Page 120 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Boone,” Lula repeats, sharper now.

“I know how to talk to mothers.”

Okee makes a sound behind me, half laugh, half pity.

“You do not know how to talk to my mother,” Lula says.

I don’t stop.

The hallway outside the Aces Suite is lit low and gold. Music thumps up from below, piano and laughter and boots striking wood. Somewhere, a woman shrieks with delight. I stroll above all of it in my bare feet and borrowed robe.

Okee catches up first. “This is not a strategy.”

“No,” I say. “It’s talking.”

Lula moves on my other side, close enough to grab my sleeve if she decides to. “You cannot charm her.”

“I ain’t planning to charm her.”

“What are you planning?”

I glance down at her. She looks flushed and furious and worried, and the sight of it near splits me in two.

“Planning to ask.”

Her mouth opens, then shuts.

We pass the stairwell and turn down the narrow corridor toward the back rooms. The air changes here. Less perfume. Less smoke. More ink and lamp oil and old wood. The happy noise of the Gemini turns muffled, like we have stepped behind the face of the place and into the skull.

At the far end, a door opens.

A man steps out.

He is a hard-looking son of a bitch. Scar cut pale through one eyebrow. Beard rough as a horse brush. Shoulders wide enough to fill the frame. His coat hangs open, and I catch the shape of a pistol at his hip before his hand falls to cover it.

At first, I think he might be trouble.

Then I see his face.

Lord.

This man looks like he just got broke over his momma’s knee. His gaze drifts over us without finding purchase. His hat is crushed in one fist, brim bent near double.

He looks at Lula. Then at Okee. Then at me, standing here barefoot and robed in a whorehouse hallway like I made this place my private residence.

I watch him go, then lift a hand and knock before either of them can stop me. Three taps. Firm.

The hallway settles into an uneasy quiet.

From inside comes Goldie Eld’s brassy voice. “Come in.”

So I open the door.

A desk with neat stacks of paper laid out like playing cards. There is a bottle of amber liquor near her elbow, untouched, and a silver letter opener glinting beneath her hand.

Goldie does not look up right away.

“Well look what we have here. One of my daughter’s handsome lovers.”