Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(69)

“In early June the man who hired me collected the Gu I made for you,” Mr. Wu added. “Haven’t seen him since.”

“The man gave no name at all? Surely you must have some idea who he was. What did he look like?”

“Western clothes. Maybe fifty, sixty years old, maybe younger. Average height and weight. Nothing special about him. He had a forgettable face and he never gave a name. Apart from what you already know about the poison, he was insistent that the Gu not kill you directly. Some recipes for Gu are used for other purposes—sometimes to kill. He said I must be absolutely sure it wasn’t deadly. It was only meant to cause a nervous breakdown.”

This just didn’t make sense. It was cowardly. Passive.

“He claimed he was working for someone with a higher cause,” Wu said.

“What kind of cause?” Aida asked, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived.

“One that would liberate Chinatown from the Gwai-lo.”

Aida’s brows knitted. “Who are the Gwai-lo?”

“White men,” Bo said quietly.

Winter shook his head. “Nonsense. I have no business in Chinatown.”

Wu spoke in a hushed voice. “I don’t know for certain, but I think they mean to liberate Chinatown from the entire city. A quiet rebellion, the man told me. Take power not by force, but by controlling the money.”

A quiet rebellion. And one of the easiest ways to control money these days was to control booze. Winter thought of all the booze problems in Chinatown . . . St. Laurent getting nabbed by the Feds in the raid. And now Parducci. Sweat bloomed over Winter’s forehead. “Have you heard of a secret mystical tong?”

The man shook his head.

Winter pressed further. “One that’s headed up by a purported necromancer?”

Wu’s eyes narrowed. Bo rattled off a longer explanation in Cantonese.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Wu said. A lie. Winter had seen something in the old man’s eyes when Bo was talking. “I’m sorry. I’ve already told you more than I should have.” Before Winter could protest, the man was scribbling something on the back of one his fortune cards. He slid it across the table. It read: the Hive.

Winter’s mind was jolted back to something Bo had told him back when all of this started. He’d said that a tong leader who dealt in booze had died locked in a room filled with bees. A chill raced down Winter’s spine. “Where can I find them?”

Wu shook his head, a look of defeat, maybe even commiseration behind his eyes. “I truly do not know. This temple isn’t under tong protection, and my work is the only thing that holds my interest. I am uninterested in politics and would prefer to be left alone. I only helped the man who requested the Gu because I needed the money.”

Winter stared at him for a long moment. The man finally held out his hands and made an appeal to Bo in Cantonese.

“He says that’s everything he knows,” Bo translated.

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but Winter suspected he wouldn’t get anything more out of the man by threatening him. He’d have the old man monitored night and day, find out who he visited, who visited him. And in the meantime, they now had the name of the secret tong. Something small, to be sure, but hope is often kindled by small things.

Winter leaned closer. “If anyone else comes to you asking for any more of these kinds of favors, I’d appreciate if you’d get word to me at Pier 26 before accepting the work. Whatever they pay, I’ll pay more. I can be a good friend for a temple like this. I can even ensure that you are left alone to live out the rest of your hopeless, depressing life in peace and quiet.”

The man laughed. “Now that’s something. Much more motivating than a bullet.”

“Then we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Mr. Magnusson. I believe we do.”

“One more thing,” Aida said, surprising Winter. “Can you really see the future?”

Mr. Wu gave her a tight smile. “If I could, I very much doubt I’d be wasting my talents in a place like this.”

TWENTY-THREE

WINTER CLAIMED HE WAS TOO BUSY TO SEE HER THE FOLLOWING day, chasing down this Hive tong, and talking to the last remaining bootlegger in the Big Three. Even so, she suspected part of the reason for his busy schedule had to do with punishing her for the news about New Orleans. Maybe some time apart would help him come to his senses, so she didn’t protest. Just went to work the next night, a little sad, a little anxious, and took the midnight streetcar home to an empty apartment.

After getting ready for bed, she opened her locket and thought of her brother. Before he’d left for training camp, Sam told her about something he’d once read: that people could fall in love with anyone, given the right circumstances. This meant that there was no such thing as soul mates or a One True Love for anyone, he said. Love was something people used to prop themselves up. It created dependency and distracted from learning and personal growth. It also inevitably led to loss. Therefore, one’s goal in life should be to remain single, he theorized; avoid love, avoid a lifetime of pain and suffering. The world was falling apart anyway—why would anyone want to get married and, heaven forbid, bring another child into such a mess?

For once in her adult life, Aida heard Sam’s words in her head and had doubt. This upset her on a couple of levels. It upended her world to even consider for a moment Sam might’ve been wrong. And yet, at the same time, it felt as though she was defacing his memory, wronging him from the beyond. Not for the first time, she wished she could discuss it with him. Ironic that she was a medium but couldn’t channel him. Couldn’t even find another medium to help her, because she had nothing of his to use for memento mori; the photograph she owned wasn’t in his possession long enough to act as a magnet. He would probably say this proved something about the absurdity of life.