His eyebrows rise, and he nods, as if approving of my new question. “A loan of twenty-five dollars, which together with interest over the years is now three hundred dollars.”
A drop of condensation, or maybe perspiration, slithers down my back.
“Now. You were recently fired from Mrs. English’s—”
A shiver picks up the hairs on my arms. “How do you know that?”
“If that’s a question, you must wait your turn.”
“No, it’s not a question. Disregard it.” The Buddha appears to be laughing at me.
“I won’t warn you again. If I had answered, you would owe me.”
My indignation drains from my face, to my soles, and into the floor. I’m reminded of the dice on the front door, advertising Billy’s cunning.
He peels back a tin smile. “What scares you the most?”
“Being boxed in,” I answer truthfully. Two can play at this game. If he wants a better explanation, he will need to ask me, and that will cost him a question.
His face turns strangely thoughtful, as if he understands what I mean. But what could a cretin like him understand about how it feels to be a pawn on the chessboard, only movingwithin tightly prescribed rules? Perhaps he has simply mastered the art of not taking the bait.
His mocking grin returns. He shoots me with a finger pistol, crudely indicating my turn.
“What did Shang need the money for?”
“A woman, as I understand.”
If Shang is my father, could this woman be my mother? This is as tedious as picking up bread crumbs, one by one.
Billy’s grinning face sinks into the horizon of his bath suds, only to emerge dripping but still gleeful. He rubs water from his cheeks. “Does Caroline Payne have a lover?” he casually drops.
“How dare you!” He must be fishing. Undoubtedly, this is the pond in which Billy regularly drops a line. I could sell her out and not lose a moment’s sleep over it. But as much as I dislike her, I dislike Billy Riggs more.
He hooks an arm over the tub, and water dribbles off his twitchy fingers onto the floor. “I dare whenever and wherever I like is how. And since I just answered another question for you, you owe me an answer. I warned you.”
“But ‘how dare you’ is not a real question,” I sputter.
Knucks stretches his fingers with loud popping sounds and Billy grins. “Knucks doesn’t like coolies. Thinks they’re bad luck. If you don’t know how to follow rules, he’ll show you how.”
“Fine.” I shrink farther into the room away from Knucks. “But... I’d like a different question.”
“The lady is bold. Well, there is something else you can offer.” Abruptly, Billy stands, spilling water onto the floor. There he poses as if he were John the Baptist, just come upfrom a dunk in the River Jordan. His muscled chest is a matted rug of auburn hair. “I’ve always wanted to feel a China girl’s hair.”
I nearly swallow my tongue. Myhair? Knucks crosses his arms, testing the seams of his jacket. Against the field of black, his lucky horseshoe tattoo and brass knuckles seem to crouch, ready to strike.
Billy steps out of the bath and, God curse my eyes, there in a dripping tangle of auburn, a morel mushroom and two mossy acorns peek through. He takes his time wrapping himself right in front of me. “Just a touch.”
I force myself to breathe. If I want to find out if Shang is my father, I must let this sewer rat violate my hair. I could be ruined if it were ever discovered that I allowed such a thing! But ruined for whom? Few in Atlanta would take a Chinese wife, and the chances that the bachelors in Augusta or in Yankee territory will get wind of this are remote. Anyway, hair is dead, a mere accessory. I can always cut it off if I regret my decision. I untie my bonnet. With businesslike efficiency, I unroll my braid and dangle it before Billy Riggs like a noose.
He draws near. Despite the bath, a musky, feral scent clings to him. I force myself to breathe again, visualizing a cool river flowing smoothly down a grassy ravine, where there are no mushrooms.
Someone knocks. “Water,” says a woman’s husky voice.
“Go away,” Billy barks. He reaches out, and then his grubby fingers are dribbling across the bumpy contours of my braid. A moan slinks across his mouth. Curiously, the morel hasnot sprouted, and it occurs to me what he might be using the Pendergrass for.
I pull away my braid. “That is sufficient!”
But he doesn’t let go, and we engage in a close-range tug-of-war. Suddenly, he is too close, his head twisting to one side, his breath hot against my face, his mouth wet and open. Without thinking, I apply the outside edge of my boot to his bare foot, using Hammer Foot’s signature move. He lets go with a curse.
