It occurs to me that each of the seamen has a best mate. Maybe that’s why Bo doesn’t like me. If Jamie comes with me to New York, Bo will be all alone. But if Bo is Jamie’s best mate, surely he wants what’s best for him. Perhaps I can budge the stone by getting the stone next to him to move.
Olly puts his face up to Bo’s. “How much are they paying for your job?” Despite the lads’ preference for English, they speak Cantonese here, which they must use whenever the non-English-speaking men are present.
Bo rips a chunk of meat off his fork with his teeth, not answering.
Drummer leans in. “What’s this about jobs?” His thin brown face is animated with chewing. “If there’s work, share. My wife wants to attend the dragon boat races this summer.”
“Go roll an egg,” mutters Bo.
“Jamie bet Bo he could make more money than him, but then Valora bet she could make more money than both of themtogetherby the lights-out bugle,” offers Olly between bites. “If Valora wins, Jamie has to do tricks with her. But if Jamie wins, Valora has to go home.”
Everyone steers their gaze at me. Even the fair-faced Ming Lai lifts his head from his conversation with the Russian girl,who is holding an apple from a bowl of fruit and teaching him the word in Russian.
Tao twirls his braided beard with his shortened index finger. “Big wagers. I believe sister will win.”
“Then you will lose,” growls Fong. He spears a pat of butter with his knife and eats it. “How can one girl make more than two men?”
Tao tugs his beard straight and gives me a serene smile. “Sister knows what she wants. She is very determined.”
Fong makes a hacking noise, his prominent tooth stabbing the air. “Girls should not order boys around. They are weaker and should do as they are told. There is no contest.”
My skin flushes, and a retort springs to my lips. But I clamp my mouth shut. The Chinese are taught to respect their elders. My bet with Jamie takes on more heft. I will show that old man who is weaker when I triumph.
When the last of my roast beef is making its way down my gullet, one of the waiters sets a basket before me. “Thank you,” I say, despite the fact that most of us have finished our meals. He scuttles away without replying.
I lift the cloth napkin from the basket. The lads and I peer in, and my jaw goes crooked. It’s filled with bread heels, all of them scorched. They are so hard, it would take days to soften them in soup.
Olly knocks his knuckles against one. “We could sharpen our razors on this.”
“You don’t shave,” Wink scoffs.
“Cod’s sake,” I mutter. “That is some nerve.” These heels could smash windows. I toss one lightly and catch it. Definitely good for throwing.
No wonder no one asked. Bo snorts, Drummer gives me an apologetic smile, and Fong, watching with keen interest, waggles an admonishing finger at me.
The headwaiter signals for quiet, and I stop myself from flinging a bread heel at his door-knocker beard. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention? It’s time to draw the winner for today’s sweeps, which—thanks to your generous contributions—totals two pounds in the kitty.”
Applause breaks out, but I barely hear it as my face continues to cook. I can feel Bo watching me again. I throw him a fierce scowl.
“You believed they would giveusgood bread,” he says mildly. “Maybe you are not ready for the real world.”
I lift my nose. “It’s a shame how working at the bottom of a boat lowers one’s standards.”
A man in a white steward’s uniform enters the dining room, his grin like an oiled saddle on a face pulled tight over his bones. It’s the skeletal steward who caught me in the hallway last night. In his arms, he carries a box with a crank, which he brings to the headwaiter.
Olly points. “That’s Skeleton. He’s our room steward, and also the one who collects for the sweeps.”
The man sniffs, as if in confirmation.
“Kindly give the entries a final turn,” the headwaiter directs.
Skeleton cranks the box, pivoting his body so that everyonecan see the good job he’s doing. He unlatches a small door at the top of the box and holds it low enough for the nearest diner to stick her hand in. She draws a ticket, and he reads, “Ticket 412, belonging to Mr. Heath Bledig!”
A rousing shout punches the air, and a sturdy young man gets to his feet, cheered on by his towheaded mates. One yanks the stocking cap off Bledig’s head, exposing his white-blond hair, which is slicked into a shiny helmet. Grabbing the cap back, Bledig moseys up to the headwaiter, pumping the man’s hand hard enough to jar the rose from his lapel.
The waiter regains his arm and rolls out his shoulder. “Er, congratulations, sir.” Skeleton leads the grinning Bledig away. “For the rest of you, better luck tomorrow.”
That’s right, we shall see who the better Luck is tomorrow. I turn a challenging eye to Bo, but his seat is empty.
