Bitter Spirits (10 page)

Aida laughed.

“His uncle died a couple years later, on Bo's sixteenth birthday. Bo called me because he couldn't afford to bury the man.”

“How awful,” Aida said, feeling for her locket.

“Damn disgrace that the old man didn't even leave Bo a penny.” His brow lowered, then he shrugged away the memory. “Bo's been living with me ever since.”

“I thought he told me he moved in with you after the accident? Wasn't that two years ago?”

“We both moved back to the family home then, yes.”

“From where? Mrs. Beecham mentioned an old house of yours . . .”

Winter stiffened. “She had no business bringing that up.”

“Oh, I didn't know—”

“I'd rather not talk about it,” he said, cutting her off.

His gruff tone stung. She'd unintentionally touched a nerve, and for a moment the air between them was awkward and tense. Bo
had
warned her about prying into his past.

“No one's told you about the accident?” he said after a long moment. “Not Velma?”

“No, but I gather both your parents died.”

The subject hung in the air for several steps. “I didn't mean to bark at you. I just don't like talking about it.”

“I can understand that. Everyone I've ever loved is dead.”

His hard look softened.

“Apart from that, people talk to me intimately about death all the time,” she said. “Everyone wants to be reassured that there's life after death, but I always beg them not to forget that there's life
before
death—and that's the only thing we really have any sort of control over. Anyway, if you ever feel inclined, I'm a bit of a specialist in these matters, and you
have
hired my services.”

He grunted his amusement. “I suppose I have. And I appreciate that, but some things are best left in the past.”

“Now
that
I agree with,” she said with a soft smile.

It took them a quarter of an hour to make it to the first side street. Avoiding the subject of the accident, they talked the entire way, first about Chinatown, then about what she remembered of the city from her childhood. The smell of fish cooking got them chatting about the Magnusson fishing business and crab season, then he told her a few stories from his childhood—stealing away from school at lunchtime to smoke cigarettes behind the baseball field . . . absconding with one of his father's fish delivery trucks to meet schoolmates at Golden Gate Park.

Once they'd turned down the side street, the scenery began changing. Gold-painted window frames, pagodas, and curling eaves all but disappeared. Forgotten laundry dripped from balconies, and the smell of sewage wafted from dark corners. By the time they'd taken two more turns, they were sloshing through puddles on narrow backstreets where the asphalt gave way to old paving stones.

They found Doctor Yip's storefront halfway down a cul-de-sac, right where Mrs. Lin said it would be. The sign was in Chinese, but they spotted the landmark she'd mentioned, a metal yellow lantern that hung near a door under an arch of honeycomb cutout woodwork. A string of bells tinkled when they walked inside.

Winter shook the umbrella outside the door as Aida looked around. The apothecary shop's walls were wrapped in wooden shelves that stretched to the ceiling, each of them brimming with ceramic jars lined up in neat rows. Tracks of wooden drawers stood behind a long counter to one side. Near the back of the shop, sticks of pungent sandalwood incense smoked from a brass bowl filled with sand.

The shop was empty until a thin, elderly man appeared from a dark doorway. “Good afternoon,” he said with a British accent as he shuffled around the counter to greet them. He was shorter than Aida, with salt-and-pepper hair braided into a queue that hung down his back. And though he was dressed in western clothes—black trousers, white shirt, gold vest—he was wearing a pair of Chinese black silk slippers embroidered with honeybees.

“Hello,” Aida said. “We are looking for Doctor Yip.”

“You have found him.”

When Winter turned to face him, Yip froze. Aida tensed herself, hoping the elderly man hadn't recognized Winter as a gangster; Winter had said this street was on the edge of a tong leader's territory. But before she could worry any further, Yip exhaled. “Forgive me, but I do believe you are a very large man.” He grinned, laughing at himself, then nodded at Aida. “Quite wise to have a protector like this when walking some of these streets, young lady.”

She introduced the two of them and the herbalist heartily shook their hands before ushering them farther into the shop. “How can I help you?”

“My landlady sent me here.”

“Oh? Who might that be?”

“Mrs. Lin. She owns the Golden Lotus restaurant on the northern end of Grant.”

“Ah yes. Mrs. Lin—always brings me cookies, trying to fatten me up.”

Aida smiled. “Yes, that's her. She said you might be able to help us.”

He stepped behind the counter and faced them. “I can try. What do you need? A remedy?”

“Information,” Winter said as he propped up the closed umbrella and removed his gloves.

“About . . . ?”

“Black magic.”

“Black magic,” Doctor Yip repeated, drawing out the words dramatically. “Sorcery? Spells and things? Can't say I know much, I'm afraid. I'm a healer, not a sorcerer.”

“We don't need a spell,” Aida clarified. “Something's been done already. We're wanting to know how to stop it.”

Curious eyes blinked at Aida. “What kind of something?”

Aida said what she'd rehearsed with Winter on the walk. “We have a friend who's been cursed. A sorcerer used a spell to open his eyes to the spiritual world—ghosts and things of that nature. And now he's being haunted by ghosts that have been manipulated by magic.”

“Oh my,” the herbalist said. “Very interesting.”

“Do you believe me, or do you think I'm crazy?” Aida asked with a half smile.

“Strange things happen every day. If you say it's true, I believe as much as I can without having witnessed it myself. I've felt things that I couldn't explain. I am a Shenist. Do you know what that means?”

Aida nodded. “Mrs. Lin says it's the old Chinese religion.”

“Most religions are old,” he said with kind smile. “I believe in
shens
—celestial deities made of spirit. I also believe in lower spirits, other than the ones I worship—what you would call ghosts. It is not a stretch to think that someone could manipulate a spirit of the dead. Though I wouldn't know how, exactly.”

“Four Chinese coins were found on the person being haunted,” Winter said. “We've been told that's considered unlucky?”

Doctor Yin crossed his arms over his black and gold vest. “Four is very unlucky. In Cantonese, the word for ‘four' sounds like the word for ‘death.' In Hong Kong, many buildings do not have fourth floors—or fourteenth, or twenty-fourth. People are careful to avoid the number four on holidays and celebrations, like weddings, or when family members are sick. Westerners call this tetraphobia. But four Chinese
coins
, you say?”

“Yes. Old gold ones.” Winter described them briefly.

“There is an old folk magic belief that if you leave four coins on someone's doorstep with ill intent, you curse the home's owner. I've heard stories of businessmen in Hong Kong leaving four coins under the mat of a rival's shop to give them bad luck and steal their customers.”

“What about in regards to a spirit or a haunting?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, that I don't know.”

Winter groaned softly.

“But . . .” Yip added. “Someone else might. One of my customers has told me about a man who reads fortunes at a local temple—what used to be called a joss house.”

“Yes, I'm familiar with those,” Winter said.

“My customer, she says rumors are that this man knows more than fortune-telling. That he's also a skilled sorcerer.”

Aida glanced at Winter, then asked Yip, “Can you tell us where the temple is and what the fortune-teller's name is?”

“I don't know which temple, sorry.”

“How many temples are there in San Francisco?” she asked.

Winter grunted. “Dozens.”

“He's right, unfortunately,” the herbalist said. “If my customer returns, I can ask for the exact temple. I doubt the name of the man is known to her, but the moniker he uses for fortune-telling is Black Star.”

AIDA FELT WHAT SHE IMAGINED HER SHOW PATRONS DID WHEN
their lottery ticket number was called: excitement, disbelief, and the thrill of a small victory won. As Doctor Yip waxed poetic about Shenist and Taoist temples in Hong Kong, she half listened while exchanging looks with Winter. Doubt began creeping in. It seemed too simple. Too easy. But how many Chinese sorcerers called themselves Black Star?

Maybe it
was
that easy. They thanked the herbalist profusely and Winter offered to pay him for the information.

“No, no,” Yip said, waving his hands in dissent at the generous bill that Winter held out in offering. “It is nothing. Not a well-kept secret or trained knowledge. Just gossip.”

“I insist,” Winter said.

“How about an exchange for services? If you'd like to get rid of that pain you're carrying, I'd be happy to provide some relief.”

Winter stared blankly at him.

“The arm,” Yip said, pointing. “I can see how you're holding it that it's causing you discomfort. If it's an injury, I can make the pain go away and speed the healing. Bring healthy blood flow to the right spots.”

“I don't think so. No offense, but I've had some bad experiences with folk remedies recently.”

“Not a remedy. Acupuncture.”

“Needles?” Aida said.

Winter frowned. “Oh, no-no-no.”

“Doesn't hurt. Doesn't bleed. My needles are a fine quality, brought with me from Hong Kong. Very clean. Will only take seconds to place them, then you relax for a few minutes, and the pain will be gone. I have patients who come every week. Not just Chinese, but Westerners, too.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Aida encouraged Winter. “Why don't you do it?”

Winter shook his head. “It's kind of you to offer, Mr. Yip, but—”

“He's afraid of needles,” Aida finished.

Winter narrowed his eyes down at her. “That's not going to work.”

“Isn't it?”

“Probably not.”

She laughed, and he grinned back at her.
Flutter-flutter
.

“I do it right back there,” Yip said, pointing to a long wooden bench and chair at the back of the shop.

“A needle seems much smaller than, I don't know, let's say, my lancet,” she said, grinning.

Winter sighed dramatically and slid his money across the counter. “Outmatched by a tiny woman.”

“Excellent!” Yip said. “Right this way.”

The herbalist questioned Winter about the state of his injury as they followed him to the bench at the back of the shop, where he shifted a carved wooden privacy screen and instructed Winter to remove his shirt while he disappeared in the back.

Aida glanced at Winter, and memories of Velma's bathroom sprung into her mind. Well, what did she expect? The herbalist wasn't going to poke needles through his shirtsleeves. Looked liked it was turning into her lucky day. She plunked down on a nearby chair and tried to act casual.

Winter set his fedora on the bench, then turned to her, shrugging out of his overcoat. “Hold this for me.” She took the heavy coat from him and folded it neatly on top of her lap.

“And this.” He stood inches away, towering over her with his suit jacket dangling in front of her face. She took it and folded it on his coat while eyeing the gun holstered at his ribs. After unbuckling the strap across his chest, he slid it off his good shoulder. “It can't fire itself,” he assured her as he handed her the heavy leather holster. She made a face at him as she accepted it.

He proceeded to remove clothing until he was standing in nothing but his too-tight pants, suspenders dangling at his hips, and a sleeveless undershirt—which molded over every muscle in his broad chest and bared his tree-trunk arms. Her gaze flew to his injury.

“Good lord, Winter!”

Most of his left shoulder was mottled black and purple. She'd never seen an uglier bruise.

He tucked his chin to peer at his shoulder. “It's not as bad as it looks.”

Yip came out of the back room rolling a metal cart. He stopped to inspect Winter. “Oh! Very nasty. It's okay, though. I'll help you. Sit.”

An array of slender silver needles lay fanned upon a white cloth on the herbalist's cart. “The newest type of needle, stainless steel,” Yip said. “Sharp and clean.”

Winter eyed them warily. “It's the sharp part I don't like.”

“You will. Dull needles are painful. Sit still.” Very delicately, Yip inspected the injury, prodding the skin around it and asking Winter questions about his range of movement. He rotated Winter's arm until he grunted in pain. Yip seemed to be happy about this. “Ligaments injured. The bruise is bad, but superficial. I will help you. Relax.”

Winter looked ill. Legs spread, he hunched over, bracing his good arm on his knee while the herbalist used a small metal tube to hold a needle at the top of his shoulder. He tapped it with one finger. Winter closed his eyes. Aida cringed. The needle wobbled, standing proud on Winter's shoulder like an errant dart.

“That's it?”

“That's it,” Yip confirmed.

Winter grinned at Aida. “It doesn't hurt.”

Half a minute later, five more needles porcupined his arm. Winter moaned.

“Feeling drowsy?”

“You didn't tip these needles in poison, did you?”

Yip laughed. “What you're feeling is your
qi
flowing. Natural energy. When it is blocked, you have pain. I've opened up a channel for your energy to flow. Just relax and enjoy it for a few minutes.”

A telephone rang. The doctor excused himself and went behind the counter up front to answer it, speaking in quick Cantonese.

Sandalwood smoke wafted from a dozen joss sticks standing in the brass bowl near Aida. “That looks like your arm right now,” she said, pointing to the incense stand.

“I feel . . . drunk,” he said, closing his eyes.

“In a good way?”

“In a very good way.”

Bells jingled again near the entrance. “Don't pass out. I don't think I could carry you to a taxi.”

“Mmm.” He took several breaths through his nose, and then murmured, “Do you think it's really our guy? Black Star?”

“I hope so. Though, I was thinking, if he's such a popular fortune-teller, I wonder why Bo hasn't been able to turn up his name? Seems to me—”

“Aida.”

“—that if he's working at one of the temples—”

“Aida,” he said sharply.

“Yes?”

“Come stand behind me.” Winter's voice was strained, his gaze fixed behind her. “Now.”

She started to ask why, started to turn around to see what he was looking at, but an arm wrapped around her shoulders and yanked her backward. Winter's clothes spilled out of her lap as her body lifted into the air. Her ankles knocked against the rungs of the chair. A man's foot kicked it out from under her, and her back slammed against someone's chest.

It happened so fast.

Winter charged, a snarl on his face, but another approaching voice gave him a rough command as a gun and a second man appeared at her side. “Sit back down.”

Winter held up his hands in surrender and sat. Doctor Yip stumbled past her with his hands up, as well.

She struggled to get away, clawing at the arm around her shoulders. His grip tightened painfully. She gasped for air and dug her nails into her assailant's arm. He shoved her head to the side. Low Cantonese grated against her ear. His arm was beefy. Not as tall as Winter, judging from the way he felt against her, but solid enough. Her initial shock and confusion trickled into a deeper panic.

Winter addressed the man standing next to her in a barely restrained rumble. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

“No,
you
did, Magnusson. This is Ju's territory.”

“Did Ju send you here?”

“Ju hears Bo Yeung poking around, asking questions. Now you show up? He won't be happy to hear we found you here. Not at all. Maybe you think now that your daddy is gone, you'll get your hands on tong business.” The man took a step toward Winter. His black suit was creased. A bowler was perched crookedly atop his head. His ear was cauliflowered—bulbous and protruding around the upper shell. An old injury. “Why are you in Ju's territory?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Why is Bo sniffing around?”

“Call off your dog and let her go. Then we can talk.”

The man said something in Cantonese that made her captor laugh. Fat fingers clamped over a breast and squeezed. Aida struggled to pull away. “Get your hands off of me.”

Winter lurched to his feet. “You dirty fucking pig—”

The cauliflower-eared man shoved the muzzle of the gun against Winter's forehead as he grabbed one of his acupuncture needles and jammed it farther into Winter's shoulder. He shouted incoherent blasphemies as his eyes watered.

“Do not spill blood!” Doctor Yip cried out. “This is a holy place.”

The man ignored the doctor. “Sit down,” he repeated to Winter.

Winter complied.

Aida's panic shifted into anger. She could continue to stand by and do nothing while Winter got hurt—or killed! Or she could do something and help him.

Her mind raced. Her lower arms were free. The man holding her was becoming lazy as he watched his friend torment Winter. Doctor Yip was huddled against the far wall, talking silently to himself. Praying to his spirits, maybe. She hoped like hell they were listening.

The overpowering scent of sandalwood was making her ill. She glanced down at it in irritation. The brass incense bowl was within her reach, the tips of the sticks glowing orange.

Ah
 . . .

Fast as she could, she whipped her arm out and grabbed several sticks in one swoop. She felt the gripping arm tighten around her shoulders, but he wasn't fast enough. She stabbed backward over her shoulder using all her strength, aiming the joss sticks for what she hoped was his face.