At the inflated price, murmurs shot through the crowd.
Wei withdrew a coin purse, letting the contents jingle. “There are five pounds in here. If I win, I don’t want your money.”
Jacob’s gaze was focused on the purse. “What do you want, eh?”
“Answers.”
“Is that some kind o’ foreign trick?” Jacob asked suspiciously.
“No trick,” Wei said calmly. “If you win, I give you five pounds. If I win, you answer my questions.”
Jacob narrowed his eyes. “Easy as that, eh?”
“Take the Chinaman’s money!” someone called out.
Amidst howls of laughter, Jacob dropped into his chair, holding up an arm.
“Ain’t got all night, Chinaman,” he said.
Wei took the opposite chair, posture relaxed, feet braced apart. Leaning slightly, he gripped his opponent’s hand, which was larger and had fingers like sausages.
He met Jacob’s gaze levelly. “Whenever you are ready.”
The ginger-haired announcer took up his place again. “Ready, set…wrestle!”
Immediately, Jacob applied brute strength, trying to push Wei’s hand toward the table. Wei resisted, grounding himself in his posture. Years of kung fu training had honed his muscles, and they worked together against his adversary’s strength. The bands of his abdomen turned to steel, his thigh and leg muscles anchoring him like iron. His hand did not budge from its initial position.
Jacob’s eyes widened, then he clenched his jaw and pushed harder. Wei withstood the onslaught, watching as sweat dripped down the other’s face. Only when he felt the tell-tale quiver of Jacob’s arm, the sign of tiring muscles, did he attack.
Bending his wrist slightly to improve his leverage, he pulled his opponent’s arm toward him. Jacob struggled to resist, but he’d drained too much of his energy in the initial moments. Drawing power from his stance, Wei pressed downward. Gravity always loved a winner, and the farther he bent the other’s arm, the less effort it took.
An instant later, he pinned Jacob’s hand to the table.
“The winner is…the Chinaman.” The announcer sounded as astounded as Jacob looked.
As the grumbling crowd dispersed, Wei released his foe’s hand. He met Yao’s gaze. His shidai nodded and posted himself close to the table, shooing away patrons to afford Wei privacy.
“Now to my question,” Wei said.
Scowling, Jacob rubbed his hand. “Get on wif it then.”
“I wish to know about your tattoo.”
“Why the devil do you care about that?”
“I am doing the asking,” Wei said evenly. “Who gave you that tattoo and where?”
His gaze shifting around the room, Jacob pulled his chair closer.
“Newgate,” he said in a low voice. “When I was there five years ago, one o’ my fellow prisoners gave it to me, all right?”
It made perfect sense that the bastard who’d killed Wei’s family had spent time in prison. Unfortunately, if Jacob had been there only five years ago, he would not have met the killer…but he could tell Wei more about a person who had.
“Tell me about this tattooist,” Wei said.
“Ain’t much to tell. He was known as the Don o’ Newgate on account o’ his fine manners and ’ow ’is fingers were always stained with ink. Like a don’s, you see.” Jacob scratched his head. “’E’d been in the clink for decades when I arrived and was still there after I left.”
If this Don fellow was in Newgate for decades, then he could have inked my enemy. He could be the clue I’ve been searching for. The missing link to my family’s killer.
