Page 14 of Reaper
But I’m reasonably sure we’re safe here. And reasonably sure I know where ‘here’ is.
“So why did you choose to knock on the door of our mahjong club?” the elderly woman says. Further down the hall, an open door leads to a well-lit courtyard, and inside it, I see multiple tables occupied by women of all ages, and through that door spills the sound of clicking tiles, murmured chatter, and silence. “There are other places on the street where you could rest and get cleaned. There is even a YMCA a block from here that offers free showers and beds to the needy.”
I hesitate, debating how much to tell her. Whether it’s safe to admit to her that one symbol I saw outside reminded me of a case I worked, a time I went undercover, the reason I learned Mandarin in the first place.
As I debate, Ricky opens his dumb mouth.
“We’re not here to play fucking games, lady. All we need is a shower, a chance to clean up, and duck our heads while trouble passes us by. We’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
I cringe.
Her eyes flicker wide for a moment. She leans her head toward mine and says, “What is the real trouble you are bringing to our door? Why should we put up with the danger you and your vulgar friend are in? He has the mouth and attitude of a drunken child. I should have you both kicked out. Or worse. All I need to do is say the word — we are not alone, and you are being watched.”
There’s an edge to her words. A sharpness that leads me to believe the symbol outside was right.Behind me, I feel Ricky tense. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him clench his fists. He sure as hell doesn’t speak Mandarin, but anyone with ears can tell tone, and this old woman’s tone is as clear as a bullhorn.
While Ricky inches closer to her, ready to do god-knows-what dumb thing that probably seems like a brilliant, violent idea in his primordial, neanderthal brain, I throw my eyes around the room, hunting for something, anything, while my brain scrambles in overdrive for the words to tell this old woman that she needs to let us stay.
Then I see it.
Something small, but enough to spark a flicker of hope. A faint spark, but it’s something.
A gamble.
That could go very wrong. If I’m not reading her right, she won’t just kick us out — she’ll have us both killed.
But what choice do I have?
I take a breath and open my mouth.
Chapter Eight
Ricky
Fists clenched, pulse pounding in my throat, vision red, I take a step forward, ready to pound into dust an old woman who could not pass a “You must be this tall to ride” sign at a children’s carnival, yet who inexplicably seems to hold both our lives in our hands, and who, somehow, has something about her that intimidates me — which feels funny to admit, because I want to die, yet this woman looks like not only would she make my death a very painful experience, but also make me feel guilty and ashamed for forcing her to murder me in the first place.
Hell, she’d probably make me apologize to her.
I don’t want to beat up this grandma, but I will. My mind is set on that, especially after the sharp look and words she exchanged with Adriana. I have the feeling that not only would she have me killed without batting an eye, she’d do the same to Adriana, too.
Grandma is a stone-cold killer.
Adriana knows it too. I’ve known her for only a handful of hours, and even less of them sober, but I’ve already committed her face to memory; sought, carved, burned into my brain the angles, the lines, the marks, the curves of her lips, the beginnings of crows feet at the corners of her brown eyes — lines of life, worry, stress, fear, happiness, darkness, much of which I’m sure are new, worn there by the pain I put her through — all signs of stress that have deepened the moment this oldwoman opened her mouth and snapped something at Adriana in whatever language it is she’s speaking.
To save us both, I’m going to have to land a haymaker to grandma’s face, pick Adriana up, and try to break our way out of this place before any of the other old ladies leave their mahjong games and turn this grandma beatdown into a bloodbath.
The warning sits on my lips — “Get ready” — when Adriana leans into the old woman and whispers a few unintelligible words.
The old lady stops immediately.
Says something back in a halting voice.
Adriana answers. Three syllables, but sharp as a razor and as clear as a fresh spring morning.
The old woman nods once, deferentially.
“We will let you stay. Come with me. I’ll show you both somewhere where you may get cleaned up. Then I will have tea sent for you, as you are our honored guests.” She pauses, then gives me another long look. “But only after you have cleaned up. You must be presentable. At least, as much as you can be.”
For the first time in a very long time, I feel a pang of shame about the dirty condition I’m in.
