Bitter Spirits
Page 96
She dropped to her knees in front of the locker.
Her pulse drummed in her fingertips as she flipped the unlocked latch and cracked open the lid. The musty scent of old canvas and boot polish wafted up . . . a very particular smell she remembered from the scarce weekends Sam came home from training, field dust and army barracks. Engine oil and rain.
Her shaking hand lighted on folded fatigues, sleeve cuffs still dingy with wear. Several uniforms lay beneath. A hat. A canvas bag of old toiletries and his razor set. Three books, one she’d given him for Christmas the year before he died.
Inside a khaki canvas cap lay a few smaller things: two circles of metal stamped with his name and number, strung on a piece of cord; a creased photograph of a pretty young girl Aida had never seen; and a folded Western Union form.
She carefully opened it and scanned the yellowed paper. Sam’s name. A date: the day before he died.
Then on the recipient line, Aida’s name. The Lanes’ old address in Baltimore.
It was a telegram request. He’d filled it out, but the payment hadn’t been tallied by the clerk. A telegram that was never sent.
She read his hastily penciled words in the box designated for the message:
Have some big news for you. Sit down because you will not believe. I met a local girl named Susan. You will like her. I asked her to marry me and she said yes. I know. A shock. Do not tell Aunt and Uncle yet. Will tell you more in a letter later.
Much love, Sammy
A strangled sob escaped Aida’s lips. Through bleary eyes, she looked at the photograph again and flipped it over, seeing the name Susan inscribed on the back.
Her brother, who eschewed all sentiment and warned her time and time again about the pitfalls of love and marriage . . .
Sam fell in love.
Her world tilted sideways. “How can this be?” she mumbled.
“Winter hunted down Mr. Lane.”
“What’s that?” She looked up to see Jonte standing behind her.
“Emmett Lane, I believe.”
“How?”
“He lives in the city. Winter was upset about something you lost in the fire, so he tracked down your brother’s things.”
She picked up the dog tags and squeezed the cool metal inside her fist as she stared at the footlocker in disbelief. “He did this for me?”
“Yes.”
Sniffling, she folded the telegram form and sandwiched the photograph inside, then with Jonte’s help, stood on weak legs. “Does he want me to go?” she asked, blinking up at him.
The driver gave her a patient smile. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
• • •
Pink and gold streaks of morning sun lit up the fog covering Union Square. Wrung out and exhausted, Winter could barely keep his eyes open. He climbed in the backseat and Bo sped away from Shreve and Company.
They’d left the ship more than an hour ago. Most of the liquor had been recovered. Paulina’s coffin had been hauled away and was on a boat back to Oakland. The tong leaders had seen to the rest. The San Francisco police department would take control of it now; it cost him a small fortune in bribes, but his name would not be connected with the gruesome scene.
Now he just wanted to go home. An even bigger fight than Yip and his demented logic might lie before him there, and he only had a couple of hours to win it.
“If I ever need a good deal, I’ll remember to show up in bloody clothes and bang on the door before the shop’s even open,” Bo quipped from the front seat.
Winter chuckled for the first time in days. “I think he was seconds away from giving it to me for free as long as we left him alone.”
“You’re making the right decision,” Bo said in a quiet voice.
“I know,” he answered. But whether it was too late was another matter.
He dozed off during the ride home but got a second wind when they pulled in the driveway. Leaving Bo to pay the guards, he marched into the house with purpose. It was quiet. As it should be, he thought. No gunshots, no telephone ringing with bad news. He breezed through the side hallway and into the foyer.
He stopped.
The luggage was gone.
Panic fired through his sleep-deprived brain. Her train didn’t leave for hours—where were her things? She couldn’t have gone. No, no, no . . .
He called out for Greta but got no answer. He didn’t waste time trying to locate his housekeeper, just ran up the main staircase two steps at a time and bounded down the third-floor hallway. He stuck his head in the door of his study. Empty. Something clattered across the hall.
Heart in his throat, he strode to his bedroom and nearly stumbled over something just inside the doorway.
Luggage.
Aida’s steamer trunk stood open nearby. And standing in her stockinged feet a couple of yards away was Aida, straightening a dress on a hanger.
He stood still, breathing heavily as she stared at him. She was in his room. She was unpacking. He repeated these facts inside his head, a simple math problem even a child would understand but he couldn’t quite calculate. His brain was still stuck in fight mode.
“Aida—”
“No.” She pointed a finger his way and spoke in a roughened voice. “You listen to me. I’m not leaving, and that’s final. And since you claim I’m after your money, then I’ll damn well take it. I’m not living like some kept mistress across town, waiting for you to call on me when it suits you.”
“I—”
She raised her voice. “You’ll let me live inside your home, and you’ll protect me, because being connected to you is far more dangerous than me moving around the country unchaperoned. And on top of that, I’ll need money to start my séance business, because I can’t work at Gris-Gris any longer. I got booed offstage because of you.”
Her pulse drummed in her fingertips as she flipped the unlocked latch and cracked open the lid. The musty scent of old canvas and boot polish wafted up . . . a very particular smell she remembered from the scarce weekends Sam came home from training, field dust and army barracks. Engine oil and rain.
Her shaking hand lighted on folded fatigues, sleeve cuffs still dingy with wear. Several uniforms lay beneath. A hat. A canvas bag of old toiletries and his razor set. Three books, one she’d given him for Christmas the year before he died.
Inside a khaki canvas cap lay a few smaller things: two circles of metal stamped with his name and number, strung on a piece of cord; a creased photograph of a pretty young girl Aida had never seen; and a folded Western Union form.
She carefully opened it and scanned the yellowed paper. Sam’s name. A date: the day before he died.
Then on the recipient line, Aida’s name. The Lanes’ old address in Baltimore.
It was a telegram request. He’d filled it out, but the payment hadn’t been tallied by the clerk. A telegram that was never sent.
She read his hastily penciled words in the box designated for the message:
Have some big news for you. Sit down because you will not believe. I met a local girl named Susan. You will like her. I asked her to marry me and she said yes. I know. A shock. Do not tell Aunt and Uncle yet. Will tell you more in a letter later.
Much love, Sammy
A strangled sob escaped Aida’s lips. Through bleary eyes, she looked at the photograph again and flipped it over, seeing the name Susan inscribed on the back.
Her brother, who eschewed all sentiment and warned her time and time again about the pitfalls of love and marriage . . .
Sam fell in love.
Her world tilted sideways. “How can this be?” she mumbled.
“Winter hunted down Mr. Lane.”
“What’s that?” She looked up to see Jonte standing behind her.
“Emmett Lane, I believe.”
“How?”
“He lives in the city. Winter was upset about something you lost in the fire, so he tracked down your brother’s things.”
She picked up the dog tags and squeezed the cool metal inside her fist as she stared at the footlocker in disbelief. “He did this for me?”
“Yes.”
Sniffling, she folded the telegram form and sandwiched the photograph inside, then with Jonte’s help, stood on weak legs. “Does he want me to go?” she asked, blinking up at him.
The driver gave her a patient smile. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
• • •
Pink and gold streaks of morning sun lit up the fog covering Union Square. Wrung out and exhausted, Winter could barely keep his eyes open. He climbed in the backseat and Bo sped away from Shreve and Company.
They’d left the ship more than an hour ago. Most of the liquor had been recovered. Paulina’s coffin had been hauled away and was on a boat back to Oakland. The tong leaders had seen to the rest. The San Francisco police department would take control of it now; it cost him a small fortune in bribes, but his name would not be connected with the gruesome scene.
Now he just wanted to go home. An even bigger fight than Yip and his demented logic might lie before him there, and he only had a couple of hours to win it.
“If I ever need a good deal, I’ll remember to show up in bloody clothes and bang on the door before the shop’s even open,” Bo quipped from the front seat.
Winter chuckled for the first time in days. “I think he was seconds away from giving it to me for free as long as we left him alone.”
“You’re making the right decision,” Bo said in a quiet voice.
“I know,” he answered. But whether it was too late was another matter.
He dozed off during the ride home but got a second wind when they pulled in the driveway. Leaving Bo to pay the guards, he marched into the house with purpose. It was quiet. As it should be, he thought. No gunshots, no telephone ringing with bad news. He breezed through the side hallway and into the foyer.
He stopped.
The luggage was gone.
Panic fired through his sleep-deprived brain. Her train didn’t leave for hours—where were her things? She couldn’t have gone. No, no, no . . .
He called out for Greta but got no answer. He didn’t waste time trying to locate his housekeeper, just ran up the main staircase two steps at a time and bounded down the third-floor hallway. He stuck his head in the door of his study. Empty. Something clattered across the hall.
Heart in his throat, he strode to his bedroom and nearly stumbled over something just inside the doorway.
Luggage.
Aida’s steamer trunk stood open nearby. And standing in her stockinged feet a couple of yards away was Aida, straightening a dress on a hanger.
He stood still, breathing heavily as she stared at him. She was in his room. She was unpacking. He repeated these facts inside his head, a simple math problem even a child would understand but he couldn’t quite calculate. His brain was still stuck in fight mode.
“Aida—”
“No.” She pointed a finger his way and spoke in a roughened voice. “You listen to me. I’m not leaving, and that’s final. And since you claim I’m after your money, then I’ll damn well take it. I’m not living like some kept mistress across town, waiting for you to call on me when it suits you.”
“I—”
She raised her voice. “You’ll let me live inside your home, and you’ll protect me, because being connected to you is far more dangerous than me moving around the country unchaperoned. And on top of that, I’ll need money to start my séance business, because I can’t work at Gris-Gris any longer. I got booed offstage because of you.”
