Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(39)

Once they’d parked, the man pointed at Winter while asking Bo something in Cantonese. Winter must’ve recognized a word, because he opened his jacket and flashed a holstered gun. “That stays with me, buddy. You can forget it.”

Bo translated and shooed the man, urging him to back off. He yielded.

They were led through a series of dingy corridors, out a door, across an alley, and into another building, passing several men she could only assume were guards along the way. A dull anxiety settled over her as they headed into a massive warehouse space. Just what did Ju do, exactly? She assumed it was bootlegging, but all she could hear was loud machinery.

Sewing machines.

Several rows of them, all operated by Chinese women, who looked up with blatant curiosity at Aida and Winter.

“One of Ju’s enterprises,” Winter explained near her ear as they passed bolts of brightly printed silk stacked on shelves. The warm air smelled of fabric dye and machine oil.

Aida removed her gloves and pocketed them. “This is his fishing company?”

“Exactly. He makes costumes for theater productions. Quality stuff.”

“Ah.” The sounds of sewing machines faded as they headed down a dark corridor to an open area with several carved doors, the middle of which was flanked by two armed men. Their guide spoke some aggressive words in Cantonese to the men and knocked on the door.

A tiny woman in a bright yellow traditional Chinese dress answered. Her black bob was shinier and straighter than Aida’s. She smiled at Winter; her front teeth had an attractive gap.

“Nei hou, Mr. Magnusson.”

Winter groaned under his breath. “Hello, Sook-Yin.”

Their guide snapped at Sook-Yin and a short argument ensued in Cantonese. The spat ended with her looking angry and saying, “Follow me.”

Her quick strides led them through a gilded foyer, past a set of heavy wooden doors, and into a large six-sided room—an indoor courtyard with double-high ceilings and a second story ringed with balconies. Like Golden Lotus, the room was decorated with traditional ornamental flair: gilded screens, silk curtains, and ornate trusses lining the ceiling.

In the center of the great hall was a large, round dining table. A lone person sat at the table, two bodyguards at his back. The chair he sat in was so wildly thronelike, Aida could only assume that the person lounging in it was Ju.

THIRTEEN

“WINTER MAGNUSSON, THE VIKING BOOTLEGGER. IT IS GOOD TO see you, my friend. It has been several months. We’ve missed you.”

With polished black hair and a big smile, Ju was rather dashing and well attired. He looked like someone who should be in Hollywood pictures, not running an underground gang in Chinatown. Aida guessed him to be in his forties.

“You’ve got more goons around than usual,” Winter said. “You worried I might steal something?”

Ju’s smile grew. “You are big and slow—easy to catch. This must be the woman we spoke about on the telephone.”

“Aida Palmer, this is Ju-Ray Wong.”

“Everyone calls me Ju, my dear.” He held out his hand, inviting her to step forward. When she took it, he kissed her knuckles. “It is an honor to meet such an extraordinarily lovely woman.”

“Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Please, have a seat. My grandmother is making us a very nice meal.”

It did smell rather nice, whatever it was. Winter held out a chair for her, then sat down next to Ju. Bo hung back until Ju prompted him forward. “Go on, Mr. Yeung. You’re Magnusson’s trusted man. You can sit with us.”

Bo didn’t act like he was comfortable doing so, but he sat to her left. Several of Ju’s men joined them. And if Aida felt uneasy being the only female seated at a massive table full of gangsters, it only got worse when an army of women began bringing dishes out to the table, under the instruction of Sook-Yin. Their faces were painted, their dresses traditional. Several of them placed platters of steaming vegetables and seafood on a rotating wooden tray in the center of the table, while others brought green bottles of Chinese beer.

Aida had grown accustomed to tasting unusual dishes since living over Golden Lotus, but the style of food presented here was much more rustic—no pretty dumplings and hand-pulled noodles. She didn’t recognize the vegetables, and Ju laughed as she stared at the intimidating spread. “You need a knife and fork?”

“I can use chopsticks,” she said proudly, having been taught by Mrs. Lin.

“Everything is very fresh. Have some chicken.”

She peeked at bubbling liquid inside a clay pot, from which a serving girl speared small, unfamiliar pieces of chicken, each glistening with rubbery dimpled skin and strange bone fragments. One piece was definitely the chicken’s clawed foot.

“The Chinese butcher chicken differently,” Bo explained in a soft voice.

“Killed fresh this morning,” Ju said, while making an enthusiastic hacking motion with his hand.

“I can practically see the cleaver marks,” Aida agreed.

Ju chuckled and translated to the table. A round of male laugher erupted. Winter draped his arm across the back of her chair and gave her quick wink.

The women filled her plate with this and that, while Bo steered her away from some dishes and encouraged others, his advice mostly on the mark. Winter ate heartily, his steely leg pressed against hers, while conversing with Ju.