“Just cleared out. We had a crowd earlier.”
The man frowns, pressing wrinkles into his forehead. I hope he does not attribute the slowness to Robby.
His gaze lands on me. “Miss Kuan, your knots are enchanting, and I think you’ll see a nice profit given time.” He thumps the worktable with his fingers.
“Thank you,” I say simply. The thought of making small talk exhausts me.
“Mrs. English dropped off a special order this morning,” says Robby. “Selected the cord, too. Let me fetch it.” He glides to the register at the back wall.
“I haven’t seen Old Gin around lately. Last time I saw him, he had a nasty cough. Is he over it?”
“Yes. That Pendergrass... helped.” Billy’s steamy bathtub seeps into my mind, and I fight back a grimace.
“Wonderful. You know I stand behind my products.” Mr. Buxbaum’s tan-and-white Balmorals squeak as he stretches high to straighten something on the shelf. His shoes are shinier than Shang’s black-and-white ones. I wonder if Shang bought his here. Buxbaum’s is one of the few stores that has always welcomed Chinese.
A nervous sort of energy floods through me. “Mr. Buxbaum, did you ever meet a man named Shang?”
The man squints, and his brow furrows like a wet book.
“I’m not sure what he looked like, but he wore a size nine shoe. I am told he moved on about seventeen years ago.”
He gives me a strange look. “Of course I met him.”
Robby returns, holding a list in one hand and a box of cord in the other. He hands Mr. Buxbaum the list and is about to speak, but notices that I’m about to fall off my stool.
“Er, you were saying, sir?” I prompt.
Robby measures the cord against a yardstick hammered into the table, then cuts it with precise snips.
“Shang is Old Gin’s son.”
Robby’s scissors stop. The room spins around me, and I puta hand on the table to steady myself. If Shang is Old Gin’s son, that makes Old Gin... my grandfather.
“They worked at the Payne Estate together,” Mr. Buxbaum continues, staring at the overhead fixture. “Nice young man. Liked practicing his English on me, especially the big words likeglockenspiel.” He beams at me.
I lick my lips. “Glockenspiel?” AG-word.
“It’s a German xylophone.”
Robby ties up my cord in neat bundles, sneaking me sympathetic looks.
“Once, he asked me to order a few things from China to celebrate the Chinese New Year. Wanted to surprise Old Gin.” He ticks off his fingers. “Red melon seeds, joss sticks, dried shrimp, and fireworks.”
“Fireworks?” says Robby. “What’s that?”
“Pasteboard tubes filled with gunpowder that, when lit, produce colorful sparks. Boom!” Mr. Buxbaum throws back his arms. “Looked like the stars exploding.”
Robby grins. “I’d like to see that.”
“Course, he spent a day in jail for disturbing the peace, but those of us who caught the show have him to thank for a spectacular night.”
More shoppers trickle into the store, drawing Mr. Buxbaum’s attention. “Old Gin said he’d left to strike it rich on silver in Montana. Surprised Old Gin didn’t tell you that himself.” He straightens his cravat and sets off toward the newcomers. “Don’t get too tied up in your work, Miss Kuan,” he calls back over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir,” I manage to croak out.
A customer solicits Robby’s help, and he finishes wrapping my cord in paper. “Remember what I said about things coming together.”
I gulp down the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Robby.”
