I choke on my saliva. Old Gin bested Knucks?
“Serves both you creepy crawlers right,” Noemi snaps, clapping me on the back.
“She’s the one who double-crossedme, giving me that counterfeit elixir.” He picks up an already lit cigar from its ashtray. “I run a fair racket here. You can’t expect a man to give away his assets for free.”
“Assets,” I say, seething, waving away the smoke. “If you weren’t blackmailing Old Gin, I would never have debased myself by paying you a visit.”
His coppery eyes cinch. “I was not blackmailing Old Gin. He came to me.”
I nearly choke again. Old Gin would never have truck with a criminal like Billy Riggs. “I don’t believe it.”
Billy takes a long draw of his tobacco, but Noemi plucks the stick from his fingers. “Explain.”
I never thought I’d see Noemi boss around the likes of Billy Riggs, but he is surprisingly tolerant of her. “He wanted to buy back a family heirloom.”
My eyes lock on to the empty space on the side table where the Buddha vase sat before I threw it.
Billy laughs at my horrified expression. “You flatter yourself. That was Ming dynasty, worth six hundred dollars if you hadn’t broken it.” Moving toward his oddities shelf, his twitchy fingers hover before his assortment of bottles. He selects the smallest—a jade snuff bottle—and presents it to me with a mock bow. “Shang pawned it for twenty-five dollars. Of course, over the years, it has accrued interest.”
The bottle bears the shape of a peach, its roundness matching the impression in the box I wanted for hair ribbons. Its color is the same green as the screw top with attached spoon. It had belonged to Old Gin’s wife. My grandmother. The jade feels warm, like a polished rock left in the sun.
Old Gin’s story of the farmer’s son and the nymph creeps into my mind. The son gave up the peach for the nymph, a peach meant to attract fortune. The farmer, Old Gin, had taken steps to ensure our future by attempting to buy it back.
Noemi leans against the edge of his bathtub. “You thought an old groom could pay that?”
“Again,hecame tome,” Billy says through his teeth. “No one held a gun to his head.”
Noemi ties her arms into a knot. “Give her back that bottle. You know what I have on you.”
Billy’s mouth purses into a petulant knot. “Even if I gave it back, she wouldstillowe me for my Ming vase. Besides, you wouldn’t rat me out. I just gave an anonymous donation to that Bluebird society of yours.”
“Bluebells. Take it back. Your money comes with more strings than a harp.”
An argument starts up between them, with Billy protesting the banditry of his favorite bauble, and Noemi making threats that she would likely never carry through. I pull at my braid as my outrage loses its focus. It’s Billy’s own fault that Ming vase broke. As for the snuff bottle, it is unfair to ask Noemi to spend more of her family currency persuading him to return it when it was Shang’s decision to pawn the bottle away.
I clear my throat and the arguing stops. “You are a man who values information, secret information, am I right?”
Noemi’s chest expands, as if filling up to fuel all sorts of protests. I avoid her eyes.
“Indeed.” Billy’s teeth seem to sharpen.
“I have some information about the race that I will trade in exchange for the bottle.”
He crosses to the open window and reposes upon the ledge. Dying sunlight bronzes his pale skin. “I very much doubt you could tell me anything I don’t already know.”
“Life is full of risks,” I say, feeding his words back to him. “Keeps it interesting.”
Billy blows smoke in my face. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Tell me what you know, and I will decide its worth. Otherwise, we are at an impasse.”
My collar grows sticky, despite the breeze blowing in through the window. How would Mrs. English close the deal? She would butter the biscuit so that it would be impossible not to take a bite. “Unless you have received information in the last eight hours, let me assure you, you do not know my secret, a secret that is sure to cause a stir when made public. Of course, by then, you will have lost a very lucrative business opportunity.” The official betting station may not offer odds on Sweet Potato, but an illegal gambling ring certainly can, and Billy Riggs does not run the only racket in town.
Noemi suppresses a smile. She picks up a dried sea sponge that resembles a brain and squeezes it. I can’t help thinking she is paying me a very peculiar compliment.
Billy’s hair rambles wildly around his head, somehow unshackled from its ribbon. “Tell you what. I’ll buy your information with a hundred-dollar credit toward your father’s bauble.”
“Not good enough. It would still take me a decade to save two hundred dollars.” I toss out the words like dice. He could easily retract his offer, and then I would be out of luck.
Noemi’s grip on the sponge tightens even more, and this time, I do not think it is a compliment.
