The proprietor of this establishment, a woman in a green silk chong sam, was at the far end of the room, spitting whispers into a cellular phone—a digital model on which her conversation was secure.
Itchy Finger pointed at an empty banquette. 'Sit there,' he told Sonny, and left.
But Sonny had other ideas. He decided to mosey around. Check out the merchandise up close.
The girls were pros. Even though he wasn't buying, they automatically struck seductive poses. Some glanced demurely over a bare shoulder, others extended a perfect haunch and smiled saucily, or leaned back on both arms, letting their breasts ride high for his appraisal.
Sonny Fong nodded in appreciation. He considered himself a connoisseur of the female form, and what he saw met with his approval—and then some. These girls weren't only beautiful. They were the cream of the crème de la crème.
Across the room, the woman on the phone caught his eye. She leveled an index finger at him, then stabbed it in the direction of the banquette. The empty one Itchy Finger had indicated.
Sonny sighed to himself. He knew better than to test Madame Chang's patience. She carried a lot of weight with the old lung tao. Speculation had it that, once upon a time, she'd been the old man's favorite mistress. Whether this was the case or not, one thing was clear: she operated under Kuo Fong's personal protection.
To insult her was to insult the Esteemed Elder himself.
Pinching his knife-creased trousers, Sonny sank down on the low banquette, leaning back and watching Madame Chang from a distance as he waited.
When she put down the phone, she lit a long, thin black cigar and stood with her back turned, smoking in silence. Finally she turned around, took a seat in a rosewood chair, and crossed her legs. She gestured for Sonny to approach.
He sprang to his feet and hurried forward. 'Greetings, Honored Sister,' he said, with a polite bow.
She took his deference as her due and nodded, then sat there, legs crossed, puffing clouds of blue smoke, her hawk like gaze regarding Sonny thoughtfully. She did not invite him to sit.
While she studied him openly, he did the same—surreptitiously.
Emerald Chang was somewhere between fifty-five and eighty— through the alchemy of lighting, surgery, and makeup, it was impossible to tell. Only one thing was for certain. Though petite and delicately formed, underneath she was all wire and tough steel.
Hers was a formidable presence.
She had classic Asian features and pitch black hair worn in a high, old-fashioned Chinese topknot. Her chong sam was nearly floor-length, but the short sleeves and the slits up the sides exposed still shapely limbs that were firm and graceful. Her legs, like a dancer's, were surprisingly muscular and slender in form, and ended in three-inch spike heels.
She had fingernails that were long and square-cut and painted cinnabar. Her lips were bow-shaped and also cinnabar. She wore false eyelashes and a lot of expertly applied makeup and dangle earrings of priceless carved jade.
Leaning forward, she placed her cigar in an ashtray and clapped her hands sharply.
At the signal, the girls on the banquettes rose as one and filed out of the room; simultaneously, the piano player began pounding deafening ragtime.
This was a conversation not intended for prying ears.
'Our Illustrious Elder'—Emerald Chang spoke softly in the Chiu- chow dialect, careful not to use names—'sent an emissary with a verbal message.' She nodded gravely. 'He deems it of such importance that he did not trust to put it on paper, even in code.'
Sonny bowed his head. 'I am honored to be the recipient of such a momentous communication,' he said humbly.
'Yes, and so you should be!' She leaned farther forward, her narrowed eyes flashing within the furry caterpillar lashes. 'But listen closely, heed my words, be like a sponge, and absorb—he says the decision of whether or not to entrust this message to you is mine!'
Sonny jerked as though struck. 'He knows I can be trusted!' he snapped bitterly. 'How often must I be tested? My lips are sealed, I am like a clam—'
'Ah, but clams need only to be steamed and their shells gape wide, their meat ready to be plucked and eaten!'
Sonny felt his temperature skyrocket and his face prickle with heat. 'By all gods great and small, I have always—'
'Silence!' Her voice cleaved his in mid-sentence.
Rebuked, he bit down on his words and inclined his head, waiting for her to proceed.
For a while she was silent. Her legs were uncrossed now, and her hands cupped the arms of her chair. Regal she was. Like an imperial empress on her throne, chin raised, staring at him intently, her eyes studying, gauging, probing, deciding . . .
She said: 'You know the esteem in which our Illustrious Elder holds me.'
'Of course.' Sonny bowed graciously.
'Then you are also aware that I have served him faithfully for more years than you have lived.'
He bowed again. 'Your voice is his voice,' he said softly. 'I am told you have greater standing at his side than any man, even the oldest and wisest.'
The words he spoke were not empty ones. Unknown to everyone but Sonny and two or three of the lung tao's closest, most trusted and highly placed lieutenants, was the fact that Emerald Chang's establishment was a front, a profitable sideline.
Her actual function and true vocation was managing a far more lucrative and dangerous business—the smuggling of illegal aliens from the Far East to these shores. That she had done it successfully for so long, while remaining unknown to both the authorities and those who worked for her, was a testament to her strength, courage, and cunning.
She had earned the old lung tao's respect and trust a hundred times over.
Sonny, on the other hand, had yet to prove himself. They still don't trust me completely, he realized bitterly. What more must I do to prove my allegiance? He had no idea.
'The task at hand is crucial,' Emerald Chang now said. 'It demands the utmost secrecy, as well as delicacy. There is no room for error! The slightest miscalculation and—' her hand blurred and whipped a horizontal karate chop through the air—'disaster!'
She leaned forward, her eyes keen and shiny as jet beads, her dangle earrings swaying.
'Search deep within yourself,' she advised. 'Then ask: are you prepared to accept so great a responsibility?'
Sonny didn't hesitate. 'I am prepared and ready,' he said with quiet conviction. His eyes glowed with a strange inner light. 'I am willing to stake my life on it!'
She smiled coldly. 'Only the young and foolish gamble so recklessly with their lives! Tell me: which are you? Young? Or foolish?'
'Neither,' he said, his voice gaining strength. 'I'm confident.'
'Good.' She nodded her head and sat back. 'Then accept my wisdom: watch your tongue and be frugal with your words, lest you tempt the gods of misfortune and live to regret it!'
He bowed his head. 'I shall heed your wisdom, Elder Sister,' he replied softly.
She studied him a moment longer, her face thoughtful. Then she made up her mind.
'You will travel to Atlanta,' she said. 'There, you are to make the acquaintance of a highly respected and important man. It is within his power to procure something which is vital to us.'
Sonny stared at her. 'Who is this man?'
She said: 'He is a Chinese immigrant. A researcher. His name is Dr. Wo Sheng Yi.'
23
It was the night before Christmas.
Through habit, rather than conscious decision, the family had gathered in the living room.
Outwardly, all was calm. All was bright. The Christmas tree was lit. The Yule log blazed. Boughs of holly and fragrant pine festooned the mantel and the staircase in the center hall. Sprigs of mistletoe hung in doorways, and Bing Crosby alternated with Luciano Pavarotti on the sound system. Venetia's SOS calls to F.A.O. Schwarz, Bergdorf Goodman, and half a dozen other emporiums had resulted in the overnight delivery of a closetful of beautifully wrapped, extravagant gifts.
A
festive Christmas by all appearances.
Except . . .
Except for Freddie's absence, which loomed oppressively. This, the first Christmas without him, coming as it did on the heels of his funeral, made it an especially painful event.
Not surprisingly, Dorothy-Anne was grim faced and silent, the children were strangely subdued, and Nanny Florrie's knitting needles flew furiously, as though she feared the devil's workshop.
Venetia spent the time agonizing over her procrastination. Four days had already passed since Derek's call, and she had yet to broach the subject of Dorothy-Anne's return to work.
Pavarotti held his last note and the CD player went silent. Venetia started to get up and change discs when they all heard it. The unmistakable thunder of approaching hoofbeats coming from outside.
'Santa!' Zack cried.
Letting out a whoop, he charged to the nearest window, scrambled
atop a sofa, and pressed his nose flat against the glass. When he turned around, his eyes shone with wide-eyed wonder.
'It is!' he shouted ecstatically. 'It's Santa! See? He did come! He did!'
Dorothy-Anne looked baffled, as though she hadn't heard right. Fred and Liz exchanged skeptical glances. Nanny Florrie put aside her knitting. And Venetia, already on her feet, strode to one of the other windows, shielded her reflection by cupping both hands, and peered out into the darkness. Her breathing clouded the glass, but not before she saw the most amazing sight.
'Well, I'll be!' she exclaimed softly.
When she turned around, she caught Dorothy-Anne's inquiring gaze.
'What is it?' Dorothy-Anne asked.
Venetia laughed. 'You're not going to believe this, but honey? Unless this girl's eyes are deceiving her, and they're not, Zack is right. It really is Mr. Claus.'
'Yeah, right,' Liz interjected sarcastically. 'An' I'm the Easter Bunny!'
'Then baby, maybe you just are,' Venetia told her. 'Better take a look outside.'
Curiosity got the better of them. One by one, they found themselves getting up and approaching the windows. Even Dorothy-Anne couldn't help herself.
Sure enough. In the glow of the front door's twin coach lamps, they watched Santa hop down off his conveyance, grab a huge sack, and sling it over his shoulder.
Dorothy-Anne was nonplussed. So it wasn't a sleigh, but a mere farm wagon. So they weren't really reindeer, but horses with branches tucked behind their bridles. So whoever it was in the padded Santa suit wasn't really Mr. Claus.
So what. What mattered was the unexpected surprise.
'Venetia,' she said, with fond exasperation. 'What are we going to do with you?'
'With me!' Venetia shook her head. 'Unh-unh, baby. Don't go putting this on my doorstep. This isn't any of this girl's doing.' She peered out some more. 'Who on earth do you think it could be? Not Derek, that's for sure. He's too much of a stuffed shirt.'
'It's Santa,' Zack cried, 'that's who!' Bouncing off the sofa, he charged energetically across the room and out into the center hall.
From the window, the others watched the bright parallelogram of light spill from the front door and widen as it crossed the porch and rippled down the steps. They laughed as Santa quickly adjusted his beard and adopted a jolly mien.
'Well?' Venetia said. 'I don't know about you three, but I'm itching to find out who's wearing that fake beard!'
So saying, she cut a swath across the living room and out into the center hall, leaving Dorothy-Anne, Fred, and Liz trailing in her wake.
'Ho, ho, ho!' greeted a falsely deep, rich cheerful voice. 'Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!'
Venetia squinted at him suspiciously.
Santa Claus was six foot two, not counting the boots and flossy wig and dangling red cap. He had a terrific tan, lapis blue eyes—the penetrating, not twinkly, kind—and the type of lithe, hard-bodied physique no amount of padded red felt and faux fur could completely disguise.
To any observant female—and when it came to men, Venetia Flood was the most observant of all—the potbellied Santa suit and jolly sexlessness simultaneously gave off a comforting, teddy bear-like cuddliness and sense of safety, while the lean, youthful face behind the cotton-candy beard, coupled with the splendid body she sensed underneath, made for one rampantly sexy Santa.
Santa unslung his bag, bent down in front of Zack, and pinched his cheek. 'Ho, ho, ho! And were you a good little boy this year?'
Zack was momentarily tongue-tied, and Venetia, standing there with her arms folded, suddenly began to laugh. 'Well, I'll be damned!' she said in amazement.
Santa wagged a cautionary finger at her. 'Now, we'll have none of that language in front of the children,' he admonished, pretending to scowl. 'You are a very, very naughty girl! Yes, indeed.'
At which Venetia laughed all the harder.
Dorothy-Anne tugged on her sleeve. 'Who is it?' she hissed.
'Who do you think? Girl, I've seen a lot of strange things in my day, but believe me—this sure beats all!'
Dorothy-Anne was flummoxed. Shock, mourning, depression, loss, anxiety, pain, fear—of late, those had become the staple of her emotions, everyday grist for the mill of despair. But pleasant surprises? Happiness? Cheer? Joy? Her emotional reservoir no longer had room for such frivolous luxuries.
Abruptly Santa leaned right into her face. 'Ho, ho, ho!' He leered. 'Tell me, little girl. Were you naughty, or were you nice?'
Startled, Dorothy-Anne flinched like a child encountering its first circus clown, and she shrank back, prepared to flee.
Venetia caught her by the wrist. 'Girl, will you chill out?' she whispered. 'My God, when you think of how far he came—'
'All the way from the North Pole!' Santa interjected, with a jolly wink. 'Ho, ho, ho!'
He rubbed his raw pink hands briskly together and blew on them.
'Seeing as it's freezing out,' he said, 'and Mrs. Claus forgot to remind me to bring my gloves, won't somebody offer poor Saint Nick a toasty seat by the fire? And perhaps bring him a bracing shot of some¬thing or other?'
And it was then that memory clicked and everything suddenly fell into place. Dorothy-Anne matched Santa's voice with his peerless blue eyes, those perfect specimens of the world's finest lapis lazuli—if semiprecious stones could convey both lively good humor and an acerbic, fascinating touch of mockery.
Her hands flew to her lips and two perfect orbs of embarrassment glowed brightly on her cheeks. Good Lord, she thought, experiencing a growing charge of electricity, can it be? Is my mind playing tricks on me? No—it is him!
'Oh . . . my . . . God!' she exclaimed in utter astonishment. 'I don't believe it! Hunt? Hunt Winslow?'
Santa doffed his pompom-tailed cap and sketched an elaborate bow. 'At your service, madam. Now and always and forever.'
For the first time in weeks, Dorothy-Anne felt her spirits sustain a galvanic boost. 'You crazy, loony, unpredictably dizzy—'
'Don't forget daffy,' he added.
'Marvelously daffy, maniacally zany nutcase! I can't believe it's really you!'
'Believe it.'
He yanked down his beard and flashed a gigawatt grin.
'See? The one and only. Me, myself, and I.'
He let the beard pop back with an elastic snap.
'But . . . I mean . . . what on earth possessed you to come here?' she sputtered. 'And how did you ever find me? And above all, what are you doing in that ridiculously padded, absolutely wonderful outfit?'
'Why, I'm doing what Santa does every year,' he replied, hooking his thumbs in his wide vinyl belt. 'Spreading holiday cheer. What does it look like I'm doing?'
'You are certifiable!' she said fondly. 'You know that?'
'You may well have a point,' he admitted cheerfully, staring deep into her eyes.
Dorothy-Anne's femininity thrilled to the open admiration of his gaze and his undeniable, easygoing masculine charm, even as the newly bereaved widow in her pierced the moment's pleasure. She stood there awkwardly, aware of the childre
n's interrogative scrutiny, dreading the cross-examination she knew would sooner or later be forthcoming.
He's just a friend, darlings, that's all. . . . She would stick to the truth. And if they asked why he'd traveled three thousand miles, pursuing her cross-country: I can't answer that, he's a nice man. . . .
Inwardly she cringed at how feeble, how utterly, inexcusably false it sounded! And yet it was the truth.
Or was it?
Either way, the inevitable, remorseless fangs of guilt were already feasting at her expense, savaging her insides while her conscience ceaselessly reprimanded and scolded, its incessant cries of 'Shame! Shame! Shame!' reverberating in her mind with ever-increasing volume
The moment stretched and tension twitched in her arms. Finally, she lifted her hands in exasperation. 'Really, Hunt. This is all so . . . so .. . unexpected.' She let her hands drop. 'You caught me completely by surprise.'
'Which was my intention,' he smiled.
'But it's . . . it's Christmas!'
'My point exactly.'
'Yes, but . . . what about your wife? Aren't you planning to spend the holidays with her?'
He heaved a deep sigh and turned away, but not before she saw the flicker of pain cross his face. Wearily he dragged the hat, wig, and beard from his head, disheveling his sun-bleached hair in the process.
'Gloria,' he explained in a tight, strained voice, 'has made her own plans for the holidays. Clearly, they didn't include me.'
'Oh, God.'
Dorothy-Anne silently cursed herself. How insensitive can I be? And how could I not have guessed? He wouldn't be here at Christmas if he had anywhere else to go.
'I'm sorry,' she said miserably. Her hands clutched and clenched each other like insects performing an intricate mating dance. 'If I had known . . . '
'How could you have?' He turned to her with a sad smile.
'But surely you must have some family?' Her voice trailed off.
'Family? Well, there is my mother.'
'And? You're not estranged from her, are you?'
'From Mother?' He laughed. 'I can tell you two haven't met!'
'Oh? And why is that?'
'Because then you'd know that Althea Winslow doesn't permit estrangements. Petty squabbles, quiet feuds, social terrorism, back- stabbings—everything short of bloodshed, yes. But estrangements? Never.
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