oh." Mrs. Lin rubbed the Buddha's belly and mumbled something in Cantonese. "I don't know about ghosts, but four of anything is unlucky for business. Four is a curse. Very bad. Everyone knows that. No specific curse a.s.sociated with coins, though. Is someone cursing you?"

"No. Cursing . . . a client." She tapped her nails on the counter. "I need to find someone in Chinatown who knows more about ghosts and superst.i.tions and curses. Maybe someone who appreciates my special abilities?"

Mrs. Lin brightened. "I know just the man. My acupuncturist, Doctor Yip."

"A doctor?"

"He owns an herbal apothecary shop off Sacramento. It's located in a small alley. I will draw a map." She lifted spectacles that dangled from the chain around her neck next to the key that unlocked the red lacquered mail cabinet and began drawing a map on the back of a blank ordering slip.

Aida's pulse increased as a cautious hopefulness sprung up. She waited, watching Mrs. Lin silently until she began sketching what looked to be parts of Chinatown that weren't exactly tourist-friendly. "Is it dangerous, that area?"

"You will get some looks, and you should avoid the opium den. If you smell sweet smoke, you've gone too far. It's best to take a man with you. Too dangerous for a young woman alone. But do not be afraid to go to Doctor Yip. He came here from Hong Kong a few years ago. Very educated and kind. You will like him."

"Wonderful. Thanks so much."

"Anytime. Hope he can help."

It might be a long shot, but Aida hoped so, too. Maybe Bo had already talked to this herbalist. Best to just contact Winter and find out. She could send him a note through Mrs. Lin's courier, but that seemed like a silly waste of time when she had Winter's business card propped against a lamp on her nightstand. That was what it was there for. She worked for him now, after all. He'd probably forgotten all about the kiss.

She'd certainly tried.

Retreating to her room, she bolstered herself and tried his private number, feeling b.u.t.terflies in her stomach when the operator made the connection and his big voice crackled over the wire.

"Magnusson."

"It's me," she said, suddenly forgetting her manners and good sense.

"h.e.l.lo, you." His voice sounded low and friendly in the telephone's earpiece.

Her stomach fluttered while the line popped and hissed. "I can't talk long and people might pick up-the telephones in our rooms are connected to the restaurant's line. Mrs. Lin doesn't like us to make calls during lunch rush, so if you hear swearing in Cantonese, hang up," she said, trying to sound casual and breezy.

"Duly noted," he replied before adding, "I hear it from Bo all the time."

"How's your shoulder today?"

"Sore. Greta forced some pills down my throat, so it feels better at the moment."

"Good, good. Well . . . ah, the reason I rang is because I have the address of an herbalist in Chinatown who might help with information on the coins. My landlady gave me his name."

"Oh?"

"Don't get too excited. It might not pan out, but it could be worth investigating. I have a map to show us how to get there."

"That's d.a.m.ned resourceful," he said, sounding impressed.

"You hired me to help you."

"Indeed I did. Bo should be back from an errand any minute. As soon as he arrives, we'll head over there. Shall I meet you in an hour, say?"

Bo was coming, too? A pang of disappointment tightened her chest. "Sure. But I have to be at Gris-Gris around five. I'm doing an early show tonight for happy hour."

"That's fine. I'll get you there in time."

One of the girls who lived in the building clicked on the line and asked to use it.

"In an hour?" Aida said quickly.

"With bells on."

She hung up and changed her clothes, dressing in a camel-colored skirt and a matching jacket. Casual, but smart. Very businesslike. It looked good with her tan stockings, which had pretty little scrolling shapes embroidered on the calves and hid the freckles on her legs. She finished getting ready, then headed downstairs in time to meet him.

Aida's heart pounded wildly as she glanced toward the entrance and found him stepping inside the restaurant wearing a long black coat, black suit, and black necktie with red chevrons running down the middle peeking from his vest. Pausing near the door, he removed his hat and brushed away droplets of rain. Gray light filtered in from the windows behind him, where Chinese characters and the p.r.o.nouncement "Best Almond Cookies in Chinatown" surrounded a painted lotus blossom.

His eyes found hers. "Miss Palmer," he said politely, as if he were an upstanding gentleman and not a bootlegger. As if they were merely business acquaintances . . . which they were, she reminded herself. "Shall we?"

Dodging customers tottering up to the register, she followed Winter outside into the fresh air, heavy with the scent of wet pavement. She eyed rain dripping from a shallow ledge above the entrance. "Everyone told me it would be dry here in the summer."

"Usually is."

"Where's Bo?" she asked in her best neutral tone as she pulled on a pair of short brown gloves with bell-shaped cuffs.

"He dropped me off."

"Ah." Flutter-flutter. She squelched her excitement and glanced around. The newsstand next door had erected a rainy-day tarp that tied to a street sign and a telephone pole. "Maybe we should grab a taxi."

Winter snapped open a large black umbrella. "Nonsense. It's barely raining. Come." He s.h.i.+fted her under the umbrella and out of the entry so an elderly couple could step inside. His hand lingered on her back as they walked to a spot by the newsstand.

Hope and anxiety quickened her hummingbird pulse. Being close to him set her nerves dancing. She was close enough to catch his scent, crisp and clean, a touch of the orange oil that permeated his house. She glanced up and found him studying her. Had he seen her sniffing his coat like a dog? "Sorry. You smell nice."

"Barbasol cream." He was hiding a smile. Amused. Relaxed. Very non-businesslike.

Emboldened by his good mood, she teased him a little. "I thought it was eau de bootlegger."

"No," he answered with a soft chuckle, "that smells like money and sweat."

He was joking with her-smiling and laughing and touching her. She was far happier than she probably should be about it. Any second, her feet would be floating over the sidewalk. She forced herself to settle down and dug out Mrs. Lin's map. "Look at this and tell me if you know where it's at."

"All right. No need to be pushy," he said with good humor. As rain dripped from the umbrella onto his coat sleeve, he studied the hand-drawn path through Chinatown's labyrinth streets and noted where he'd make a bit of a detour. "A small tong leader has a warehouse here. We're on decent terms-Bo and I have already ruled him out as a possible ringleader for all the ghost business-but I don't want him to think I'm sniffing around without his permission."

The thought hadn't crossed her mind that it might be dangerous for a notorious bootlegger to be prowling Chinatown, whether or not it meant facing someone he suspected of his recent hauntings. He must've noticed the concern on her face, because he opened up his long overcoat and showed her a handgun strapped beneath his suit jacket. "Just in case. Don't worry."

"Don't worry?" she repeated, looking around quickly to make sure no one else had seen it. "That makes me even more nervous. What if you have to use it?"

He curled gloved fingers around her chin and lifted her face. "Then the other guy'll have a bullet in him and you'll be safe. I promise you that."

"I don't like guns."

He released her chin. "Then try to keep your hand out of my jacket and you'll never know it's there." He gave her a quick wink that made her stomach flip, then, with a gentle hand on her shoulder, prodded her down the sidewalk.

Light drizzle darkened the pavement and carried scents of Chinatown: dried fish, exotic spices, old wood, and tobacco leaves from a nearby cigar warehouse. Across the street, tourists huddled under dark red canvas awnings to get out of the rain and browse ceramics and toys on display in wooden crates. Tin Lizzies and delivery trucks rumbled down the street, splas.h.i.+ng through puddles collecting near the curbs.

"Bo said he started working for you when he was fourteen," she said as they sauntered down Grant, pa.s.sing a butcher's window where a row of skinned ducks hung above signs in English and Chinese, promising the freshest meat for the best price.

"He was half your size back then," he said. "Did he tell you how we met?"

"No."

"I box at a club on the edge of Chinatown, a few blocks from my pier-"

"That explains a lot," she mumbled, eyeing a thick arm. Half of him was getting wet, she noticed, as he was tilting the umbrella at an angle to account for their height difference and keep her dry.

He blinked at her with a dazed look on his face and nearly smiled. "Well," he said, clearing his throat. "Bo lived with his uncle. To bolster the family income, he took to pickpocketing. Was good at it, too. Fast as a whip-you never knew he'd been in your coat. He robbed me blind when I was getting dressed for a match."

"Oh dear."

"After the match was over, I caught him in the alley behind the club. He was so small, I could lift him off the ground with one hand. Little degenerate looked me straight in the eye and told me, yes, he'd done it and wasn't sorry one bit." Winter smiled to himself. "I knew he was either brave or stupid, so I asked him to do a little spying here and there, paying him mostly in hot meals at the beginning. He can still eat his weight in lemon pie."

Aida laughed.

"His uncle died a couple years later, on Bo's sixteenth birthday. Bo called me because he couldn't afford to bury the man."