On the streets of Chinatown, drums thundered and firecrackers sizzled, exploding into pops of light. The Year of the Rabbit had begun. Neighbors crowded onto second-floor balconies. Children watched from fire escapes, eager to see the action below. The crowd was smaller this year; some people still feared the sleeping sickness, even though there’d been no new cases reported. Still, Mr. Levi had come with his grandchildren, who thrilled at the sight of the undulating lion dancers. And Mr. and Mrs. Russo, who ran the pastry shop on Mulberry, had also arrived with several cousins in tow. Everyone clapped and cheered, delighted by the spectacle and the food and the hope of the celebration—a new start was always welcome. Couples handed out red envelopes filled with money, eager for good luck to bless them. Ling tucked hers into her pocket. Later, she’d add it to her college fund. But now there was a banquet to serve. The Tea House was filled with hungry people eager to feast, and the smells of meat and fish, soup and noodles—the best of her father’s kitchen—made Ling’s stomach growl.
Behind the teak screen, Ling poured tea and placed two plates of oranges and a moon cake on the table: one to honor George, the other Wai-Mae.
“Happy New Year,” she whispered.
Jericho dripped with sweat as he drove himself through his daily physical regimen. He collapsed on the floor. Three hundred push-ups. Two hundred pull-ups. His arms didn’t even shake. He made a fist. It was no trouble at all. Silently, he slid open the drawer and took out the leather pouch stashed there beneath his undershirts. The ten empty vials clinked as he unwrapped the strings. Carefully, he removed the stopper in the smaller vial Marlowe had given him, drinking down an ounce of blue serum, enough for the week. Three ounces left. He dropped to the floor and started again.
Evie stepped from a taxi and rushed toward the monolithic WGI building. Her hand was on the door when she heard, from behind, “Look! It’s her!” A trio of excited girls huddled together, pointing and whispering.
Here we go, Evie thought. She braced herself as the girls surged forward, then grew befuddled as they ran right past her. She stepped out onto the street to see where they’d gone. The girls had stopped halfway down the block, where they surrounded Sarah Snow.
“We just adore you, Miss Snow,” one of the girls chirped.
Sarah beamed. “Bless you all,” she said and signed their autograph books.
Henry walked into the Huffstadler Publishing Company wearing a new jacket and holding tightly to the sliver of jade Ling had given him with a curt “Don’t lose this.”
Behind his desk, David Cohn greeted Henry with a raised eyebrow. “Back for more abuse?”
“I hope not. I wanted to leave my card in case you hear of somebody looking for a rehearsal pianist. I quit the Follies.”
“That was either very brave or very dumb. Let’s go with brave,” David said.
From behind Huffstadler’s closed office door, they could hear the publisher berating the Amazing Reynaldo—“What kind of two-bit Diviner can’t even let a man with a mistress know that his wife is on the way up?”
Henry and David both grinned.
“Well, thank you,” Henry said, tipping his boater.
“Say, Mr. DuBois. I know of a place that sometimes needs piano players. It’s a club down in the Village, the Dandy Gentleman.” David gave Henry a meaningful look. “You know it?”
Henry nodded. “I do. Swell place for a certain kind of fella.”
“Are you a certain kind of fella?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“A certain kind of fella. There’s a show there tonight, starting around eleven thirty.”
“What a coincidence.” Henry smiled. “It’s possible I might be there around eleven thirty tonight.”
As Henry bounded down the steps, the first few bars of a song began to take shape in his head. “A certain kind of fella…” he sang, and flicked the jade like a coin, catching it cleanly again and again, feeling like a man whose luck was turning for the good.
Sam grabbed the day’s mail at the museum, grimacing at the scary-looking notice from the New York State Office of Taxation. He stopped when he came to the envelope addressed to Sam Lloyd—no return address, no name, no stamp. Sam found a letter opener and slit through the envelope’s top. An article from the morning’s paper fluttered out. It was a brief notice about a man who’d been found under a small hill of powdery coal waste out at the Corona Ash Dump along the Flushing River. The man, who had been strangled, had nothing on him except for a receipt from a radio shop on Cortlandt Street and a motor vehicle operator’s license for one Mr. Ben Arnold.