Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(46)

“By the way, Mr. Han was asking about you yesterday,” Dr. Moon said. “He brought up the tuna fishing again, and he has a point, you know. Everyone’s talking about all the gang violence and how Prohibition might be repealed. You should think of your future, and not the present.”

“And the future is bluefin?”

The doctor gave Bo a smug smile. “Mr. Han’s car is nicer than yours.”

“Ooaf! You know how to hurt a man’s pride, Moon.”

Astrid thought of the dented front fender downstairs and winced. Bo didn’t bring it up, but that was likely due to the morphine clouding his mind.

“I’ve heard little things about you over the years,” the doctor said in a softer voice, and Astrid looked up in surprise to realize that he was speaking to her. He had? Was it from Bo? she wondered. “I am glad to finally meet you. My door is always open, day or night. Any friend of Mr. Yeung’s is welcome here.”

And with that oddly affecting proclamation, the doctor shrugged into his suit jacket, kissed his wife good night, and left the small apartment.

Well. That was interesting.

Le-Ann invited them into a bright kitchen, where they sat at a table and she served up Dr. Moon’s amber-colored soup in beautiful lotus bowls with stout porcelain spoons. Rice noodles and bits of beef gleamed beneath the surface. Astrid thought she was too keyed up to eat—she kept watching Bo’s bandage for more blood to appear—but when the steaming perfumed broth was set down in front her, and Le-Ann disappeared, leaving them alone at the table, she changed her mind.

“Tonight we dine like royalty,” Bo said from her side. “This is liquid gold, by the way. Been cooked all day by Le-Ann and her father. He lives upstairs.”

“Are you all right?” Astrid whispered.

“I’m starving, so that’s a good sign, don’t you think?” Bo said with a small smile.

She did, and upon tasting the soup, found that it was liquid gold, and that she was famished. She wolfed it down.

While they ate, Astrid struggled with chaotic emotions. She longed to stare at his skin, and was unnerved by her body’s curiosity and complete disregard for his injured state. She wanted to memorize the chiseled lines of his muscles and add it to pictures of him she had in her head. She wanted to touch him. To measure his warmth with her fingertips. To assure herself that he was okay. To cover him up so that Le-Ann couldn’t see his beauty.

Want. Want. Want.

Her attention fell to his bandage, and it made her stomach clench so hard, she had to put her spoon down. He caught her looking and met her gaze.

I’m so worried about you, she told him with her eyes.

You don’t need to be, but I’m glad you are, he seemed to reply. And that made her feel a little better.

Le-Ann hurried back and forth behind them, washing out Bo’s clothes—quite effectively removing most of the blood—and pressing all but his wool coat dry with an iron.

“Is this the ‘good Chinese girl’ you were hoping for when you said that earlier?” Astrid asked in a low voice. She thought of her own poor housekeeping skills and wondered if Bo thought her spoiled. “Someone to clean your clothes and feed you? Because after that soup, I’m thinking I might want to marry her myself.”

“Did you hear that, Le-Ann?” Bo called over his shoulder. “She’s ready to fight Dr. Doom for you.”

“I heard her,” Le-Ann said.

In perfect English.

Astrid’s head shot up.

Le-Ann smiled and shrugged. “Sometimes you don’t need to know the same language to communicate. But your Cantonese pronunciation was very good. Keep practicing and I might show you how to make the soup one day.”

“Oh,” Astrid said weakly, remembering everything she’d confessed to the woman earlier.

“By the way,” Le-Ann said, shaking out Bo’s pressed shirt after he excused himself from the table to use the telephone. “The answer to your question is yes. If Dr. Moon were French, it would not matter.”

—

Astrid glanced at her silver watch when they finally left the Moons’ apartment and found it was already almost midnight. Bo had spoken to Greta and asked her to inform Winter that they were both fine, but she didn’t relish going home to face her brother. She didn’t relish going home at all, actually, because that would mean the end to their evening. And as much as she wished to erase the bloody part of it, she was grateful to have spent it with Bo.

The street was dark and quiet; the rain had slowed to a misting drizzle. Bo had watched from the balcony for a long time before they left, scanning the shadows to ensure they hadn’t been followed. He continued to do that now, hand on his gun as he hurried her into the nook between the buildings where his car was parked. Nothing stirred. No one jumped out at them wielding a knife. The only potentially dangerous thing they encountered was Bo’s own impending anger when he inspected his dented fender.

“I’m really sorry,” Astrid said, peering into the dark space between the car and the fence she’d rammed. “Lucky for you, my family’s loaded. Sylvia will be repaired good as new.”

“Lucky for you, that morphine pill the doc gave me has not worn off, because I don’t much care at the moment.”

She laughed nervously. “Well, I’ll try not to do any more damage on the way home. Let me help you get inside the car.” She knew he’d walked down the stairs without aid. She only wanted an excuse to touch him again. But when she opened the door, he tossed his bloodied coat into the back and climbed into the passenger seat without her help.