Bitter Spirits
Page 66
Unfortunately he did understand. Even if his work was illegal, it was hard work, and he didn’t cut corners to get it done. His father had always told him there were few greater shames than debt. It was a matter of pride.
But what they had together was bigger than pride—his or hers.
“A week, a month—it makes no difference,” she said. “We both knew I’d be leaving eventually. You didn’t want anything permanent when you suggested we share a bed, remember?”
Yes, he remembered. He buttoned the fly of his pants and plunked back down on the bed. “I can’t believe you’re really going.”
Her stockinged legs stepped between his. She cupped his cheeks with small, warm hands. “Only live for today—that’s what Sam taught me. But if I’m being honest, I’ve never wanted to leave a place less . . . or a person.”
If that was really true, then why was she going?
• • •
The temple was located in a narrow, nondescript three-story brick building crowded between a dozen others just like it. A steady stream of locals and western tourists paraded under strings of triangular orange flags that hung above the entrance. The main sign, from which swaying lanterns hung, was painted in Chinese characters. A secondary cloth banner below read LION RISE TEMPLE.
Winter tried to summon up the will to care that the man who poisoned him was inside, and that he might soon be where Parducci was if he didn’t watch himself, but his mind was fixated on Aida’s news. Every time he looked at her, she was staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts, unreadable. Meanwhile, he was slowly sinking.
Only live for today. Complete and utter bullshit.
In a week, she’d be gone, on to some new adventure. Maybe even another lover. The thought of someone else touching her made his stomach harden into a black lump. His hands curled into fists.
She acted as though she had no qualms about walking away and never looking back. As though he was merely a choice for dinner—beef or chicken, and tomorrow she’d be dining somewhere else. Goddamn casual affair. Possibly the stupidest idea he’d had in years. Casual was Sook-Yin, or Florie Beecham.
Casual was not Aida.
Had all of this meant nothing to her? The time she spent in his arms? He stole a look at her as Bo parked the car across the street from the temple. That same deep line divided her brows. She chewed on her bottom lip. Either he was a fool, falling for someone who didn’t feel the same way, or she was lying through her teeth with this breezy, live-for-today act. God give him the strength to figure out which it was before it was too late.
Spice-tinged floral smoke drifted from the temple. Winter surveyed the area and found nothing out of the ordinary, so he, Aida, and Bo approached by foot. A few cars behind, four of his men shadowed them to the entrance.
An attractive pair of girls wearing embroidered red silk cheongsams collected donations from entering patrons. Winter stuffed a bill into their tin as they stepped into a wide chamber—something between a lobby and a museum. Gilded columns, elaborately carved wooden screens, and ornate statues of Chinese deities filled the low-ceilinged space. Two red doors at the far end of the room opened into a courtyard, open to the sky, where a red and gold pagoda housed the temple’s shrine bookended by a pair of iron Chinese lions.
The smoke was thicker here, nearly choking. Coils of burning incense hung from the pagoda’s ceiling. Temple employees sold incense sticks and bundles of joss paper. Beneath the pagoda, visitors carried their offerings while chanting prayers.
• • •
Winter’s gaze lit on a table where two women were distributing cylindrical bamboo cups. THE KAU CIM ORACLE: CHINESE FORTUNE STICKS, as the sign proclaimed. Querents knelt on their knees in front of the shrine and held the cups sideways, shaking them until a single stick fell onto well-worn cobblestones. The sticks were numbered, each one corresponding to a fortune. People carried their fallen stick to a small canvas tent in the corner of the courtyard, where a fortune-teller provided interpretation.
His fortune-teller. The goddamn pissant who poisoned him.
“That should be our man,” Bo confirmed.
Winter nodded. “Let’s have our oracle read.”
After a customer exited, Winter ducked into the tent’s opening under a line of gold fringe and found himself inside a dim space not more than six or seven feet wide. An oil-burning lantern sat on a small portable table, behind which sat a wizened man dressed in a black ceremonial robe with gaping sleeves. A long gray queue lay braided across one shoulder.
“Please, sit,” the man said without looking up from writing something. He waved his hand toward two folding chairs in front of his table. A flat box containing slips of paper, numbered fortunes, sat near his elbow. A placard off to the side identified the man as Mr. Wu.
Aida took a seat while Winter unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat beside her, stretching out his legs in the small space as best he could. Bo untied the tent flap and closed it behind them.
“Your fortune stick, please,” the man said, then glanced up at Winter and flinched.
“I’m here to get some information about my past, not my future, Mr. Wu. Or should I call you Black Star?”
A muscle in the man’s eye jumped. “What do you want?”
“I want to know why you tried to poison me with Gu.”
Knobby fingers tightened around the pencil he was holding.
“Know who I am, now?” Winter asked. “Or do you poison so many people that you can’t remember?”
But what they had together was bigger than pride—his or hers.
“A week, a month—it makes no difference,” she said. “We both knew I’d be leaving eventually. You didn’t want anything permanent when you suggested we share a bed, remember?”
Yes, he remembered. He buttoned the fly of his pants and plunked back down on the bed. “I can’t believe you’re really going.”
Her stockinged legs stepped between his. She cupped his cheeks with small, warm hands. “Only live for today—that’s what Sam taught me. But if I’m being honest, I’ve never wanted to leave a place less . . . or a person.”
If that was really true, then why was she going?
• • •
The temple was located in a narrow, nondescript three-story brick building crowded between a dozen others just like it. A steady stream of locals and western tourists paraded under strings of triangular orange flags that hung above the entrance. The main sign, from which swaying lanterns hung, was painted in Chinese characters. A secondary cloth banner below read LION RISE TEMPLE.
Winter tried to summon up the will to care that the man who poisoned him was inside, and that he might soon be where Parducci was if he didn’t watch himself, but his mind was fixated on Aida’s news. Every time he looked at her, she was staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts, unreadable. Meanwhile, he was slowly sinking.
Only live for today. Complete and utter bullshit.
In a week, she’d be gone, on to some new adventure. Maybe even another lover. The thought of someone else touching her made his stomach harden into a black lump. His hands curled into fists.
She acted as though she had no qualms about walking away and never looking back. As though he was merely a choice for dinner—beef or chicken, and tomorrow she’d be dining somewhere else. Goddamn casual affair. Possibly the stupidest idea he’d had in years. Casual was Sook-Yin, or Florie Beecham.
Casual was not Aida.
Had all of this meant nothing to her? The time she spent in his arms? He stole a look at her as Bo parked the car across the street from the temple. That same deep line divided her brows. She chewed on her bottom lip. Either he was a fool, falling for someone who didn’t feel the same way, or she was lying through her teeth with this breezy, live-for-today act. God give him the strength to figure out which it was before it was too late.
Spice-tinged floral smoke drifted from the temple. Winter surveyed the area and found nothing out of the ordinary, so he, Aida, and Bo approached by foot. A few cars behind, four of his men shadowed them to the entrance.
An attractive pair of girls wearing embroidered red silk cheongsams collected donations from entering patrons. Winter stuffed a bill into their tin as they stepped into a wide chamber—something between a lobby and a museum. Gilded columns, elaborately carved wooden screens, and ornate statues of Chinese deities filled the low-ceilinged space. Two red doors at the far end of the room opened into a courtyard, open to the sky, where a red and gold pagoda housed the temple’s shrine bookended by a pair of iron Chinese lions.
The smoke was thicker here, nearly choking. Coils of burning incense hung from the pagoda’s ceiling. Temple employees sold incense sticks and bundles of joss paper. Beneath the pagoda, visitors carried their offerings while chanting prayers.
• • •
Winter’s gaze lit on a table where two women were distributing cylindrical bamboo cups. THE KAU CIM ORACLE: CHINESE FORTUNE STICKS, as the sign proclaimed. Querents knelt on their knees in front of the shrine and held the cups sideways, shaking them until a single stick fell onto well-worn cobblestones. The sticks were numbered, each one corresponding to a fortune. People carried their fallen stick to a small canvas tent in the corner of the courtyard, where a fortune-teller provided interpretation.
His fortune-teller. The goddamn pissant who poisoned him.
“That should be our man,” Bo confirmed.
Winter nodded. “Let’s have our oracle read.”
After a customer exited, Winter ducked into the tent’s opening under a line of gold fringe and found himself inside a dim space not more than six or seven feet wide. An oil-burning lantern sat on a small portable table, behind which sat a wizened man dressed in a black ceremonial robe with gaping sleeves. A long gray queue lay braided across one shoulder.
“Please, sit,” the man said without looking up from writing something. He waved his hand toward two folding chairs in front of his table. A flat box containing slips of paper, numbered fortunes, sat near his elbow. A placard off to the side identified the man as Mr. Wu.
Aida took a seat while Winter unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat beside her, stretching out his legs in the small space as best he could. Bo untied the tent flap and closed it behind them.
“Your fortune stick, please,” the man said, then glanced up at Winter and flinched.
“I’m here to get some information about my past, not my future, Mr. Wu. Or should I call you Black Star?”
A muscle in the man’s eye jumped. “What do you want?”
“I want to know why you tried to poison me with Gu.”
Knobby fingers tightened around the pencil he was holding.
“Know who I am, now?” Winter asked. “Or do you poison so many people that you can’t remember?”
