Outrun the Moon(82)

When it’s over, they cry for another. Even those who did not get fed shout suggestions.

Harry breaks out “Oh My Darling, Clementine,” and someone adds the shaking of beef bones in a can to the arrangement. One of Elodie’s admirers tries to impress her with a jig that looks more like the convulsions of a freshly hooked fish.

With a cool breeze on my face, I turn to smile at Francesca, but she is no longer by my side. The dusky light obscures faces, so I walk a wide circle around the campsite, looking for her. I spot her talking to a soldier about twenty paces outside the pinecone circle. The soldier stands only an inch or two taller than her with his brown army hat.

My alarm freezes me in place. Then I’m hurrying toward them. At least all the evidence of our looting has been consumed. Francesca frowns as the soldier punctuates his words with hand gestures. A blond mustache hides in the sloped underhang of his nose, and his nostrils are thin, which Ma would say means he hangs onto money.

Another soldier stands a little farther away, watching our party with the hungry look of a wallflower trying to pretend he doesn’t like to dance. I recognize the sunburned skin of the man from the dog shooting, Private Smalls.

I slow, trying to read the situation. Francesca crosses her arms. The first soldier tries to grab her, but she pulls away. Spinning on her heel, she starts walking back to the camp. The man says something, and she stops again. More words are exchanged.

This must be the high-roosting place named Marcus. I head toward them, and before I am close enough to be noticed, Marcus’s cologne hits me like the corpse of a recently dead musk ox.

“I have made myself clear,” says Francesca. “I am not ready to leave.”

“But you can’t stay here; it’s not proper.” Marcus has an emphatic way of speaking, punching out syllables as if he were typing them with his mouth. “I saw those wine bottles. The mayor issued a proclamation banning the sale of alcohol, which means those are probably looted.”

“Unless they were purchased before the earthquake.”

“The quake set off a crime spree of epic proportions.” Those last two words come out sounding especially punchy. “The rug was shook, and all the nasty beetles came crawling out, looking to carry away whatever they could find. You don’t want to associate with the beetles, Chessie.”

Chessie? The diminutive rubs me the wrong way.

“Maybe the beetles are just trying to survive, like everyone else,” she says frostily.

“They shot three looters earlier today at Shreve’s Jewelry. When’s the last time you needed a diamond necklace to survive?”

Private Smalls glances back at the domestic squabble but keeps to his own lane.

“It’s a sad day when the army would rather spend time guarding jewelry stores than keeping survivors alive.” Francesca counters. “When are they going to bring food? And better shelter?”

A flash of anger crosses his face. “I don’t have time for your histrionics. I told your brother I would be dropping you off at my parents’ house, and I intend to do so.”

“I am quite content here. Tell my brother I will go when I am good and ready.”

Marcus finally notices me standing there, and his eyes, the color of dried grass, narrow in a way that say I’m one of the beetles.

I step closer and hold out my hand. “Hello, I’m Mercy Wong.”

He coughs slightly, then looks at Francesca as if to say, Who the blaze is this sassy hen?

“Mercy, this is Lieutenant McGovern. Miss Wong is a good friend of mine. As you can see, we are very busy. Thank you for dropping by, and good night.”

“Hold on there, Miss . . . Wong.” He shows me his teeth, which look strong enough to crack walnuts. “If you are a friend, surely you can see that Francesca belongs under a roof, not here among the . . . rank and file.”

I don’t know what that means, but as it rhymes with dank and bile, it doesn’t sound very complimentary. “If it’s a roof you’re concerned about, we find ours to be quite adequate.” I glance at our tent. Harry has started a rousing rendition of “Oh! Susanna” and someone has added a drumbeat from spoons knocked against a pot.

He follows my gaze. “Your—? You mean you sleep with her?” He addresses Francesca but stabs a finger in my direction. “In that envelope?”

“There are actually four of us,” she replies.

Marcus gasps, and it’s like the sound of a jar being unstuck. “It is highly inappropriate for you to be sleeping in such close quarters with a heathen. They have all sorts of diseases, and I won’t allow it. You will come back with me, and there is nothing else to be said.” This time, he catches her arm.

“Has the mayor issued another proclamation that women can now be whisked away against their will?” I ask. “If not, who is the heathen here?”

His lip curls, and he calls me a name that is part church and all of ink.

Francesca pulls away, but he doesn’t let go.

A good businesswoman knows when to stand up to an adversary, and when to kick him in the shins. I walk up to the bully and give him a what-for right in the what-have-you.

Lieutenant McGovern lets out a yelp that sounds remarkably like the noise Jack made the time a cricket jumped on him.

Someone grabs me by the back of my collar—Private Smalls—and I give him a kick, too.