An hour later April was still drunk with love. Gone was the gun at her waist; gone was her heavy shoulder bag with all its necessary supplies like her second gun, notebooks, beeper, Mace, flashlight, rubber gloves, tissues, breath freshener, plastic bags, wallet, and keys; gone were her sweater, jacket, tights, and boots. Without all the paraphernalia of life as she knew it, weighing down her every breath, both her soul and body felt light. She felt as light as a leaf, as light as a butterfly perched on a flower. She felt like a bee, a honey-seeker in her lover's thrall. The curtains were open in the living room, and from where she lay in Mike's arms April could see the skyline of Manhattan. They were so high up, and there was no building in front of them; even if the lights in the apartment had been on, no one could have seen them. Mike's lips caressed her arms and her fingers, distracting her. He was a lover whose enthusiasm did not diminish when the main event was over.
"Tienes hambre, querida?"
he murmured.
"Mmmmm."
"Is that a yes or a no?" He nibbled on an earlobe.
"Hambre si"
April said.
Inamorada, si tambien.
She didn't want to say she loved him.
"Te amo
," he murmured. With a finger he traced the curve from her shoulder to her ear. He lifted the hair from her neck and blew gently. "
Me amas tu?"
he asked, nudging her with his chin.
Did she love him? What kind of question was that? How many people did she cook for? "Maybe," she teased. She shifted in his arms, turning over, grazing his stomach with her lips. Then she slid off the sofa, stood up, and stretched. Never had she spent so much time without any clothes on.
"Come back."
"Uh-uh, I've got to get going." She reached for his shirt and put it on without buttoning it.
"Going where,
querida?"
"I have to clear a few things up."
"I thought you were making dinner."
"I'm making dinner; then I'm going home."
"That's a really bad idea."
"Bad or good, I've been putting it off too long. I have to do it." She moved into the kitchen, washed her hands, then carefully washed the vegetables. When Mike came in she was examining his knife collection.
"Pathetic," she remarked, testing the bigger of the two blades with an index finger. "How am I going to hack the duck with this?"
"Why do you have to hack it?" Mike put his arms around her. She was wearing only her panties under his shirt.
"Te amo,"
he said again, patting her bottom.
"Hacked duck has to be hacked; any idiot knows that. Never bother a woman holding a knife." She opened a cabinet, found a frying pan, examined it for dust, rinsed it anyway. "Can you peel the water ches-nuts, garlic, and ginger, and shred the scallions and cucumber?" She was all business as she opened the jar of hoisin sauce. "I like a man who's useful in the kitchen."
"Uh, I can be useful in the kitchen." He patted her bottom again.
"We did that already," she said. With one stroke of the poor-quality knife April split the breastbone of the duck, then pressed down on it with both hands, cracking the rib cage and loosening the meat. He watched her for a minute, then set about the task she'd given him. Even though he didn't have much in the way of equipment, and two very poor knives, he knew his way around the kitchen. In twenty minutes she'd finished making the crispy hacked duck with five flavors and the Buddha's delight with pan-fried noodles. At quarter of eleven they sat down at the table by the window with the view to eat the feast off unmatched plates.
"I like this." Mike struggled a little with the red-lacquered chopsticks April had put by his plate. Finally he stabbed a piece of duck and dipped it in the hoisin sauce before putting it in his mouth. "I like this a lot. This is sexy."
April laughed. "Not like that." She rearranged the sticks in his hand. "You have to make a hinge with your finger. You know how to do this."
"I like it when you make the hinge with my finger. Will you still be cooking like this for me when you're old and gray,
querida?"
"Probably not." She frowned, thinking of her mother, who dyed her hair, and of Mike's Mexican mother, plump and very Catholic, who probably dyed hers, too.
"Oh, come on,
querida,
don't fade on me. This is good, this is more than good. I cook for you, you cook for me. You don't nag me about my day, or tell me about yours. We can do this,
querida.
You can tell me about your case. Maybe I can help you."
She ate some noodles. "You like my cooking?"
"Yeah. I told you I did."
"I hope we find this baby alive and well."
"I know you do."
"You know what Woody told me?"
"Who's Woody?"
"Didn't I tell you about Woody?"
Mike shook his head.
"Yeah, I told you about Woody. He's the new guy in my squad." She made a face. "He's from Anticrime, drives worse than you do. I'm lucky to be alive."
"Good-looking guy?"
"Nobody's as good-looking as you." April smiled.
Mike raised an eyebrow, pleased with himself. "I don't like him anyway. What'd he say?"
"He thinks Anton is the one with the problem and that's why he beats her up. We found the stroller in
Chinatown. So we're thinking the baby's down there. Don't you like my cooking?"
"Yeah, yeah." Mike shook his head and picked up the chopsticks. "Am I going to have to use these every day?"
"Get used to it." They ate quietly for a while. Then she touched his hand. "Gotta go. I have to be in early tomorrow. Maybe I'll get lucky and break the case. That would make it a good week for both of us."
"It's already been a good week for us,
querida
," he reminded her.
"True." April put on her clothes and left Mike with the dishes, promising to do them next time. Just as she was heading out the door, he gave her the cell phone so they'd always be in touch. She thought it was so unbearably romantic she actually cried in the car on the way home.
CHAPTER 32
L
in Tsing hadn't been feeling well on Tuesday. But she hadn't felt well in so long she'd almost forgotten what it was like to have no sores and no pain. That morning she'd been hotter than usual and knew she had a fever again. The aunties always scolded her when she was sick and made her go to work anyway. She was sitting at the sewing machine, on the stool that was backless so she couldn't slack off or fall asleep, when Annie Lee marched over to her, face frowning.
Right away Lin knew more trouble was coming to her. This certain knowledge that her troubles were not over made her homesick for China, where she'd lost her mother and almost starved to death more than once. To save her life, her cousin Nanci had paid for her to come here to this land of golden opportunity, but it hadn't been so golden for her. Lin knew everything that happened after she got here was her fault, but fault or not, Lin did not know how she could have done anything any other way. She had traveled with the two aunties, who were at least as old as her mother would be if she had lived, more than thirty-five. Lin was half their age and by far the prettiest of the three. She had worked in a factory before, and knew that she could not do any of the jobs her cousin expected of her. She'd been convinced by the two aunties that she could get a good job right away even though she didn't speak a word of English, and further that she was obliged to do this for them to repay for the care they had given her after her mother died.
The aunties' confidence in Lin was rewarded by immediate good luck. Some people in the apartment where they stayed told her of a job that paid ten dollars a day and required no English. Lin could have it right away. She went to the place at eight in the morning. A Chinese woman, who turned out to be Annie Lee, talked to her and made her sew a seam to prove she could use a Singer machine. Within half an hour she was hired and had the two aunties claiming to be her dependents. Still, Lin had considered herself lucky to be independent of the cousin who made her feel stupid, told her so many lies about her future, and frightened Lin with her certainty about the bad things that could happen to her if she didn't listen.