Crooked Hearts

  In a low voice Reuben could barely hear, Grace murmured to her smitten bridegroom, “Before we start, isn’t there a little bit of business we need to address?”

  “All taken care of, my darling,” he answered tenderly, bending over her.

  She sent him a luminous, devastating smile that would’ve reblinded a blind man. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she purred, sexy and good-humored, “but would you mind if I took a tiny peek at the bankbook?”

  Enslaved, he reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a slim, leather-bound passbook. Grace opened it and glanced inside. She was much too accomplished to let even a trace of greedy satisfaction cross her features; simple pleasure was another thing, though, and she let that emotion radiate through another dazzling smile. “Lovely,” she murmured, and opened the dainty white reticule dangling from her wrist.

  Her hypnotized lover reacted immediately. With the speed of a striking cobra, his hand shot out and grasped her wrist. “Not yet,” he whispered, showing his teeth. “Not quite yet.”

  The flush on her cheeks could mean either anger or pain. Not knowing which, Reuben stood still, tense and impotent, while Wing extracted the bankbook from her white-fingered grip and slid it back inside his pocket. The incident was over in seconds. Afterward, a cloud seemed to have drifted across the sky, darkening the courtyard and turning the banks of crimson poppies to blood-red. The black-garbed hatchet sons looked more sinister to him than they had a minute ago, and even the monotonous plinking of the orchestra sounded menacing.

  Father O’Brien took up a position in front of the creation goddess and cleared his throat loudly, signaling the start of the ceremony. “Who’ll be givin’ this woman to this man in holy matrimony?” he boomed, skipping the preliminaries and getting down to business. Since this was undoubtedly Wing’s first Catholic wedding, Reuben thought Henry could probably recite the baptism ceremony, or the one for extreme unction, and the Godfather wouldn’t know the difference.

  “I am,” said Doc, taking Grace’s hand. There was a minor scrambling for places; Wing looked confused until Henry took him by the arm and planted him directly in front of him. Reuben started forward, thinking he’d stand for best man, but Tom Fun loomed up out of nowhere, sword and all, blocking his way. Reuben moved to the side without a murmur.

  The ceremony didn’t last long. Henry made a perfunctory speech about sanctity and fidelity, and then got down to it. Even knowing it was a farce, Reuben hated it. Grace’s soft-voiced responses set his teeth on edge and caused an odd, stifling sensation in his throat that felt uncomfortably close to panic. He wanted it over soon, now—but when it was, and Wing leaned down for the bridal kiss, the profound unthinkableness of letting him touch her rose like bile in his mouth and he came close to violence. Doc’s bony hand on his sleeve snapped him back to reality. Repelled, he watched Grace accept the Godfather’s kiss with perfect composure, betraying no distaste, and for once her professionalism didn’t charm him.

  Father O’Brien cleared his throat again, cutting the tender moment short. “Lovely, just lovely. I’ve got the marriage certificate,” he announced, pulling it out of his black case. “If you and the two witnesses would be kind enough to take a moment to sign, I’ll leave you to yer celebratin’ and be on my way.”

  There was a long table covered with refreshments along the wall by the door. The wedding party trooped over and used the table to sign the marriage certificate. Doc and Tom Fun were the witnesses. Left unguarded, Reuben trailed after them, on pins and needles to know what was going to happen now. When the signing was over, Henry gave Wing a hearty, bone-numbing smack on the back, cried, “Congratulations!” and proceeded to wring his hand in a painful-looking shake, all the while turning him in an arc away from the table. If he hadn’t been waiting for something like it, Reuben would never have noticed Doc’s swift, silent capture of the marriage certificate and its smooth slide into his derby hat.

  For all his previous hurry, Henry took off his wedding vestments very slowly, and folded and put them away with great deliberation. He checked his watch again and glanced apprehensively at the door. “Is there no wedding toast, then?” he asked jovially. “I’m thinkin’ I’ve just got time for a quick one.” His about-face wasn’t hard to swallow; he looked like the kind of priest who enjoyed his toddy. Why was he stalling? What hadn’t happened that was supposed to happen?

  Wing took the priest’s elbow and moved him across the courtyard. “We have another ceremony now, as you know. Afterward, we will celebrate. P’raps you can return then and join us?” The invitation was barely courteous; Wing’s steady progress toward the door said he wanted Father O’Brien gone.

  “God bless you, then, and grant you a long and happy life together,” Henry oozed at the door. “And may your children spring up around you like grapevines.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Grace had the same drawn and anxious look around the eyes as Henry. She embraced him, pressing against his padded belly. He hugged her back, hard and quick; the look he sent Reuben over her shoulder was full of veiled alarm. Helpless, Reuben watched him turn. In Re opened the door for him, and a second later he was gone.

  “Dr. Haiss,” said Wing dismissively. “Until we meet again.”

  “Right,” muttered Doc, taking the hint. He turned to Grace. “Congratulations again.”

  As if on an impulse, she embraced him. Reuben heard her say, “Thank you,” then murmur something else he couldn’t hear.

  “See you,” Doc said to Reuben, shaking hands, and in the barest whisper from the side of his mouth, he added, “Stall.” Then he was gone, too.

  Stall?

  “And now, Mr. Ssmith, I believe you and I have some unfinished bissness.” Reuben went rigid when Wing’s hand went to his pocket, and he only relaxed a fraction when the Godfather didn’t pull out a dagger or a straight razor, but a long brown envelope. The payoff?

  Opening the envelope, he blinked down at a two-inch-thick wad of greenbacks. More money than he’d ever made, stolen, or swindled in his whole life. They might as well have been pages from a book on agrarian reform, though, for all the excitement they aroused in him. Right now they were just another way to stall. “You don’t mind if I count ’em, do you, Mark?” Leaving the bills where they were and without waiting for Wing’s answer, he squinted down into the envelope and proceeded to count them one by one, or pretend to, as slowly as he could. Twenty-seven thousand on the nose. “I think you’re a hundred short. Let me double check.”

  Wing uttered a vile-sounding word in Chinese, pulled a wallet from his pocket, extracted two fifties, and almost threw them at Reuben. “We bid you good day,” he said pointedly.

  “I’d like to say good-bye to my sister alone,” he blurted, reaching for Grace’s hand. It was ice-cold.

  “I’m afraid not.” Wing glanced back at Tom Fun.

  “Why not?”

  Tom Fun came around his master, bristling with animosity, obviously relishing the prospect of throwing Reuben out on his rear end.

  “Hold it—hold it! The least you can do is let me kiss the bride.” He tried a sickly smile. Whatever happened, he wasn’t walking out of here without Grace.

  “It’s all right,” she said evenly, with a calmness belied by the fear sparking behind her eyes. “Isn’t it, Mark? After all, he is my brother.” Wing couldn’t seem to speak, and Grace took the initiative by lifting her arms and gliding past him toward Reuben.

  They embraced. His ardor knocked her floppy hat sideways, and for a moment her face was shielded. She took the opportunity to mumble in his ear, “How come there’s never a cop around when you need one?”

  “Gus, what the hell?” he whispered urgently. She straightened her hat, one-handed, and kissed him on the mouth. It wasn’t the least bit sisterly. He barely heard the vicious hiss of Wing’s curses, because the warm, solid reality of Grace in his arms crowded everything else out of his senses. But he retained enough presence of mind to drop his hand and grope her left thig
h, the one turned away from the Godfather, in hopes of feeling the hard shape of a little derringer under her wedding gown. Not this time.

  “Take your hands off my wife, do you hear? Otherwice I will kill you.”

  No more time. He grasped her hand, which was slick with sweat, like his. “Let’s go,” he muttered. Spinning, pulling her with him, he made a dash for the courtyard door. The knob turned under his hand and the heavy door opened. In Re, who had been facing the street, pivoted in surprise. He looked a little like Santa Claus, Reuben remembered thinking once; but he reached under his black pajamas and came up with a big, shiny meat cleaver, and then he looked more like the world’s most intense butcher.

  “Uh-oh,” said Grace.

  They whirled back around. Tom Fun whipped his sword out of his belt, grinning, and made a bombastic whirring noise with it over his head. Wing barked out something in Chinese. Reuben felt the prick of In Re’s cleaver between his shoulder blades, nudging him forward. Tom Fun moved nearer in front. Reuben and Grace were in the middle: a hatchet sandwich. The muttering and yelling on all sides grew louder as the other highbinders closed in. Wing held out his hand. “Come, my dear,” he said seriously.

  Then Reuben felt a rougher shove from behind. Grace stumbled; he caught at her and they both turned around, expecting an attack. “Hallelujah,” Reuben prayed in an awed whisper. “It’s the cavalry.”

  Almost. A phalanx of blue-coated policemen tunneled into the courtyard, wearing helmets and wielding pistols and wooden billies. Like spooked prairie dogs, the whores in the windows ducked out of sight, and a weird quiet blanketed the concrete courtyard. Grace came into Reuben’s arms with a soft cry, and he held her tight, whispering, “Baby, baby,” not sure which of them was trembling harder. He’d never been so glad to see a policeman in his life, and damn the consequences.

  The lead police officer gave an unintelligible order that sounded like “Soich douse,” and two officers trotted across the courtyard and into Wing’s house. The police were outnumbered by about five to one, but when the leader ordered everybody to drop their weapons and put their hands up, the hatchet men obeyed. All except Wing, who was paralyzed. He wasn’t even mad yet, he was just—paralyzed.

  “Youse!” bawled the lead cop, whose back was to Reuben. “Is your name Mark Wing?” The Godfather came out of his trance enough to nod. “Den I got a soich warrant for youse. Dis is it.” He handed him a folded paper, which Wing mechanically unfolded and tried to read.

  Reuben pulled back far enough to look at Grace, who was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “I’m Captain Gallant, see, I’m wit’ a special task force dat’s charged wit’ cleanin’ up vice and rootin’ out illegal drug importers, get it? We had a tip about youse, and we’re crackin’ down now.”

  Reuben dropped his forehead on Grace’s shoulder and let the laughter bubble up, smothering it in her veil. “Captain Gallant?” he wheezed, afraid to look at her. She was trying to make her snorts and snickers sound like sobs of relief, which only made them both laugh harder.

  “We found it, Captain!”

  The two “policemen” who’d disappeared into the house lumbered out, hunched over a heavy wooden chest. They set it down at Lincoln Croaker’s feet. “It’s opium, sir,” said one; if Reuben wasn’t mistaken, it was Winky. “Dere’s half a ton o’ the stuff down in the basement.”

  Captain Gallant drew himself up and said something he’d probably wanted to say all his life. “You’re under arrest.”

  Wing finally came out of his stupor. “For what?”

  “Violations of the Narcotics Act.”

  “If there isn’t such a thing,” whispered Grace, “there ought to be.”

  “We’ve had youse under surveillance for mont’s, Wing. Get the resta the stuff outa there, boys, and hurry it up. We’re confiscatin’ it for evidence, see? You’ll have t’ come wit us downtown.” He turned around. Reuben couldn’t get over how official he looked in his uniform and helmet. His shiny buttons winked in the sunshine, dazzling the eye; even his posture was authoritative, and his raspy voice carried like a rusty bell in the courtyard. Who would’ve thought it? Lincoln had missed his calling.

  “An’ who might you be?” he demanded, smacking his wooden club against his palm.

  “Algernon Smith, at your service,” Reuben said respectfully. “And this is my sister, the new Mrs. Wing. She can go, can’t she?”

  He stroked his mustache, which hardly looked pasted on at all. “I don’t see why not. We got nuttin’ on no Mrs. Wing, so she’s—”

  Wing lunged like a springing tiger, clawed fingers straining for Grace’s throat. Reuben only had time to pivot, so Wing’s snarling, flat-out onslaught landed on him, not her. But they were both slammed against the wall with torpedo force, and Reuben felt rabid fingers clutch and close around his neck. Through blurring eyes, he took note that Wing had his teeth sunk into the unpadded shoulder of his coat, and he was shaking him like a badger while he strangled him. Grace screamed.

  A bony whack sounded loud and clear, and instantly the pressure was off. Reuben gasped for air, while Wing slid to his knees and toppled over on his back. Above him, Lincoln shook his head in deep disappointment, twirling his billy. “Tsk-tsk-tsk,” he mourned. “Now I gotta add assault to the charges. An’ resistin’ arrest. Cuff ’im, Sergeant.”

  Grace pulled Reuben, who was still clutching his throat and choking, away from the body. “He bit you, she marveled, checking his torn sleeve.

  “It didn’t go through,” he grated hoarsely. “He only got a mouthful of coat.”

  “Now dere’s just one more little thing.” Turning his back on all the gawking, emasculated-looking hatchet men, Lincoln lifted his beetle brows expectantly.

  “Pay him,” Grace muttered when Reuben looked blank.

  “Ah, of course,” he said agreeably, as understanding dawned. “And what was the, ah, arrangement?”

  “All of it.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “All of it?”

  “Shhh. Pay him, Reuben, and let’s get out of here.”

  Lincoln gave his palm a few more smacks with his club, waiting.

  Deeply disgusted, Reuben pulled the bulging envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. “Of course we’ll be happy to cooperate,” he said loudly. “Here’s my card if you want to get in touch with me, Captain.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do dat.”

  “Oh, one last thing.” Grace dropped Reuben’s hand and left him to walk back over to Wing’s prostrate body. He had his eyes open, but they weren’t focusing on much. Not until she bent over him, leaning into his line of vision, and plucked the little leather bankbook out of his breast pocket. “That’s mine, I believe,” she murmured, securing it in her reticule. “Bye, Mark. I’ll come and visit you sometime in prison.” Wing mouthed, quite distinctly, a blunt Anglo-Saxon curse. Grace gasped prettily. “All right, then, I won’t,” she huffed, and flounced away. “Come on, Algie, let’s go home.”

  “Yes, Augustine.”

  But at the door, a thought struck him. “Wait here for two seconds,” he told Grace, and walked over to where Lincoln was supervising the burgeoning pile of opium chests in the center of the yard. “Do something for me,” he said quietly.

  “I ain’t done enough already?”

  “You’ve done splendidly, and been well paid for it.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “So now what?”

  “That’s a whorehouse,” Reuben said, dipping his chin at the House of Celestial Peace and Fulfillment. “There’s a girl in it named Toy Gun. I want you to get her out and take her to the Presbyterian Mission on China Street. She’ll be scared to death, she might even claim she doesn’t want to go. But she does. Take her there, and don’t let her out of your sight till she’s safe. Will you do it?”

  Lincoln twirled his fake mustache while he looked at Reuben curiously. He didn’t leer and he didn’t make any lewd remarks; he just said, “Yeah, sure. Consider it done.”


  “Thanks.” He felt like shaking hands, but decided it wouldn’t look right. “See you around,” he said instead, although he considered it unlikely.

  “Yeah,” Lincoln rasped in his sandpaper voice. “See you around.”

  Out on Jackson Street, Grace grabbed Reuben’s hand and pulled on it. “Hurry, there’s a hansom cab waiting for us right—”

  He scooped her up and twirled her around in a jubilant circle, cutting off her startled laugh with a kiss. “We did it!” he crowed. “You did it,” he amended out of fairness. Over her shoulder, he saw a covered patrol wagon and four horses standing beside the curb. Part of the Croakers’ constabulary force, he surmised. “Where are they really taking Wing?” he asked, setting her on her feet but not letting go of her.

  She grinned that sly grin that always unhinged him. “To the Embarcadero. The captain of the Silver Pearl was persuaded to take on a last-minute passenger for his Canton run.”

  All he could do was shake his head.

  “Hurry, Reuben,” she urged, pulling on his arm. “We have to meet Doc at the Colonial Bank on Montgomery Street at twelve-thirty.”

  “How come?” He came along amiably, thinking they looked pretty spiffy together, she in white and he in black.

  “Because he’s got the marriage license.”

  “Of course.”

  “Plus he’s waiting to get paid.”

  “How does he know to go to that particular bank?”

  “Because I—”

  “You whispered it to him when he kissed you goodbye,” he guessed, enchanted.

  She dropped her eyes modestly. “Hurry,” she remembered, pulling on him again. “After the bank, we’ve got a one o’clock ferry to catch.”

  “Where are we going?”

  She looked amazed at his dullness. “Home, of course! Where else?”