“It is a fine bicycle,” I say half-heartedly. When the situation calls for comfort as opposed to advice, I am remarkably inept. Old Gin would know what to say. The rest of us struggle to find the words, whereas he just plucks the right ones out of the air, like dandelion fluff.
Robby squares a stack of cigar boxes on the counter, and then shines up a brass cash register with a rag, lean arms moving with efficient strokes. “I knew she wanted a baby, I just didn’t expect it to come with pneumatic tires. The thing is, Jo, we need Noemi’s wages. A deliveryman’s income ain’t enough for both of us.”
He folds his rag into a square. The door opens, letting in more customers. Robby glances toward them, and then says, “Better give me your shopping list and your bag.”
I hand him my shopping bag, which I sewed myself out of a damask curtain. “I need a half gallon of kerosene, soap, matches, a dozen candles, and your cheapest pair of ladies’ gloves, size small. Also, what do you know about Pendergrass’s Long-Life Elixir?”
“Mr. Buxbaum says we can’t keep it on the shelf. Let me check if there are any in the stockroom.”
He disappears through a doorway. I study a display case of beaded patches and premade bows. Prefabricated adornment is the rage. The modern woman wants a quick and inexpensive way to deck herself out. A daisy made of chicken feathers sells for three cents. Banditry! All it takes is a little glue and a windy day by your local farm.
The front door opens once more to the ringing of bells, and a chill seeps through the worn spots in my coat. High-heeled boots clap like thunder across the floorboards. The monkeys of mischief have been eavesdropping on my worries.
Billy Riggs saunters toward me.
Fifteen
I feign interest in a length of silk cord, monitoring Billy in a looking glass. He sports a teal cutaway and vest, carrying his twenty-something years with the assurance of someone who has decided the world has nothing more to teach him. Old Gin told me to stay away from this man. But if I leave now, he could simply follow me.
The man stops to finger something at a table marked OPTICS. “The Jew must be rich as rhino fat.” He must be talking to me, as the other customers are out of earshot. He has a quick way of snapping his words together without opening his mouth much, the way they do in the mountain areas of north Georgia. “Five whole dollars for this magnifying glass. Of course, one should never confuse cost with value.”
He surveys the shop through the glass. “My, my”—the glass stops, and his penny eyes find mine watching him through the mirror—“this place has all sorts of curiosities. A pleasure to see you again, miss.” He bows, not the courteous kind that gentlemen do, but a farcical bending of the knees, one heel out, hand stirring the air with the magnifying glass.
A centipede-like shiver crawls down my back, and I withdraw my gaze. Hammer Foot said that not engaging is a victory in itself.
“We don’t get a lot of coolies here. Yet the ones that come always end up scratching at my door.”
I finally turn around. The man stands a hand taller than me, but mostly on account of the boots. A fire grows in my belly, and some steam wants out. Miss Sweetie lifts her chin. “I wouldn’t scratch at your door if it were gilded an inch deep.”
His head tilts to one side, and his cocky grin hardens into something more menacing. “I wouldn’t be so sure. If anyone can help that old horseman, it’s you.” He laughs at my stricken expression, but I can scarcely compose myself with all the questions flooding my mind. By “horseman,” he couldn’t mean Old Gin, could he? But why would Old Gin need help?
My nose floods with the too-sweet scent of Billy’s cologne mingled with the metallic stench of corruption.
I wet my lips, which have gone dry. “What do you mean?”
“Information isn’t free.”
Robby returns with my damask bag, which he sets on the counter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Billy?” He looks directly at the man, and my heart clutches at his boldness. There are unspoken rules in the South that govern how blacks and whites interact, including that blacks do not look whites in the eye. If those rules are ever broken, there are consequences, sometimes unspeakable ones.
Billy’s eyes narrow. “So the Jew now trusts the colored with his treasury. Ain’t that like letting a crow guard the night crawlers?” He laughs.
It occurs to me that men are the real sauceboxes, but no one ever calls them sauceboxes because they are allowed to say what they want—at least the white ones. Billy jabs the magnifying glass toward the neatly arranged tonics behind Robby. “I want a bottle of Pendergrass’s Long-Life Elixir.” He pronounces elixir as if he is actually licking the word out of the air.
I cross to the counter and rummage through my bag, more for something to do than to verify the contents. My hand comes across a glass flask with etchings.
“Sorry, but we’re out of Pendergrass.” Robby shows the space on the shelf where they would be. “Just sold the last one.”
I let go of the flask and withdraw my hand from the bag.
“Well, get more.” Billy Riggs flourishes his arms, as though for emphasis. He could be a play actor if vice didn’t pay so well.
“I’m sorry, sir. Shipment’s not due until a week from Tuesday. How about Marbury’s Tonic? It’s got a good price on it, and also comes with a money-back guarantee.”
“Sounds like you got a hearing problem. I said I wanted Pen-der-grass.”
The moment turns brittle as frosted glass. Two women who have drifted closer to us trade worried glances and then hurriedly exit the store.
Robby’s pliant mouth thins, matching the dark slashes of his eyebrows. “The shipment’s not due until a week from Tuesday. And only God can make those trains come faster.”
It is hard to argue with that, but Billy’s leg has begun to twitch. Hammer Foot says jittery energy needs stabilizing to focus it, like an arrow needs fletching to fly straight. Billy’s father, rumored to have been a crook worse than Billy, could hardly have given him the fletching he needed to fly a straight path.
“I don’t know about that, Robby. I heard Mr. Thomas Edison’s so clever, he could make even a train fly,” I drop.
Robby clears his throat, cutting me a warning glance. Billy’s leg stops twitching, and he refocuses his sights on me. The tsk of his tongue sounds like a match strike.
“Shall I wrap that glass for you?” Robby’s casual tone smooths the hackles in the air.
The man’s gaze drifts to my damask bag, still lying on the counter next to me, and before I can say “Pendergrass,” he has snaked my bag from under my nose. “Well now, what sort of shopping did you do today?”