Crooked Hearts (37 page)

Reuben had already seen Doc’s papers. Masterpieces, as usual; the doctor was a true artist. “And as soon as he hands over the money, we disappear.”

“Sounds simple,” Doc agreed cautiously. “But what if he hands it over in the form of a check?”

“He won’t. He knows he can’t be connected to the transaction in any way. You’ll open a bank account, and he’ll hand over cash to purchase the stuff. He’ll want
you
to write a check to the supplier in Turkey, or wherever the opium comes from.”

“Mm.”

“But instead, you’ll fade away into the wide white-devil world, never to be seen again.”

Doc’s dour face brightened. “With half the gross,” he said cheerfully.

The Claymont Hotel wasn’t the Palace, but it was clean and quiet, and Grace thought it had a sleek, dark, European atmosphere that added class. She walked into Henry’s room, which connected to hers, and started with the same mild shock she felt whenever she came upon him suddenly. She just couldn’t get over it. All he’d done was shave off his mustache and the hair on top of his head, and put on horn-rimmed spectacles. But the transformation was astonishing. “You look like an intelligent newborn baby,” she told him this time; this morning it had been “a sexy monk who illuminates manuscripts.”

He preened at the praise, looking up at her from the book he was reading beside the window. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this a long time ago. Think of the opportunities we’ve been wasting.”

She sat down on the end of his bed. “It’s not that good,” she said dampeningly, “so don’t start getting ideas. I’d recognize you after a long second glance, and so would anyone else who knew you well. Is Reuben back?” she asked before he could start arguing.

“Not yet. He should be—aha.” They both turned at the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened and Reuben strode in.

Not being allowed to do what she wanted to do—rush over, throw her arms around him, and kiss him—added an illicit thrill to an affair that was already so intensely exciting to her she could hardly stand it. Not that her reticence was fooling anybody; she suspected Henry knew everything, and Ah You undoubtedly knew even more. But hiding her passion for Reuben in public seemed like the respectable thing to do.

That was just a guess, of course, respectability being a somewhat shadowy and irrelevant concept in the life she’d led up to now. More than once lately she’d caught herself thinking of Lucille Waters, and wondering how she managed to project her elegant, ladylike image so flawlessly even though she’d been sleeping with Henry, Grace knew for a fact, for years. It must be something you were born with—or not. Did she herself have that quality? She didn’t know. She worried that even if she did have it, she’d throw it away if Reuben wanted her to. She’d stand on her head if he wanted her to.

“Hi,” he said casually, but the hot, private look he sent her made her toes curl. “Ah You’s not back yet?”

“Not yet,” said Henry, throwing his book aside and getting up. “How did it go with the doctor?”

“Fine, everything’s set on his end. You should see the office; it’s unbelievably seedy, a real work of art. He’s got the warehouse, too, and all the paperwork’s done. There’s nothing to do now but wait.”

Grace stood up, walked to the window, and came back.

“She’s been doing that all morning,” Henry confided in a stage whisper.

“Why?”

Their nonchalance bewildered her. “Because
somebody’s
got to worry about all the things that might go wrong!” she burst out. “You two—oh, what’s the use.” She threw up her hands and resumed pacing.

“I wish you’d relax,” Henry said, maddeningly patient. “This Wing character’s no different from any pigeon we’ve ever plucked. Greed motivates him, and it’ll blind him, same as it blinds all of ’em, to the flaws in the scheme. If there are any, which there aren’t.”

“Besides,” Reuben added, “we’ll distract him from the dubious here and now by giving him a vision of the future. Which we paint as so rosy and full of profit, he won’t see the one-time dodge going on right under his nose. Think of it as a mental thimble trick, Gus.”

“That’s it.” Henry nodded approvingly.

Their confidence didn’t reassure her, it only alarmed her. “What if you’re both wrong? What if he cheats us as easily as he did the last time? What if he kills us?”

“First of all,” Reuben argued, with a touch of Henry’s irritating patience, “there is no ‘us.’ Doc and I talk to him; you and Henry stay right here. You in particular, Grace, don’t go anywhere near him.”

“Right,” said Henry.

“It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll want me in on it. I told you, he’s got a yen for me.”

“Well, he’ll have to get over it.” Reuben sounded casual, but she knew it was an act; he’d have said more if they’d been alone, but he hid his steely hatred of Wing from Henry to protect her. Sometimes she wondered what Henry would do if he knew the whole truth about what had happened that night at Wing’s house.

“What keeps him from killing
you?”
she persisted.

Reuben grinned. “My lightning-quick wits.”

She couldn’t smile back. She couldn’t stop thinking of the way he’d looked lying in the Chinatown alley, white-faced and bleeding. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it. Besides everything else, even if we get the money and get away, who’s to say he won’t find us someday and then kill us? You say he won’t leave Chinatown, but how can you be sure? He had his hatchet men rob an armed stagecoach in broad daylight, he—”

“That was an aberration,” Reuben insisted. “The man’s got a screw loose when it comes to death, Grace—he
had
to have those funeral sculptures.”

“Well, now he has to have me.” She turned her back on him, embarrassed by her distress. She wasn’t a worrier by nature, but memories of Wing’s depravity kept gnawing at her peace of mind, robbing her of the ability to see anything amusing or entertaining about this swindle. She had never let Reuben see how frightened she was, though, and she hated herself for starting now.

“Hey, Gracie,” he said softly, coming up behind her. He caressed the back of her neck, and she dropped her head. “It’s going to work perfectly. Trust me, honey, we’re going to live happily ever after.”

She dredged up a nod and a smile. “I know. I’m fine, really.” But along with everything else, she was nearly sick from the fear that his idea of happily ever after had nothing in common with hers.

Another knock sounded at the door. When Henry opened it, Ah You came in, carrying a bundle of clean laundry—his entree into the conservative Claymont Hotel’s private guest rooms.

“Did you see him?” Henry demanded before he could get the door closed. “Did they let you in? Did anybody follow you?”

“Nobody follow. I see number one lieutenant, Tom Fun.”

“Buddy Tom!” Reuben said jovially. “How’s his butt?”

Grace didn’t laugh. “What did he say?”

“He say Kai Yee meet you tomorrow night at Red Duck Tavern on Clay Street.”

Reuben let out a whoop and smacked a grinning Henry on the shoulder.

“And more good news. I go home the long way, visit my cousin who unload the big ships in Gum San Ta Foy harbor. Big clipper ship in the Bay today, come last week, call
Star of India.
Cargo in a warehouse now, but owner not allowed to take because of new raw.” He shook himself. “New law. Guess who is owner, and what is cargo he not allowed to take.”

“Great Scot,” said Henry.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” sighed Grace.

“It’s a miracle,” breathed Reuben. “He’s stuck! He’ll think we’re his saviors, he’ll pay us anything we ask!”

“Is the cargo paid for yet,” Grace asked, “or only on order?”

“Don’t know.”

“Can you find that out? And also how much it’s worth?”

“It may be so.”

“A celebration,” Henry decided, opening his nightstand drawer and removing a pint bottle.

Ah You cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That good news. Now bad.” Henry turned around, bottle in hand; Reuben’s smile faded. “Kai Yee say Missy Grace have to come to meeting too, or no deal.”

She sank down in Henry’s chair. “I told you,” she whispered, stricken. “I knew it.”

Gray dawn crept past the edges of the window, pearling the dark shapes of bureau and chairs and coffin-shaped wardrobe. Grace sat up slowly, careful not to wake Reuben. He lay beside her in the big bed on his stomach, one leg drawn up, arms outflung as if he’d dropped there from a height, exhausted. Which he had, pretty much. She touched her fingertips to his forearm, gently riffling the soft brown hairs. His face in the dimness was pale but distinct, his profile clear-cut against the blue-white of the pillow. His long, hard body at rest fascinated her—so foreign, so
other,
and yet she could reach out and touch him, bring him to life with a caress if she chose to.
Who are you?
she wondered in silence, resisting the urge to wake him up, make him … more real.

Yawning, she looked around his hotel room, reflecting on how little it had in common with the room they’d shared at the Bunyon Arms. No torn paper shades at the Claymont: discreet draperies covered the old-fashioned casement window, and the bed was wide, soft, and voluptuous; instead of a gritty wood floor, a thick woolen carpet stretched from wall to wall. But in a year, ten years, fifty if she lived that long, it was the sordid details of the Bunyon Arms, she knew for a certainty, that would still be etched like acid in her memory. Even now she couldn’t think of that unforgettable night with Reuben without a moment when her heart stopped beating, overcome with memories of passion, and acute embarrassment, and finally a simple, aching sweetness.

She had never exposed herself to anyone to such an intense degree before—physically, of course, but even more, emotionally. It was as though she’d taken off her skin along with her clothes, and shown Reuben her raw nerves, her stark-naked neediness. And he’d saved her. How easily the situation could have turned ugly, or foolish, or degrading. But he’d made it all right; perfect, in fact. Was that when she’d begun to fall in love with him? Maybe. Oh, but last night … last night she’d taken the real plunge, and landed at the bottom in a hopeless, helpless heap. She was a goner.

Who knew lovemaking could be like that? It never had been for her, not even with Reuben. The fire had still been there, but they’d banked it for long, slow hours, touching each other with a different sensibility. Tenderness that’s what it was, so unbearably sweet sometimes that she’d wept. The hot desire they knew best hadn’t come until the end, but then it had burned them to ashes. And every kiss, every soft, murmured word, had added a link to the thick chain that bound her to him.

Reuben, Reuben, Reuben.
She leaned close, aiming her thoughts directly at his left temple. Why can’t you fall in love with me, too? Weren’t we made for each other?

In bed he told her she was beautiful, she drove him wild, he was dying, he was crazy for her—but never a word about love. If she could trust only her senses, she might believe he loved her anyway, because of the way he touched her. Before last night she’d never dreamed there could be gentleness and generosity like that between two people, never imagined such sweetness could exist without embarrassment, without the sheepish need to make it into a bit of a joke. But it still wasn’t love, not for him. Reuben had strong passions and an affectionate nature; he thought of her as his friend and he liked sleeping with her, but he wasn’t in love with her.

He wanted to see the world and live on a ranchero, drinking champagne with his feet up. He wanted children.

Her throat swelled; the old familiar ache throbbed in her chest. She wanted him to be happy, truly she did, but oh, if only he could love her! Was it because he didn’t trust her? She didn’t trust him either, but that hadn’t stopped her. One of her worst daydreams was that she ran away with him after bilking Wing out of thousands of dollars, and one morning, in Caracas or Paris or Timbuktu, she woke up to find him gone, and all the money with him.

“Would you do that?” she wondered, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “Would you?” No answer.

Sighing, she kissed him for the last time, and slipped out of bed. Faint sounds from outside the window said the world was waking up. Time to steal back across the hall to her own room. She found her nightgown in a trampled ball on the floor; while she put it on, she thought of all the lovely things Reuben had said to her last night when he’d taken it off. And before that, the look on his face when he’d answered her shy tap at his door—so glad, so … joyful. Rubbing her arms, she tiptoed back to the bed. The temptation to wake him rose again, stronger than before—but no; he was sleeping so soundly. It would be wrong.

If only she could stop time right here, right now in this dim, neither-nor hour between night and day. So far, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other about the future, or what would happen between them once their business with Wing was finished. It was easy to imagine Reuben giving her one of his killer grins and saying, “Well, Gus, it’s been fun.” A good-bye kiss, a sexy, teasing squeeze. And he’d walk away. Oh, it was too easy to imagine that scene.

They might not have a future, but they still had a present.

“Reuben,” she murmured. No response; he slept on like a dead man. What a shame to wake him. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips, trailing her fingers down to the small of his back. His eyebrows twitched. She rubbed her mouth softly across his lips, taking tiny nips, feeling his warm breath on her cheek. His breathing changed; she felt the subtle shift to wakefulness under her hand as she stroked the silky smooth skin of his back.

“Gus,” he mumbled, opening one eye.

“I’m sorry,” she lied, voice contrite, “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to kiss you good-bye.”

“What time is it? You don’t have to go yet.”

“I should.”

“What time is it?”

“Still early, but—”

“Don’t go. Stay a little longer.”

She pretended to consider while he pulled on her elbow and made her sit down beside him. He took her hand and pressed it to his chest, palm down, right over his heart; his soft, sleepy smile was irresistible.