“I'll be damned,” I said. “How could you know all that?”
“Taiwan mag'zines,” Peter Lau said impatiently. “Charlie is a businessman as far as Taiwan is concerned, and on Taiwan they write about businessmen the way we do about movie stars. But that's not the point.”
"And the point
“The point is, Charlie hates mishnaries. Hates them probably even more than he hates p'licemen. You can buy p'licemen, but you can't buy mishnaries.”
I watched Eleanor minister to Tran's slender form. Maybe I should lose a little weight. “I'm not so sure of that.”
“He wouldn't, though, even if he could get a bulk rate. He loathes them. Thinks they're agents of a vast plot to rob Chinese of their birthright.”
“Which is what?”
He clobbered the mouthpiece with his hand to conceal a hiccup. “In Charlie's case, it would seem to have been poverty.”
“Do you happen to have the name of the missionary who attempted to pervert little Charlie?”
“I do,” he said happily. “Charlie tol’ all in a interview. Can you imagine interviewing Charlie? ‘Whass your favored means of execution, Misser Wah?' An' they call this journalism.” Papers rustled, and I watched Eleanor minister to Tran.
“Here we are,” he said. He swallowed. “What an evocative name.”
I closed my eyes. “What is it?”
“Skinker,” he said. “Dr. and Mrs. Finney B. Skinker. I wunner what the 'B' stood for.”
“Probably Binky,” I said. “Thanks, Peter.”
The moment I hung up, Eleanor said, “What about missionaries?”
“Just background,” I said.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Just horseradish. How did missionaries get into this?”
“Precisely the question I've been asking myself.” Tran was staring out the window, apparently rapt at the sight of pitch darkness. The winter fog had slipped in again.
Eleanor gave me a look that I'd long before learned meant no more nonsense. “Any particular missionaries?”
“My ear hurts,” I said.
She lifted her chin imperiously. It made her neck look impossibly long. Someday I'd have to tell her that it was more alluring than frightening. “Simeon. What has Mrs. Summerson got to do with this?”
“Aaahh,” I said, trying to postpone the question. “Listen, do you think Mrs. Summerson was ever married to a man named Finney B. Skinker?”
She stood up, the empty paper bag tumbling from her lap to the floor. “Mrs. Summerson mated for life. That was the phrase she used. I doubt that she mated for life twice. As a Christian, she doesn't believe in reincarnation any more than that little Orlando does. And she certainly never mentioned anyone named Skinker. Sounds like a species of lizard.”
“It wasn't Mrs. Summerson, then. I guess you don't want to look at my ear.”
“I can see it from here,” she said, not quite snapping at me.
I chucked it in. “Tran picked up money from Mrs. Summerson's house,” I said. “Twice.”
“Nonsense,” she said, looking at Tran. Tran, still looking out the window, nodded. “Absolute nonsense,” she said again. Then she sat down on the couch, heavily enough to make Tran bounce.
“I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation,” I said, searching for one.
“Of course there is.”
Now we were all looking out the window.
“I lived in that house,” she said, a bit tremulously.
“No strange Chinese coming and going.”
“Of course not. I lived there. For years. I was the only strange Chinese in sight.”
“He picked up money,” I said. “Tran did, I mean.”
“She hasn't got any. She had his insurance, but that was years ago.”
“Then she owns the house?” I asked.
“Forever. But she hasn't got anything else.”
“Not her money,” Tran reminded us, buttoning my shirt. “CIA money.”
“She's not smuggling in CIAs,” Eleanor said, and then promptly backed up. “And if she is, she's not doing it with a bunch of criminals.”
“Not with this bunch of criminals, anyway,” I said. “Charlie Wah hates missionaries.”
“So there,” Eleanor said, and then said, “but Tran picked up from her.”
“We'll talk to her,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow. Why the wine?”
“I was celebrating.” She didn't sound very celebratory. “Horace called Pansy.”
“Great. Where is he? Where's Pansy, for that matter?”
“He didn't say where he was, but he's alive. Just said not to worry about anything, the simp. So naturally, we've all stopped worrying. I'm not going to tell you where Pansy is. Suppose these sadists catch you?”
“That's a nice thought. Horace's call certainly cheered you up.”
“It did, really it did. But I didn't know about Mrs. Summerson then.”
“You still don't,” I said.
“No, that's right. And I'm not going to believe anything bad until I absolutely have to.” She looked down at her slender hands. The ring I'd given her to wear on the third finger of her left hand was now on the right, where it had been for years, ever since I'd abandoned the best of my potential futures. “Anyway, it wasn't just Horace's call. I got to thinking about you, running around and sticking your big thick neck out, and all because of me. And I realized I've been pretty awful, worrying about everybody except you, and I just thought. .”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I just thought we might get drunk together and listen to some music and laugh a little, and maybe when I got drunk, I could tell you how much I love you for everything you've done.”
Tran got up. “Toilet,” he said. He was gone.
“This doesn't mean we don't have a zillion problems,” Eleanor continued. “God knows we've got a zillion problems.”
There was nothing easy for us to say, and she filled the silence with a kiss, breaking me into small pieces inside. I could smell the faint yeasty fragrance of her skin. I rose and put my arms around her and we stood together like slow dancers when the music has stopped.
“I'll get the corkscrew,” she said, stepping back, “and you get that boy out of the toilet, and we'll drink for a while. And then, if you don't plan to sleep on the couch again, I'd like to stay here tonight.”
“He'll stay in the toilet indefinitely, if you'd like to change the sequence.”
“I'm going to need longer than indefinitely,” she said. “Women love heroes.”
I looked at her good face, her kind face, the face I'd made sad so often. “Eleanor,” I said, “there's someone in the bedroom.”
She stiffened.
“Not like that,” I said. “Come see.” I led her across the living room and through the door, and she gazed down at the bundled figure on the bed. “One of Charlie's,” I said. “And don't feel sorry for him.”
“They know he's missing?” she asked, sounding worried.
“I'm thinking about that. It just means we have to move fast.”
The bathroom door opened, and Tran came out. “Sweetie?” Eleanor said to him. “Guess what. Tonight you get the bed.”
16
At seven the next morning adrenaline snapped me awake and I eased myself out from under Eleanor's outstretched arm. Halfway off the couch, I stopped and looked down at her sleeping face. She lay on her back, black, straight strands of hair fanning over the smooth planes of her skin and down toward the secret hollows of her throat, where it blossomed outward to meet the fragile wings of her collarbones. I knew if I kissed her I'd wake her, so I saved the kiss for later and trudged to the phone to get myself a boat.