“This night will never end,” George Huang said, suddenly beside Ling with yet another pot of tea from the kitchen. He was Ling’s age and as skinny as a greyhound.
“You could always lock the door,” Ling said.
“And have your father fire me?” George shook his head and poured Ling a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” Ling said.
George gave a half smile and a shrug. “You need to keep your strength up.”
The door opened, and a trio of girls entered the restaurant, their cold breath trailing misty white tails.
“Is that Lee Fan Lin?” George said, staring at the prettiest, a girl with red lips and a Marcel Wave bob. Quickly, George put down the teapot and smoothed a hand through his hair.
“George. Don’t—” Ling started, but George was already waving Lee Fan over.
Quietly, Ling swore an oath as Lee Fan broke from the group and glided past the lacquered tables and potted ferns toward the back, the panels of her beaded dress swishing from side to side. Lee Fan ran with what Ling’s mother called “a fast crowd.” Her mother did not say it admiringly.
“Hello, Georgie. Ling!” Lee Fan said, taking a seat.
George grabbed a cup from a tray. “Would you care for tea, Lee Fan?”
Lee Fan laughed. “Oh, Georgie. Call me Lulu, won’t you?”
Lee Fan had taken to calling herself that after Louise Brooks, a crime of affectation that Ling placed on a par with people who hugged in greeting. Ling did not hug. George stole glances at Lee Fan as he poured her tea. Ling knew for a fact that Lee Fan could have her pick of beaus, and her pick would not be gangly, studious George Huang. Boys could be so stupid sometimes, and George was no exception.
Lee Fan pretended to be interested in Ling’s stack of library books. “What are you reading now?”
“Ways to poison without detection,” Ling muttered.
Lee Fan examined the books one by one: Physics for Students. The ABC of Atoms. Atoms and Rays. “Oooh, Jake Marlowe, the Great American,” she said, holding up the last one.
“Ling’s hero. She wants to work for him someday.” George tried for a laugh but snorted instead. Ling wanted to tell him that snorting was not the way to win any girl’s heart.
“What did you want, Lee Fan?” Ling asked.
Lee Fan leaned in. “I need your help. My blue dress is missing.”
Ling raised an eyebrow and waited for the words that might make her care.
“My aunt and uncle had it made for me in Shanghai. It’s my best dress,” Lee Fan said.
Ling managed a patient face. “Do you think you lost it in a dream?”
“Of course not!” Lee Fan snapped. She glanced back at the girls standing up front, waiting for her like good little followers. “But just the other day, Gracie was over to listen to my jazz records, and you know how the old girl is, always asking to borrow my things. I saw her eyeing my dress, which was certainly too small for her, what with those big shoulders of hers. Anyway, that night, when I went to look for it, it was gone,” Lee Fan said, adjusting her scarf as if its asymmetry were her greatest concern. “Naturally, Gracie claims she doesn’t have it, but I’m sure she took it.”
Up front, big-shouldered Gracie Leung examined her fingernails, none the wiser.
“What do you want me to do about it?” Ling asked.
“I want you to speak to my grandmother in one of your little dream walks. I want to know the truth.”
“You want me to try to reach your grandmother to find your dress?” Ling said slowly.
“It’s very expensive,” Lee Fan insisted.
“Very well,” Ling said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “But you should know that the dead don’t always want to talk to you. I can only try. Second, they don’t know everything, and their answers can be vague at best. Do you accept the terms?”
Lee Fan waved away Ling’s admonitions. “Yes, fine, fine.”
“That will be five dollars.”
Lee Fan’s mouth rounded in shock. “That’s outrageous!”
It was, of course. But Ling always started the bargaining high—and even higher if the request was downright stupid, which Lee Fan’s was. Ling shrugged once more. “You’d spend that for a night at the Fallen Angel.”
“At least with the Fallen Angel, I know what I’m getting,” Lee Fan snarled.
Ling concentrated on creasing a napkin seam long and slow with a thumbnail. “Suit yourself.”
“The dead don’t come cheap,” George said, trying for a joke.