Crooked Hearts (31 page)

You don’t know the half, she thought. Then again, he probably did.

“How do you know all this?” asked Reuben.

Ah You spread his hands. “How does deer in forest find green grass in winter? How does ant build city? How does wood thrush know storm is coming?”

Reuben stared at him, flummoxed.

The houseboy took the teacup out of his hand, humming approval when he saw it was empty. “Lunch today, make you turnip dumpling. Good comfort for internal organs.” When he bowed, his long queue slipped over the shoulder of his red flannel shirt. He backed up, still bowing, then turned and padded into the house in silent cloth slippers.

Reuben said, “I can’t figure him out,” shifting on the railing to ease his hip.

“He doesn’t want you to figure him out.”

“You know what he said this morning? I couldn’t find my handkerchief, I’d mislaid it, and he said, ‘Look in nightshirt.’ Sure enough, there it was in the pocket. ‘How’d you know it was there?’ I asked. Guess what he said.”

“What?”

“‘Wind sough in pine tree same as willow, but one-eyed wolf still sleep soundly.’ What the hell does that
mean?”

“Nothing, I’m sure,” Grace answered, laughing. “He loves to make up profound sayings that turn out to be gibberish. He drives Henry insane.” Reuben smiled; that pleased him. “He likes you, though,” she added.

“Who, Henry or—”

“Ah You. He didn’t trust you at first, but now he does.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can tell.” He’d said so the night he’d given her a lecture on the necessity of male and female mating calls in song sparrows; the species would die out, he maintained, if either bird was too shy or too proud to let the other know it was interested in mating—all this in the halting Pidgin English he affected, of course, to make the moral sound more mystical and profound. But the message wasn’t very subtle this time; he hadn’t couched it in enough gibberish: he thought Grace had something important to say to Reuben, but she was too scared to say it. Which was absolutely ridiculous. She had
nothing
to say to him. If anybody had anything to say to anybody, it was Reuben who ought to be saying it to
her.

“Where did Ah You come from, Grace?” he asked.

Why was he being so talkative? “I’m not really sure. He’s been with Henry for years. I know he’s got a lot of cousins in San Francisco, and I know he worked on the Pacific Railroad back in the seventies, but that’s about all. He never talks about himself.”

“He’s very protective of you.”

She nodded. Sometimes Ah You was downright maternal. She got up from the railing, surprised to see how high the sun had risen. “It’s getting late—”

“Don’t go yet.”

She stilled, staring down at the hand Reuben had put over hers. A breathless moment passed, and then he let go. Her heart finally stopped hammering; she was able to look up at him with a pretense of calm. What she saw in his eyes only confused her more, though: it looked almost like tenderness. But how could it be? She licked her lips and asked as carelessly as she could, “Did you want to say something to me?”

His features seemed to sharpen; something significant happened behind his eyes, but for the life of her she couldn’t put a name to it. In the end he said, “I—just wanted to ask you why it’s failing.”

“What?”

“The farm, why the farm is failing. It looks so fertile.”

She followed his troubled gaze across the border of acacias and pepper trees to the sloping wheat fields in the distance, fallow this year, gently rising toward the unkempt orchard and the wild, uncultivated uplands beyond. “It’s not Henry’s fault,” she said defensively.

He swung away from her. “I didn’t say it was.”

“It’s just that he’s not a farmer. I’m not either, I guess, although I haven’t tried very hard to be one. I wish now I
had
tried,” she said bitterly, “instead of getting involved in schemes.”

He whirled back around, shocked. “You sound like a reforming character!”

“No, I’m not,” she denied automatically. The very idea. “I’m
not.
All I know is, we’re going to lose everything in a month unless we come up with … some money.”

“How much money?”

She hesitated only a second, then confessed. “Five thousand, eight hundred dollars.” Odd, considering what a scoundrel he was, that she felt relatively safe telling Reuben the details of her finances. She guessed it was only her heart she didn’t trust him with.

He whistled.

“Henry had a scheme that took all our savings, and it fell through.”

“What kind of scheme?”

“Fake mineral rights. It was complicated, I never really understood it. Anyway, now there’s nothing left. This spring we had to let our last two farm hands go.”

“What are you going to do?”

She looked away. “I don’t know.” The old depression threatened, but she rallied. “Henry will think of something. Whenever things look really bleak, that’s when he comes up with his best schemes.” She smiled determinedly. “It never fails. Henry always—”

“Shut up.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just
shut
the hell up.”

She bristled like an angry cat. “What on earth is the—”

“What the hell kind of a woman are you?”

She began to sputter, completely bewildered. “What’s
wrong
with you? Have you gone crazy?”

“Don’t you have any conscience? Hell, of course you don’t, what am I saying? But—Jesus Christ, Grace, doesn’t
anything
mean anything to you?”

She hauled back to punch him, but he grabbed her loose, harmless fist and flung it sideways. With the most pained, most tortured look on his face, he jerked her to him in a steely, unbreakable embrace and kissed her. His body was hard and angry, his hands almost violent, until the moment when he sensed her perfect willingness. Then his mouth softened and his kiss turned unbearably gentle. He still had her arms pinned down, so all she could hold onto was his hips. A thought skittered through her addled brain—
This makes no sense whatsoever
—but she didn’t let it distract her. All that mattered right now was Reuben’s mouth, and his restless hands, and the lean, hard feel of his body against hers. Starving, weak with wanting, she took what he could give her, and gave him everything she had.

Even though she’d been half expecting it, she still gasped when he let her go, suddenly and not very gently, holding onto her arms but pushing her away from him. “What are you doing to me?” he had the gall to ask.

“What am—”

“What kind of man do you think I am, Grace?” He shook her—
shook
her—and demanded, “Do you think I’ll
settle
for this?”

Gnashing her teeth, trying to strain out of his grip, she made an anguished sound in the back of her throat. Then the damn tears started, turning his face into a blur.

Immediately his hands softened. “Ah, Gus,” he whispered, “don’t do that.”

Gus? He could call her
Gus
after what he’d done? The name nobody ever called her but him, the name that called to mind all the—the
sweetness
between them before he’d betrayed it because—because—she had no idea why!

“Don’t call me that,” she cried, and his arms fell away. “Don’t ever call me that again or you’ll be sorry.” His face turned into a rigid mask; he made a grating sound that was supposed to be derisive laughter. No point in trying to hit him again; he was expecting it. “I don’t understand you,” she threw at him—her final insult. She backed away to the garden path, spun around, and ran.

15

Misery loves company, but company does not reciprocate.—Addison Mizner

R
EUBEN STOOD PLANTED IN
the middle of the sunny terrace, staring around with angry, jaundiced eyes at the weather-stained furniture and the great tubs of flowers and herbs. In his mind, he seized the nearest chair and smashed it against the stone railing, upsetting a giant pot of begonias. Clay shattered; black dirt scattered everywhere. He imagined grabbing another chair and battering it against the table until nothing was left but a stump of wood in his hand. He picked up the table next (an impossibility; it must weigh two hundred pounds) and heaved it through the closed glass doors to the living room. Crash! Glass everywhere, a million fragments glittering in the sunshine.

A miniature lemon tree sat in a tub on the terrace steps. He saw himself yanking it out by the roots, tramping inside, and smearing the ball of muddy dirt into the carpet with his bare feet. No, not his bare feet—there was broken glass everywhere. With his boots. Back outside, he dropped into one of the two remaining chairs and plunked his muddy boots down in the other. He was exhausted.

Imaginary mayhem was a trick he’d used to cope with frustration for years; since childhood, really. It always helped. It helped now—he didn’t want to wring Grace’s neck quite as much—but he wasn’t cured. What he needed was a drink.

The house was dim and cool; the thick, glass-free carpet felt pleasant on his bare feet. A library table against the left-hand wall of the living room served as a liquor cabinet; he’d seen Henry mix himself plenty of drinks from it, but this would be the first alcohol that he, Reuben, had drunk since before his injury—Ah You’s orders. Whiskey, rye, sherry, gin—aha, bourbon. He found a glass and poured himself a generous three fingers, ignoring the pitcher of water.

“Good God, man, it’s ten o’clock in the morning! Pour me one, will you? No good to drink alone.”

Reuben whirled, spilling bourbon on the floor. Henry sat with his feet up behind a cluttered-desk in the far corner of the room, a pen in his hand, engaging grin on his handsome face. No disguise today; he wore a collarless pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up, navy striped trousers, and tartan plaid braces. Reuben peered at him for a long time, debating whether to make him a drink or challenge him to a duel. If he challenged him to a duel, he might choose swords. Splashing bourbon into another glass, Reuben marched over and smacked it down on Henry’s desk.

“Thanks.” Henry lifted his glass for a little toast, but Reuben ignored the gesture and swallowed down a big slug of liquor, setting his throat on fire. When his eyes stopped watering, he saw a crafty look come over Henry’s features. “Want to see something?”

He shrugged.

Henry took his feet off the desk, unlocked the knee-hole drawer, removed a square tin box, and opened it. It was full of money.

Reuben went closer, sat down on the edge of the desk. “Well, now,” he said cautiously.

Henry cackled. “Nice, huh? All tens. Four hundred of ’em. Here, have a feel.”

Surprised, he took the bundle of bills Henry handed him. “Very nice,” he said perfunctorily, and was about to hand it back when something about the heft of the bundle arrested him. Too light. He peeled off the top tenner and held it up to the window. A reluctant smile twitched at his lips. “Not enough cotton,” he judged, squinting. “The inking’s good, though. Nice seal work, nice corners. Who did it?”

Henry took the money back, a little peeved. “Fellow named Smith.”

“Ah, Smith.”

“It’s not bad, though, for a first effort.” He sounded defensive.

“Not bad at all. Grace know about this?” Reuben asked casually.

“Hell, no, and she’d kill me if she found out. This isn’t her sort of thing. No, not her sort of thing at all.”

“Why not?” he asked, but he hated hearing Henry talk about Grace; hated the intimacy of the things Henry knew about her and he didn’t.

“Too risky. Plus she’s against anything that might involve the government. I try to tell her that’s un-American, but she won’t listen. Cigar? Why don’t you sit down in a chair?”

Reuben hesitated, then took the proffered stogie. What was going on? Henry acted as if he wanted to be friends. Out of the question. Under different circumstances, maybe. Possibly. He wasn’t all bad, after all; in fact, he had a few undeniably good qualities. Funny how, up to a point, Reuben felt most comfortable with people he couldn’t trust. He knew where he stood with them, and they didn’t excite any unrealistic expectations. Then again, he’d been attracted to Grace in the beginning for that very reason—that he couldn’t trust her—and look where that had gotten him. Life was getting too damn complicated.

Two hours and four shots of bourbon later, life seemed a lot simpler. Take Henry, for example. True, he’d stolen Reuben’s girl—sort of; actually, Reuben had stolen her from him before he’d stolen her back—but still, once you got to know him, Henry was a helluva fellow. He’d been employed in Reuben’s line of work for better than thirty years, and he knew everything. He was a master, and Reuben, by contrast, was a journeyman apprentice, a mere acolyte. It was fascinating to sit, figuratively speaking, at the master’s feet and listen to his rich confidence lore, stories of brilliant bunco successes interspersed with his philosophy on greed, gullibility, and the art of flim-flammery. In a vague way, Reuben had always known that his life’s work was an art, but somehow Henry raised it even higher than that to something mysterious and sublime, something … metaphysical. Then again, maybe it was the bourbon.

At noon, Reuben declined a sixth shot and suggested they have lunch. He’d been about equally hoping and dreading that Grace would join them; when she didn’t, he couldn’t decide if he was sorry or relieved. After the meal, the men returned to the living room, where Henry told Ah You they were out of bourbon and Reuben asked for a cup of coffee.

“You play cards?” Henry asked innocently.

He might be nursing a sleepy afternoon hangover, but Reuben wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t recognize that tone of voice. Hadn’t he used it often enough himself on a hundred greenhorn sheep? “Oh, a little,” he answered, nonchalant.

The battle was on.

Henry’s game was “Flinch,” a form of liar’s poker for two that Reuben knew by the name of “Bull’s-eye.” Same game, same exhilarating opportunities to cheat. Hand after hand they played to a draw, until Reuben’s eyes started to cross. “How long have you known Grace?” he heard himself ask during a lull.