Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

“Officers.” Men more powerful than either Seb or Moss.

  “Which officers?”

  “Captain Barrows and others.”

  “What did you give them for it?”

  “They gave it to us.”

  Moss looked over the plentiful cans and bottles. “Why?”

  Seb shrugged a single shoulder, a gesture Moss read too well.

  “Hermano,” Moss said, “if we are going to work this out, I need you to tell me everything.”

  “Your ignorance protects you.”

  “I do not need protection, especially at your expense.” It should be the reverse. “Tell me.”

  “Suites 30 and 31—”

  “Are empty.”

  “Not always,” said Seb. “They are used every Saturday night.”

  “By the Army?”

  “By officers, like Barrows and his friends. And contractors—”

  “—and girls,” Moss finished.

  Had there been a regular flock of “low-flying doves” flitting up to the rooms? And had Moss had looked the other way? A paying customer could choose his own guests. But he still should have known better.

  “We did not give them the girls,” Seb offered.

  “We didn’t run a prostitution ring from within the hotel. I’m glad to hear it.”

  Seb frowned. Moss regretted his sharp tongue, no matter what was at stake. He took a breath before speaking again: “What did we give them?”

  “Room service. Cleanup. Discretion. This is how they paid.”

  Moss had to admit it was a neat scheme—but he did not want to go to jail for it. “So you accepted contraband from thieves ‘entertaining’ in stolen rooms? Because that is how our friends at the station will see it.” Actually, since Moss’s regiment had gone home, they had no friends with the police anymore. The new chief was busy proving the chops of his civilian force. Embarrassing Moss and Seb would suit him fine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Seb looked and sounded his age as he responded. “You did not need to know. The city has always been this way—Spanish or American, it is the same.”

  If there was anyone who would know the history of crime in Manila, it would be Seb—but Moss had never imagined the man would go along with any of it. Father, friend, judge—Seb was all three and more.

  “We could end up at Bilibid because of this.” And there were inmates there who would remember Seb and Moss, and they both knew it.

  There was an awkward silence, one that made Moss feel more colonial than he had during his time policing the city.

  “Seb, it’s just that . . .” His friend looked at him expectantly, but Moss did not finish. What could he say? “Never mind.”

  If Seb had not trusted Moss enough to tell him about Barrows, then Moss had not been as good a manager or friend as he wanted to be. He pointed to the shelves. “We have to get rid of all of this by Saturday morning.”

  “We can put it in the stables.”

  “That is the first place they’ll look. And my apartment will be the second.”

  “The Army rooms?”

  Moss laughed at the irony. “No, they will search anywhere Barrows has been.”

  “He never came to my house—”

  “God, Seb, no. The last thing I need is for the Army to seize your house.”

  He had an idea, but it was a long shot. “Let’s send the boys out to gather as much of the kitchen staff as possible.”

  “Gather them here? Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow morning, early. Tell them they will work all day, all night, and the next morning. Pay them a full month’s bonus if you need to. And then tell the boys to leave the dining room as it was for the reception, with one long banquet table.”

  “You want to hide the food under the tables?”

  “On the tables.” Moss smiled when he saw Seb catch on. “It is going to be the best breakfast ever offered at the Oriente—with enough fresh bread to feed an army.”

  Chapter 11

  Balls and Strings

  The next evening, Moss stood in front of room 27. The light under the door was a promising sign, but even so, it was too late for an evening call. At least he brought a peace offering Della would appreciate.

  There was a string that extended from the handle up and over the door. Next to the string was a note in block penmanship: Tug string to knock.

  Moss juggled the heavy tray he carried with one hand and obediently tugged the string with the other. It gave several inches and then snagged. Now what?

  He almost turned back. He could find her tomorrow. He should not be here. She did not want to see him, and he shouldn’t—

  The door opened. Della was fully dressed, which was a relief. Mostly.

  He held out the tray in supplication. “May I bring this in?”

  She turned away, which could be a dismissal if he let it be. He didn’t. He waited.

  When Della noticed he had not followed her into the room, she turned again. “Coming?”

  Moss would have dived into the room had that not risked cacophony. He looked around, saw her notebook on a small table, and set the tray and dome plate down next to it.

  He watched as Della reset her string. A pierced India-rubber ball rested snugly on the thread. The other end was tied to the room’s largest chandelier.

  For his benefit, she pulled the string taut—as he had done from the other side of the door—and it set the ball and crystal bouncing.

  “Genius,” he said.

  “Is it breakfast already?” she asked, looking greedily at the tray.

  It was too early for breakfast and too late for supper. He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit.

  Moss handed her the place card from the tray. Crêpes Suzette with dalandan butter sauce, poached eggs, baked beans, corned beef hash, fresh toast, and eggnog. He removed the cover plate to reveal her banquet.

  “That is the most absurd mix of food I have ever seen,” she said. “Do I smell brandy? Isn’t that extravagant for breakfast?”

  “Let us hope it is popular—and that our cupboard is emptied.”

  “Very clever, Mr. North. Flambéed crêpes.” Della looked at the drink. “And eggnog?”

  “Best way to get rid of the Army’s rum, along with a lot of condensed milk. We are calling it a Continental tour—a special promotion today only.”

  “How much?”

  “A half Mex for as much as your belly can carry.”

  “That’s nothing!”

  “Which is what I hope to have left after the third seating.” The kitchen was busy but under control for the time being, and he had something he wanted to say. “I am sorry for not trusting you.”

  “I should have told you about the arrests earlier.”

  He might not have reacted any better then. “I should have believed your eyes, Della, more than my ears. You knew something was going on. I did not.”

  She picked up her fork and tugged at the crêpe. “Let me see if I will accept your apology.”

  He sat next to her. “Tell me about it.”

  She savored the bite. “I taste something like orange, but a little sour—no, the perfect mix of sweet and sour.”

  “The dalandan,” he said. “Also called bitter orange. We used the peel for marmalade—with lots of sugar.” Because the sugar had to go. He pointed to the dish of marmalade next to the toast. “This is not the most healthful of meals.”

  “Yuf-fu-given,” she said, covering a full mouth.

  “What was that?” But felt his shoulders ease. He liked feeding this woman, and he wanted to do it again.

  “You are lucky I am hungry,” she said after she swallowed.

  “Your stomach is too kind.”

  “My stomach may let you get away with murder.”

  “No, just grand larceny.”

  She laughed that bubbly, slightly-too-loud laugh that made his chest swell. He wanted to hold her, but the food was in his way. So was her notebook. “What are you writing?”

  She
swallowed and set down her fork. “I am drafting my story.”

  She watched him carefully, and he knew that his reaction mattered more than either of them wanted to admit. “You will have the best seat in the house,” he told her. “You will sell it to any paper here, maybe even stateside.”

  She must have sensed his nervousness. “They will not arrest you. You did this cooking caper. It is smart. It will work.” But she still hesitated. “I think they will question others first, not you.”

  “Good.”

  “They might not come here at all,” she added.

  That was too much to hope.

  She took another bite and chewed. “You feel bad for the others.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “I do not know how many people Barrows pressed into taking the contraband as payment.”

  “They will arrest him first, the real criminal.” The rest, she seemed to say, might depend on how much ire Holt directed at Moss. “I will try to keep my grandfather busy.”

  “Thank you.” He looked at her notebook. “May I?”

  She handed it over to him. He read while she ate.

  Interest in the arrival of Congressman Hughes Holt, Representative of the Second District of West Virginia, is well-nigh overshadowed in Manila by sensational developments, present and prospective, of frauds in the commissary department under Captain Frederick J. Barrows of the Thirtieth Volunteer Infantry, quartermaster of the Department of Southern Luzon.

  It is alleged that Barrows, who has been doing a business approximating $100,000 a month, has spent huge sums in entertaining officers and leading a scandalously immoral life. Illicit transactions have been traced back to June 1900, and it is possible that there are others of earlier date. The exorbitant tariff on provisions makes the surreptitious sale of commissary supplies immensely profitable.

  “Can you keep the Oriente out of it?” he asked. “I am sorry, I should not have asked—”

  “I am trying.” She offered him the last bit of crêpe, but he shook his head. “I did not mention where the entertaining was done.”

  “But you know.”

  “I have to put in the part about the scandalously immoral life,” she said in defense. “Newspapers are businesses.”

  So much so that their sensationalist competition over subscriptions had sparked the Spanish-American War. “I dislike their business,” he admitted.

  “So does my grandfather, unless they are writing laudatory things about him.”

  Holt probably believed journalists beneath his family’s notice—yet he also thought Della incapable of raising her own writing to journalism’s standard.

  “The baked beans are quite sweet,” she said.

  “I had a lot of sugar,” he reminded her. “Too sweet?”

  “Right at the line.”

  That is what he thought. “I am hoping to spark a craving for more.”

  “It is working.” Her smile was scandalously immoral, just like Barrow’s lifestyle.

  He blushed.

  She smiled. “I mean the hash, Moss.”

  “The hash.”

  “Mmm . . . yes, this will go first,” she said. “The pork is salty, a nice match with the sweet.”

  “We may never rid the kitchen of the scent.” He picked at his shirt. “I am sure it is a permanent cologne.”

  “Then you will have all the women’s attention.” She laughed again, her eyes squinted nearly shut in their mirth.

  Only when her gaze returned to his lips did he speak. “I just want one woman’s attention.”

  “You have it.” She motioned at her emptying plate.

  He let her finish, her enjoyment an entirely new dish.

  She wiped the plate clean with the toast, the most honest compliment a diner could give. Even Louis, the pompous French chef who had taught him everything he knew, appreciated when his customers could not bear to return a half-cent’s worth of food.

  Moss had to get back to the kitchen. When he stood to leave, though, he extended a hand. “Before I go, may I have this dance?”

  “Is there music?” She looked toward the window, as if he had hired a band. He should have thought of it just so that she could feel the vibrations—though waking the rest of the hotel would have been unwise.

  “You are my music,” he said, bringing her to her feet. When his thumb rubbed the thin fabric of her dress next to her wrist, she looked up at him.

  The gold in her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “Is that what you said to my grandfather?”

  He drew her closer. “Maybe I said that I was falling for you.”

  “Did you?”

  “I would have, had he let me.”

  He drew her hair away from her face and leaned down to kiss her forehead, but she offered her lips instead. After a few closed-mouthed kisses, Moss touched her chin and gently opened her lips. He pressed a little with his tongue. He wanted to eat a whole buffet’s worth of her mouth, but he kept his movements small, deliberate. There was a right and a wrong way to do this. He pulled away.

  “Della,” he began, intending to finish his sentence with some form of the verb to marry. He had been in her room alone for nearly a half-hour, which was both too long and too short for what he was about to ask.

  She reached up and pressed a finger across his lips. “No more talking,” she explained. “It has been a long day of reading faces, and tomorrow will be worse.”

  What could he say to that? He would not force her to read her proposal. “You rest. I—”

  “No,” she said. “That is not what I mean. I do not want to read you, but I still want you.”

  She turned off the electric light, really a glorified candle. Then she extinguished the kerosene lamp, leaving them standing in a fading orange halo. The streetlights from the front of the hotel reached the top corner of the wall, but she could not read Moss’s lips in it. She trusted him enough to be truly deaf. That was a lot of power, and he did not know where to begin.

  She leaned into the comforting space of his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her. “Please,” she whispered.

  He swallowed.

  “Don’t think too much about it,” she said against his skin. “I want to know what it is like. Tell me you know how.”

  He nodded, rubbing his cheek against her temple.

  “I want to know too.”

  Still, he hesitated.

  “I am a grown woman,” she said, anticipating his concern. “I want this to be with you. I expect nothing after.”

  He pulled away and punched the switch on the wall. “I expect something,” he said. But she had closed her eyes—due to disappointment or the fresh light?—so he waited for her to open them. When she did, he said: “I expect something.”

  She looked so tired, and he had promised her a break from lipreading. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” He piled up the dishes and utensils on the tray and covered them with the hood. “Please do not think this is—”

  She turned away.

  He touched her arm. “Della,” he said, even though she was not looking at him.

  She shrugged out of his hold and spoke to the far wall. “It is alright. I know what you think.”

  “No,” he said. He stood still, waiting for her to turn again. When she finally did, her eyelids sagged nearly closed from exhaustion. “That is not it,” he said.

  “You must get ready for the buffet.”

  Dammit, the buffet. “They need me downstairs.” He had only carved out the time to serve one of her appetites. And when he did take her to bed, he would not work under the clock like a lonely potato peeler in front of a mountain of spuds. “After, we could—”

  She looked away, walked to the table, and picked up her notebook.

  He had to hurry off. He lifted the tray and left. Tomorrow Della might find out that his restraint was for the best, especially if his plan did not work.

  Chapter 12

  Clean Plate

  Seb gripped his wrist behind his back as if already in han
dcuffs. “Relax,” the judge told Moss. “This will work.”

  Already a wary clientele of women from the morning market had ventured through the beaded curtain into the dining room, proving that news spread quickly.

  “I do not understand the pricing,” Moss admitted. “We agreed on half a Mex.”

  “Double that if you leave food on your plate,” Seb said. “No leftovers.”

  “But we want them to take more, not less.”

  “We want them to eat more—or slip it into their pockets and carry it out. You think the constables will not search our rubbish?”

  Spoken like a judge who had heard all the secrets of the courtroom. Moss nodded. “We need hungry people, lots of them.”

  Seb tipped his chin at the women taking their seats. They had donned Sunday Mass dresses for Saturday at the Oriente, and their children looked starched within an inch of their life. “They will come.”

  “What do we charge the small fry?” Moss asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “This has to look like a business,” he reminded Seb. “We have to pretend we want to make money off the arrangement.”

  “Keep it simple—the same price for all. We will be busy enough.” Seb rolled his head around to stretch his neck, a habit he had when he was nervous. “It will work,” he repeated.

  “Seb, if it doesn’t, the blame is mine to bear.” Moss turned so that his friend had to meet his eyes. “In fact, go home. An owner would not loiter in the dining room so early on a Saturday.”

  “Once this place fills up, you will need me. You will need three of me.”

  “If anyone asks, though, you knew nothing.”

  “You were the ignorant one, Moses.”

  Seb rarely used Moss’s full name, and the added syllable—that tiny e—was nearly a binding spell. “Neither of us is ignorant of what Bilibid is like,” Moss finally said.

  “Let us not plan for failure,” Seb said.

  “At least I have never seen the staff so happy.” The servers were well-fed and better paid, and they knew the hardest work was behind them. All they had to do now was wash enough plates for new diners.

  Mrs. Cooper arrived with friends whom Moss guessed had been drinking all night in her room. She chose a table almost at his feet. “Mr. North,” she said, “how fortunate the kitchen is open early.”