“Those are mine!” Miss Sweetie’s wrathiness overtakes my tongue.
Billy’s eyes widen, but then a grin spreads across the crook’s face. “I don’t see a bill of sale.”
Robby’s face folds into a grimace. Setting down the magnifying glass, Billy withdraws my items one by one: kerosene, matches, soap, candles, gloves. “Aha!” He grips the flask in a mean fist and brings it into the light. “Teeth rinse?”
Robby crosses his arms, impatience pedaling around on his face. “We have more if you’d like, sir. We could all stand to take better care of our teeth.”
Billy sets down the flask so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. He picks up his magnifying glass again. With flair, he holds up a five-dollar bill and lets it drop onto the counter, where it lies like a dead leaf. “Mind you save me a bottle of that Pendergrass from your next shipment. And, Miss Kuan, come see me sometime. Offers don’t last forever.”
My spleen curdles. He knows my name, which means he knows I am related to Old Gin. Unless he is bluffing.
We watch him swagger to the exit. Not until he has left the shop do I resume breathing.
Robby carefully wraps each of my items in newspaper. “Whatever he’s offering, best leave it on the table.”
“Don’t worry. If I was a mouse and the world’s last hunk of cheese was sitting on his table, I wouldn’t be tempted in the least.” The memory of Shang’s letter unfolds in my mind. Had Shang been one of the Chinese who had scratched on his door?
“Glad to see he didn’t take the fizz off you.”
“No, sir.” My hands shake as I fit my items back into my bag. “You?”
“No, Jo, still bubbly.” He grins. “The teeth rinse is on me to celebrate your new job.”
“Thank you. My teeth appreciate it.”
He fits the last of my items back into my bag. “He was in here the other day, offering to ‘influence’ the horse race in favor of Mr. Buxbaum’s thoroughbred, Sunday Surprise. Of course, Mr. Buxbaum refused.”
“So why come back?”
Robby grins, pulling a four-ounce green bottle from his breast pocket. “Maybe because we’re the only ones who sell Pendergrass.”
* * *
—
I THREAD MY way back to the basement, the memory of Billy Riggs soiling my mind like a dirty fingerprint. I try to wipe it clean, but only spread it around further. Had he followed me to Buxbaum’s? He seemed legitimately interested in the Pendergrass, but it could’ve been an act.
If he’d followed me, presumably it was to try to scare me into believing Old Gin had something to do with the debt. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Create a need, and sell the solution. Well, I won’t fall for it. Old Gin would never have trucked with the likes of Billy or his father. I would bet all the money in our work boots on it.
* * *
—
I SPEND THE Lord’s Day safely indoors, redeeming my holy soul, or rather the holey soles in my stockings.
After three days of toiling under Caroline, it’s a wonder my arms can do more than swing. But gamely, they hang in there, like two unsold salamis in the butcher’s window. I flex one of the salamis and am pleased to feel the hard ridges of my muscles. Hammer Foot would be happy to know that I am keeping physically active—a strong body means a strong mind, as the Chinese say. I would much prefer my capable arms over Caroline’s, which are only expected to lift reins and rotate fans.
Miss Sweetie observes that the higher up on the social ladder one ascends, the less one needs to master the basic skills in life. Perhaps the idea is to free up time for higher pursuits, such as academics or the fine arts, though if Caroline is pursuing those, I have yet to see a sign of it.
When our railroad watch ticks toward seven o’clock in the evening, I fill my mug with barley water before cautiously unplugging the listening tube.
I brace myself for Bear’s reaction. But Bear is already barking somewhere near the print shop door, where a muffled conversation is taking place, female, by the sound of it.
“Hanged rats,” mutters Nathan. His chair scrapes the floor as he pushes away from the table.
“Come. I’ll show you some wool I finished spinning.” Mrs. Bell’s voice comes into focus from farther away.
“That would be nice,” says a woman whose voice I don’t recognize.
Two pairs of footsteps cross to the house, and the print shop goes quiet. I rummage under the bed and pull out my writing supplies.
“Er, won’t you sit down?” says Nathan. Someone else is there?
“I’ve missed seeing you on Sundays,” a breathy voice floats down the tube. I know that voice.
Nathan coughs. “Oh. Did we see each other on Sundays?”
“Oh, Nathan. I always waved to you from my window.”
I fumble my ink and nearly spill it on my flannel nightgown. What is Lizzie Crump doing up there?
Sixteen
“Ah. Well, we have a deliveryman who helps us now,” Nathan tells Lizzie. “Er, how is your father?”
“He is well,” says Lizzie. “He’s running a horse-race special to encourage people to spruce up their houses before the race. Buy five gallons of Crump Paint and he’ll throw in a brush, free.”
“Oh. How civic-minded of him.”
“Well, I’ll get to the point . . .”
The point must be a few train stops away, judging by the lengthy pause that follows. Bear begins whacking her tail against the wall. Come on, Bear. Put those herding skills to use and drive her out of the paddock.
“I read Miss Sweetie’s article about the horse race . . . ,” Lizzie says. “And, well, I knew it was a sign.”
“A sign?”
“That I should ask you to the horse race.”
My head nearly knocks against the wall. Sure, Nathan is well-known around town and very eligible, but he’s no charm biscuit. And did it have to be Lizzie? I imagine her sleepy blue eyes, the curtsy of her smile, the strawberry-blond ringlets teasing out the blush in her skin. She is as guileless and hard to resist as the cake hats in Mrs. English’s windows, while I am a lowly shoe who spends half her life squished up against a wall.
When Nathan doesn’t reply, Lizzie pouts and says, “Someone has already asked you.”
“No,” Nathan replies hastily, maybe now just realizing how unenthusiastic he sounds. “No.”