Bitter Spirits (9 page)

He leaned in closer. She smelled so good, he worried he might pass out and crack his head open on the sidewalk. He could see the gossip headline in the newspaper now:
Suspected Bootlegger Succumbs to Spirit Medium's Seductive Charms, Makes Idiot of Himself.
He put a hand on one of the brick posts to steady himself. “This is what's going to happen,” he said in a low voice that sounded far surer than he felt. “I'm going to kiss you—just a kiss. I won't lay a finger on you. And if you find you don't like it, if you find my
worth
lacking, you can shove me back down the steps. Deal?”

She hesitated, just for a moment, before answering him in a threadbare whisper.

“All right.”

Something between victory and vertigo raced through his veins. He swallowed hard and lowered his mouth—near hers, but not touching. Not yet. Her breath was warm against his lips. Their noses grazed. He tried to hold his eyes open, but his eyelids were heavier than wet sand.

Her mouth was so small. For a moment, he worried over this, feeling oafish and hulking. But he was too hungry to withdraw. His pulse swished and pounded inside his ears. He closed his eyes as his lips brushed hers, testing. So soft. He felt her mouth open against his as she breathed out the tiniest moan. The reverberation that went through him was wildly disproportionate, like a whisper causing a landslide.

Keeping his promise not to touch her with his hands, he pressed careful kisses on the corner of her lips, on the big freckle he'd first noticed that afternoon when she was in his study, then on her bottom lip, tasting salt. Her mouth opened wider, and that did him in. He was lost. He kissed her fully, trying not to swallow her whole, but unable to restrain himself when she pressed back.

She was kissing him.

Every cell in his body vibrated. Warm chills ran down his arms. He lost all good sense. His tongue slid inside her mouth before he could think that this might be crossing a line, but for some miraculous reason, she didn't resist—she moaned into his mouth and joined him.

My God, she was kissing him in the slowest, most erotic fashion that he momentarily forgot where they were. He was hard as iron, barely able to stop himself from grabbing her around the waist and pushing his hips against hers. He'd never wanted to touch anyone so badly.

They broke away from each other, breath ragged. She could've pulled back, could've pushed him away, but she didn't. A single syllable fell from her mouth—“oh”—and her cheek fell against his.

An unexpected tenderness washed over him. He bent his head lower, breathing in the sweet smell of her skin. “Aida . . .” His hand twitched. He wanted to touch her face if nothing else, and he might have broken his promise and done just that, if it weren't for the blinding headlights that shined on them from the street.

Aida turned her head. He lifted a hand to block the light, out of sorts. She said something that he couldn't hear. He made some strange noise in return, and she repeated herself.

“I think that might be the taxi,” she said hoarsely.

“Oh.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove and cleared her throat as a door slammed in the distance. “The driver's headed up to Mrs. Beecham's.”

He pulled away and composed himself. “Seems so.” Whistling loudly, he waved a hand in the driver's direction, catching his attention as he was heading up Florie's stairs. The driver lifted a hand in acknowledgment and returned to his taxi to pull forward.

Winter thought of the potentially cramped backseat, which in most taxis was barely big enough for him alone. The thought of Aida crowded into that constrictive space alongside him inspired several ideas all at once.

Oh, the things he could do to her in the back of that dark cab. Maybe she was right about him being a pervert; he'd certainly never felt more deviant than he did at that moment.

And something more . . . a dizzying lightness. A burden lifted. If a monster's heart beat inside his ribs, her kiss was a sharper lancet than the one she used to pierce the veil: it opened up a small hole that allowed some of the darkness to drain.

She straightened her hat and pulled the brim down tight. Stepping aside, he allowed her to shuffle past him, the fronts of their coats lightly brushing. He followed her to the curb, smiling the entire way.

As the taxi shifted into gear and began rumbling down the hill from Florie's, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision. A figure stepped out of the darkness near his shoulder: a man dressed in a red suit, his hair in disarray. His eyes glowed yellow, reflecting the headlights of the taxi as it rolled toward them.

White smoke rushed from Aida's mouth at the same moment Winter realized that the man's suit wasn't red at all—he was covered in blood.

Ghost.

Aida looked down at her breath. “Oh no . . . not now.”

Winter turned to face the ghost, all the hairs on his arms rising as panic tightened his chest. The bloody man looked straight at him—saw him, just like the prostitute. This was no random ghost, no accident victim tied to the street where he'd been hit. This was deliberate. And if the poisonous spell was broken, and he was no longer a walking ghost magnet, then something else was drawing it to him.

This was an attack.

The ghost came for Winter, reaching out with both hands. A strange electrical current crackled through his arm where bloody hands touched him.

Touched. Solid. The ghost was corporeal. Worse—Winter knew his face! From somewhere, someplace. So goddamn familiar, but he couldn't remember.

Recoiling in horror, he jerked back and slammed into Aida. She yelped. He swiveled around in time to witness her, mid-stumble, as she tripped on her heel and fell into the path of the taxi.

Brakes squealed.

Winter lunged.

 • • • 

Aida felt her ankle give way as she staggered into the taxi's path. She heard a terrible squeal and squeezed her eyes shut as headlights flashed across her face.

Her world tilted. She was jerked in the opposite direction, away from the rolling car. A sharp impact shook her bones as her face smashed against linen and wool and male. The taxi skidded by, veering sharply. Then everything was drowned by the sound of the crash. Metal exploded. Burnt rubber and asphalt filled her lungs.

Winter's arm slackened and she tumbled from his grip. Her face scraped against the pavement as the wind was knocked out of her lungs. She wanted to cry out in pain but couldn't. It took her several seconds to get her breath back. When it did come, that breath remained cold and white.

The ghost was still here somewhere, but she couldn't see it.

Arms shaking, she pushed herself up on her elbows and twisted around, terrified until she felt Winter's leg under hers. He was on his side, cradling his arm, grimacing. She shuffled around and quickly surveyed the rest of him. Saw no blood or tears in his clothing. Nothing but a streak of dirt on the bulk of his upper left arm.

He'd been struck on his shoulder while pulling her out of the taxi's path. That was the thud she'd felt in her bones; he'd absorbed the impact.

“Winter?” She didn't want to touch him, fearing that she'd hurt him further. His jaw clenched. “Mr. Magnusson?”

He exhaled on a loud grunt and shifted his leg, pain causing lines to crease around his eyes. He pulled himself up to sit, coddling his arm close to his side. “You okay?” He nodded to a small rent in her coat sleeve.

“Must have scraped the wheel cover or running board. It's fine. Your shoulder hit the car. Is it broken?”

He rolled it and groaned. “Not dislocated. Just hurts like hell. It'll be fine.”

Metal squawked behind her as the driver's door of a white and black Checker Cab opened. He'd hit a telephone pole and dented the grille of his car, but nothing was on fire. No broken glass that she could see. “Are you folks okay?” the driver called out from across the street.

They exchanged brief answers, confirming that no one was seriously injured, as a porch light flickered on in a nearby house—neighbors curious about the crash. Aida scanned the street looking for the ghost. She found it a few feet away, bending over in the middle of the road.

“Behind you,” Aida warned Winter as she pushed herself up.

The ghost was seemingly unaware of them. It was fixated on something round lying on the pavement. Something gold and shiny and small.

Another glinting object lay just behind Winter, and a third near his hip.

The ghost picked up the first object, admired it, and then focused his attention on the next one, shuffling a couple steps closer.

“What the hell?” Winter murmured, warily watching the ghost bending again.

As he grunted and sat up, Aida squinted at the object closest to them: a gold coin with a square hole in the center that was bordered by familiar characters. “Chinese coins.”

“Shit!” He pushed himself to his feet. “I heard something clink in here when I pocketed your lancet.” He rummaged inside his tuxedo jacket pocket and pulled out a fourth coin.

“They must've spilled into the street when you pulled me out of the taxi's path.”

“They aren't mine. Someone put them there.”

The ghost had two coins and was now bending over the third. Bizarre, but the show was over. Aida started toward the ghost with the intent of getting rid of it, but Winter's hand gripped her arm. “He's solid, Aida. Feels like electric flesh.”

“Solid?”

“I knew this man when he was alive. Whoever poisoned me sent him.”

“The coins are the magnet,” she said. “Velma removed the magic in the
Gu
poison. Whoever is after you is trying something new.”

The ghost stood, holding the third coin. Its head snapped toward Winter, and then it lumbered toward them.

“It wants the magnet,” Aida shouted. “Throw the damn coin!”

Quick as lightning, Winter hurtled the coin into the street. The ghost immediately changed directions and lunged for it. The moment he had the coin in his grip, he . . . disappeared.

Aida's breath returned to normal. It worked. Would she have been able to send the spellbound ghost away on her own? She didn't know. She'd never encountered a solid ghost.

They stared at the street, both of them wary, but when it was clear that the thing was truly gone, she turned to him. “Someone put those coins in your pocket to attract that ghost.”

“It must've happened at Florie's.”

“Someone at that séance isn't your friend.”

The taxi driver was heading toward them, a young boy in a gray uniform, his pants tucked into tall black boots. Up the sidewalk, several guests from Mrs. Beecham's began spilling out of her house. Someone called out to them, inquiring if everyone was okay.

“Winter?” Aida asked in a low voice.

He made a vague noise in acknowledgment.

“You said you knew the ghost when he was alive . . . ?”

He nodded his head once, then looked away. “I couldn't place him at first, but I realized where I'd seen his face when he started picking up those coins.”

“Where?”

Winter waited so long to answer, she almost thought he wouldn't. “He was a spy working for a small bootlegger out of Oakland. Pulled a gun on my father when we caught him snooping around one of our warehouses.” Winter turned his head and looked Aida in the eyes. “His name was Dick Jepsen. He was the first man I ever killed.”

SOBER AND BROODING, WINTER ACCOMPANIED AIDA BACK TO
Golden Lotus after calling for his own car. They did not discuss the ghost's identity any further.

They also did not discuss the kiss.

Granted, it wasn't an appropriate topic for conversation after what transpired in the street. Aida shouldn't have even been thinking about it. And she tried not to; after all, the man was clearly upset. If she were a decent person, she'd be upset, too—she'd kissed a killer. That's what he was, wasn't he? He did say Dick Jepsen was the
first
man he'd killed, implying there was a second. A third? Fourth? How many? It was easy to forget the dark side of what he did for a living. He'd said he was defending his father's life the night he shot Jepsen, but maybe there were other times when he was the aggressor.

Could it be possible Winter was bloodthirsty like the racketeers and gangsters reported in the newspapers? No. She didn't believe that. Not after the gentleness he'd shown when he'd kissed her . . . the restraint he'd used to tease her.

Goodness, how he'd made her body melt.

She tried to tell herself that it wasn't the absolute best kiss she'd ever had, but that was too monumental a lie for her poor heart, which was madly pitter-pattering beneath her dress the entire way home.

Before she made her way up to her apartment, he stepped outside the car and gave her a business card that said
MAGNUSSON FISH COMPANY
, with an address off the Embarcadero, on a pier that housed his legitimate business. He penciled his home telephone numbers on the back: a private line that rang directly to his study, and the main line that his housekeeper Greta answered.

“I'd like to retain your services on an ongoing basis. Whatever you think is fair pay, let me know.”

“Uh . . .”

“If you aren't working at Velma's, I want you to be available to me in case I need you.”

“For business,” she said, thinking of the kiss.

He hesitated. “Yes. As a medium. Or an exorcist.” He was being very stern and serious, and she felt quite sure this was how he spoke to his own men—as if he wouldn't take no for answer. And if it were anyone else throwing out this kind of gruff demand, she'd likely tell him to go to hell. But he'd just kissed the bejesus out of her and broke the sensible part of her brain, so she said yes.

In fact, she said, “I'm all yours,” but it was lost under the sound of a loud truck rolling by.

 • • • 

At noon the next day, Aida headed down to Golden Lotus to have a quick lunch of tea and dumplings and collect her mail. “Why so anxious?” Mrs. Lin asked behind the counter as she stuck a pencil into the knotted bun of black hair at the nape of her neck.

“Excuse me?”

“Anxious. Jumpy.”

“Oh, I don't know, my mind is elsewhere. Listen, you wouldn't happen to have heard of any superstitious practice in the Chinese community having to do with old coins?”

She considered this. “Don't think so. Why?”

“I'm trying to figure out why someone would use four old Chinese coins to attract a ghost.”

“A ghost?” She looked around. “Not here, I hope.”

“No, no—at that séance last night.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Lin rubbed the Buddha's belly and mumbled something in Cantonese. “I don't know about ghosts, but four of anything is unlucky for business. Four is a curse. Very bad. Everyone knows that. No specific curse associated with coins, though. Is someone cursing you?”

“No. Cursing . . . a client.” She tapped her nails on the counter. “I need to find someone in Chinatown who knows more about ghosts and superstitions and curses. Maybe someone who appreciates my special abilities?”

Mrs. Lin brightened. “I know just the man. My acupuncturist, Doctor Yip.”

“A doctor?”

“He owns an herbal apothecary shop off Sacramento. It's located in a small alley. I will draw a map.” She lifted spectacles that dangled from the chain around her neck next to the key that unlocked the red lacquered mail cabinet and began drawing a map on the back of a blank ordering slip.

Aida's pulse increased as a cautious hopefulness sprung up. She waited, watching Mrs. Lin silently until she began sketching what looked to be parts of Chinatown that weren't exactly tourist-friendly. “Is it dangerous, that area?”

“You will get some looks, and you should avoid the opium den. If you smell sweet smoke, you've gone too far. It's best to take a man with you. Too dangerous for a young woman alone. But do not be afraid to go to Doctor Yip. He came here from Hong Kong a few years ago. Very educated and kind. You will like him.”

“Wonderful. Thanks so much.”

“Anytime. Hope he can help.”

It might be a long shot, but Aida hoped so, too. Maybe Bo had already talked to this herbalist. Best to just contact Winter and find out. She could send him a note through Mrs. Lin's courier, but that seemed like a silly waste of time when she had Winter's business card propped against a lamp on her nightstand. That was what it was there for. She worked for him now, after all. He'd probably forgotten all about the kiss.

She'd certainly tried.

Retreating to her room, she bolstered herself and tried his private number, feeling butterflies in her stomach when the operator made the connection and his big voice crackled over the wire.

“Magnusson.”

“It's me,” she said, suddenly forgetting her manners and good sense.

“Hello, you.” His voice sounded low and friendly in the telephone's earpiece.

Her stomach fluttered while the line popped and hissed. “I can't talk long and people might pick up—the telephones in our rooms are connected to the restaurant's line. Mrs. Lin doesn't like us to make calls during lunch rush, so if you hear swearing in Cantonese, hang up,” she said, trying to sound casual and breezy.

“Duly noted,” he replied before adding, “I hear it from Bo all the time.”

“How's your shoulder today?”

“Sore. Greta forced some pills down my throat, so it feels better at the moment.”

“Good, good. Well . . . ah, the reason I rang is because I have the address of an herbalist in Chinatown who might help with information on the coins. My landlady gave me his name.”

“Oh?”

“Don't get too excited. It might not pan out, but it could be worth investigating. I have a map to show us how to get there.”

“That's damned resourceful,” he said, sounding impressed.

“You hired me to help you.”

“Indeed I did. Bo should be back from an errand any minute. As soon as he arrives, we'll head over there. Shall I meet you in an hour, say?”

Bo was coming, too? A pang of disappointment tightened her chest. “Sure. But I have to be at Gris-Gris around five. I'm doing an early show tonight for happy hour.”

“That's fine. I'll get you there in time.”

One of the girls who lived in the building clicked on the line and asked to use it.

“In an hour?” Aida said quickly.

“With bells on.”

She hung up and changed her clothes, dressing in a camel-colored skirt and a matching jacket. Casual, but smart. Very businesslike. It looked good with her tan stockings, which had pretty little scrolling shapes embroidered on the calves and hid the freckles on her legs. She finished getting ready, then headed downstairs in time to meet him.

Aida's heart pounded wildly as she glanced toward the entrance and found him stepping inside the restaurant wearing a long black coat, black suit, and black necktie with red chevrons running down the middle peeking from his vest. Pausing near the door, he removed his hat and brushed away droplets of rain. Gray light filtered in from the windows behind him, where Chinese characters and the pronouncement “Best Almond Cookies in Chinatown” surrounded a painted lotus blossom.

His eyes found hers. “Miss Palmer,” he said politely, as if he were an upstanding gentleman and not a bootlegger. As if they were merely business acquaintances . . . which they were, she reminded herself. “Shall we?”

Dodging customers tottering up to the register, she followed Winter outside into the fresh air, heavy with the scent of wet pavement. She eyed rain dripping from a shallow ledge above the entrance. “Everyone told me it would be dry here in the summer.”

“Usually is.”

“Where's Bo?” she asked in her best neutral tone as she pulled on a pair of short brown gloves with bell-shaped cuffs.

“He dropped me off.”

“Ah.”
Flutter-flutter.
She squelched her excitement and glanced around. The newsstand next door had erected a rainy-day tarp that tied to a street sign and a telephone pole. “Maybe we should grab a taxi.”

Winter snapped open a large black umbrella. “Nonsense. It's barely raining. Come.” He shifted her under the umbrella and out of the entry so an elderly couple could step inside. His hand lingered on her back as they walked to a spot by the newsstand.

Hope and anxiety quickened her hummingbird pulse. Being close to him set her nerves dancing. She was close enough to catch his scent, crisp and clean, a touch of the orange oil that permeated his house. She glanced up and found him studying her. Had he seen her sniffing his coat like a dog? “Sorry. You smell nice.”

“Barbasol cream.” He was hiding a smile. Amused. Relaxed. Very non-businesslike.

Emboldened by his good mood, she teased him a little. “I thought it was eau de bootlegger.”

“No,” he answered with a soft chuckle, “
that
smells like money and sweat.”

He was joking with her—smiling and laughing and touching her. She was far happier than she probably should be about it. Any second, her feet would be floating over the sidewalk. She forced herself to settle down and dug out Mrs. Lin's map. “Look at this and tell me if you know where it's at.”

“All right. No need to be pushy,” he said with good humor. As rain dripped from the umbrella onto his coat sleeve, he studied the hand-drawn path through Chinatown's labyrinth streets and noted where he'd make a bit of a detour. “A small tong leader has a warehouse here. We're on decent terms—Bo and I have already ruled him out as a possible ringleader for all the ghost business—but I don't want him to think I'm sniffing around without his permission.”

The thought hadn't crossed her mind that it might be dangerous for a notorious bootlegger to be prowling Chinatown, whether or not it meant facing someone he suspected of his recent hauntings. He must've noticed the concern on her face, because he opened up his long overcoat and showed her a handgun strapped beneath his suit jacket. “Just in case. Don't worry.”

“Don't worry?” she repeated, looking around quickly to make sure no one else had seen it. “That makes me even
more
nervous. What if you have to use it?”

He curled gloved fingers around her chin and lifted her face. “Then the other guy'll have a bullet in him and you'll be safe. I promise you that.”

“I don't like guns.”

He released her chin. “Then try to keep your hand out of my jacket and you'll never know it's there.” He gave her a quick wink that made her stomach flip, then, with a gentle hand on her shoulder, prodded her down the sidewalk.

Light drizzle darkened the pavement and carried scents of Chinatown: dried fish, exotic spices, old wood, and tobacco leaves from a nearby cigar warehouse. Across the street, tourists huddled under dark red canvas awnings to get out of the rain and browse ceramics and toys on display in wooden crates. Tin Lizzies and delivery trucks rumbled down the street, splashing through puddles collecting near the curbs.

“Bo said he started working for you when he was fourteen,” she said as they sauntered down Grant, passing a butcher's window where a row of skinned ducks hung above signs in English and Chinese, promising the freshest meat for the best price.

“He was half your size back then,” he said. “Did he tell you how we met?”

“No.”

“I box at a club on the edge of Chinatown, a few blocks from my pier—”

“That explains a lot,” she mumbled, eyeing a thick arm. Half of him was getting wet, she noticed, as he was tilting the umbrella at an angle to account for their height difference and keep her dry.

He blinked at her with a dazed look on his face and nearly smiled. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Bo lived with his uncle. To bolster the family income, he took to pickpocketing. Was good at it, too. Fast as a whip—you never knew he'd been in your coat. He robbed me blind when I was getting dressed for a match.”

“Oh dear.”

“After the match was over, I caught him in the alley behind the club. He was so small, I could lift him off the ground with one hand. Little degenerate looked me straight in the eye and told me, yes, he'd done it and wasn't sorry one bit.” Winter smiled to himself. “I knew he was either brave or stupid, so I asked him to do a little spying here and there, paying him mostly in hot meals at the beginning. He can still eat his weight in lemon pie.”