He groans. “Billy Riggs receives business at the Church on Saturday evenings.”
Tomorrow, then. “Which church?” In Atlanta, there are more churches than blocks. You can change your religion a dozen times just getting to the train station.
“The Church is a tavern on Decatur, just before Butler.” Each word comes out bearing a grudge.
“Thank you. And I have never eaten fruitcake.”
—
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, I hike down Decatur Street in a dress that Old Gin helped me pattern out of an old piano shawl. He says the dress makes me look like a fine lampshade, with its fringe on the cuffs, but I think the dress’s clean lines give me a schoolmarm’s respectability, especially with my borrowed bonnet.
The Church lies farther from the notorious bottom branch of Collins Street than I thought vultures like Billy Riggs wouldperch. Of course, a racehorse doesn’t complain about a dry track. I hurry past Collins, wondering if I am on a fool’s errand. But if he is blackmailing my stand-in father, I must know.
Just before Butler, a wet patch of grass connects Decatur to a brick building the size of the Paynes’ barn. The stained glass of its arched windows is mostly intact.
Despite having brooded all day over my meeting with Billy, now that the time has come, all my thoughts seem to have boarded the streetcar for home. I stare at the streaked varnish of the front door, its brass push plate blackened with prints. This might be a trap. Billy trades in information, but what if his intentions are more... sinister? Who would notice if a poor Chinese girl went missing? Miss Sweetie would advise making tracks for home.
I shiver, trying to shake off some of my dread. It could hardly be good for business to go around assaulting potential customers. I will simply need to keep my wits about me. All I need are a few answers.
The door swings open, and two drunks stumble out, hastened by a kick that is female in origin. “Next time you try to pay with bogus coins, I’ll get you booked! Now scram!”
One of the men falls and, seeing me, crooks a dirty finger. “Look, Rufus, we drank our way clear to China.”
“Git!” Another push by the woman’s rolling-pin arms sends the two on their way. The woman adjusts her wig, which had begun to slide to one side, and cocks a bushy eyebrow at me. “Help you with something?”
The reek of sour mash wafts through the doorway. At the back of the room, a pair of ivory tusks hangs above a bar, wherea half dozen men are seated. “Yes. I am told Billy Riggs can be found here?”
“Billy Riggs?” she screeches, quieting the chatter coming from the bar. “If that no-account comes here, I have an elephant gun whose double barrel would fit right up his filthy nostrils.” She fists her hands into her hips.
“You mean, he doesn’t conduct business here?”
“No, and if you’re the sort who conducts business with him, you ain’t welcome here neither. Good day.” She strides back into her bar and the door swings shut with awhomp!
I slouch after the drunks. Was it a mistake, or did Nathan deliberately mislead me?
The sucking sound of the door reopening heralds a loud clamor and awoof!
Before I am halfway to the street, something familiar and furry streaks past me, cutting off my path. I stumble, slipping onto the wet grass. A sheepdog pants right by my face, calling upG-words with every pound of her tail.
Gravity.
Grass.
Gullible.
He led me here to deceive me.
“Bear,” Nathan says sternly, slapping his thigh twice. Bear returns to his side, bouncing in four directions at once.
Our gaze connects. If looks were sounds, his startled expression would be the braking of a train for a troop of Fiji mermaids swinging through the trees. His gaze falls to my mouth, maybe measuring it against the last peek. A rosy indignation blooms around my neck.
He shakes himself loose of his stare and hands me his handkerchief. “I am terribly sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry at all. “Are you okay?”
Woof!The dog settles, now patient as a rook ready to be played.
I wipe dog drool off my face. “I am as well as someone who has been knocked upon grass soaked with the excrement of animals can be, thank you.” Even unmasked, Miss Sweetie hangs on.
The warmth of Nathan’s hands as he helps me up sends electric pulses through me. I’m astounded by how many thoughts can fit into the space of the second it takes for me to withdraw my hand.
