Outrun the Moon(28)

I step in front of her, blocking her path. “You said yourself, you are second-in-command. That means you can fulfill business obligations as proxy. Or do you not have executive authority as you said?”

Her mouth opens and closes like a fish as she looks from me to William. The man’s jaw moves, like he’s sucking on a chaw of tobacco. She’s probably waiting for him to defend her, but I wonder if he’s thinking about how she didn’t even acknowledge the box he’s still holding.

No one says anything, and so I twist the screw a little more. “I would hate for your papa to be in breach of contract, especially when his daughter could have done something about it.”

“Well, I never—” Elodie huffs. She pushes past me up the stairs.

“Bet your papa would be right proud of you for filling in.” William’s words slow Elodie in her tracks. For a moment, I think she might even turn around.

But then she continues her ascent.

The door shuts behind her with a heavy thud. My dreams, gone in a cloud of pinstripes.

William’s gaze falls to the box. “He forgets that chocolate makes her mouth itch.”

I gape. “She’s adverse to chocolate? How will she work in the business?”

“She is bright and capable. One day her father will see it.” He leans over the car door and places the chocolate on the front seat. “Do you still need a ride to Chinatown?”

“Thank you.”

Just as William pulls on his goggles, the front door of St. Clare’s opens again. We glance up at Elodie sweeping down the stairs.

She casts me a black look, then announces, “I’ve decided to accompany you.”

William smoothly opens the door to the automobile, a smile lurking around his freckled cheeks, and at last, we set sail.

The familiar scents of gasoline, horse manure, and salty ocean air blow around us as we descend toward downtown.

Elodie tosses back her hair, freshly ironed into curls. “How does this association work?”

“Chinese people group themselves into ‘companies’ according to family villages, which look out for their welfare, help them find jobs, things like that. The association governs the companies, much like the federal government oversees the states. It’s made up of six company presidents who we call the Six.”

“Who knew you were so organized,” she says with a smirk. “Who’s the head mandarin?”

I cringe. “We are not oranges. The chairman is Mr. Leung, and he is fair, though he has no vote. Mr. Ng is the vice chairman, and he is prickly. He’s the most likely to turn us down, but a majority can overrule him.” Once, he chased a traveling salesman all the way to Market Street for trying to sell him a dog leash. “Then there’s Mr. Chow . . .” I pause, remembering the soft-spoken man with the fondness for the black tar. He might support us if he can stay awake long enough to vote. “Also, Mr. Cruz, who’s half-Portuguese; Ah-Suk—that is, Dr. Gunn—our herbalist; and ‘Just Bob,’ who’s a butcher.”

“Just Bob.” Elodie’s voice is sticky with sarcasm.

“His real name is Mok Wai-Keung. You may call him that if you prefer.”

She makes a tsch sound with her tongue. May she remember that, tonight, we’re on the same side.

A collision forces us to detour down Market Street, and my legs begin to bounce with nervous energy. The Benevolent Association values punctuality.

Businesses of every nature cram this crowded street—gun shops, barbershops, moving picture theaters. A tall knot of buildings—the Call, Mutual Bank, and the Chronicle—compete for who can reach the stars first. To many San Franciscans, those behemoths are San Francisco, tall and proud, survivors in a rough landscape.

I will survive, too, with or without Elodie’s help.

When we enter Chinatown, William stops where I direct him. We pile out of the automobile, and my eyes catch on the box of chocolate. “Do you mind if we—” I begin to ask him.

But before I can finish, Elodie leans over and snatches up the box herself. “It is my chocolate, and I will hold it.”

It’s good to smell the smoky cabbage and ginseng aroma of the old neighborhood. Most shops have closed for the night, but a crowd collects around a restaurant with a fan-tan hall in the back. Chinese love that game, especially the unemployed, who can least afford to play it.

Elodie clutches her box tightly, hurrying to keep pace with me as men eye us with curiosity. “These people do not look like our ideal customers.”

“You prefer them fleshier? Paler?”

She fixes me with a glare that wars with her bouncing curls. “I hope you have a strategy.”

“Of course. I plan to use the benefits versus features model, followed by an analysis of potential revenue streams.” Mrs. Lowry explained this in detail, using graphs and flow charts, though I hardly expect Elodie to understand.

“Potential revenue streams,” Elodie says carefully. “We can also offer incentives, if sales volume meets expectations, joint accounting of course.”

My mouth drops as she marches on, a smart clip to her step. I never thought I would hear the term joint accounting from her coralline lips.

“What about bulk discounts?” I ask, testing her. “Product redemption for low demand?”

She shakes her head. “No redemption. Chocolate has a short shelf life, and that would be impossible. Now, these six gentlemen, how shall I address them?”