to—”
“You no po-lee,” the peddler said again. “You want hok gup, yeah?”
“We want
whati”
I said.
“Hok gup,” the cabbage man said. “Black . . .” Words failed him—English ones, anyway—so he tried pantomime instead, pushing his hands together and flapping his fingers.
“Black . . . bunny?” Gustav guessed.
“Bunny?” I said. “How in the world do you get ‘bunny’ outta that?”
“Well, he’s doin’ floppy ears, ain’t he?”
“Naw. It’s more like he’s diggin’ or something.” I turned back to the Chinaman. “Black gopher?”
The peddler shook his head in frustration and brought his still-fluttering hands up over his head.
“Black
bird”
Diana said.
The Chinaman nodded, shooting me a glare as he dropped his hands. “Sorry,” I said. “Usually I’m pretty good at this game.”
“Hold on,” Old Red said. “This feller’s tryin’ to sell us a
crow?
”
Diana ignored him. “Why do you think we want the hok gup—the black bird?” she asked the cabbage man.
He pointed at the building behind us. “With Gee Woo Chan. But now . . .”
He spread his hands out and shrugged, and there was no mistaking what his gesture meant this time.
Who can say where it’s gone?
And his widening smile provided the answer.
I can
.
“So . . . what is it
you
want, mister?” Gustav asked.
The peddler walked back to his cart and inspected his wares. After a moment’s consideration, he picked up the limpest, brownest, wormiest-looking cabbage and waved it over his head.
“You buy!”
“Well, there’s a stroke of luck, at least,” Diana said. “As extortionists go, he’s pretty cheap.”
“Brother,” Old Red said, “go buy us a cabbage—and whatever else we can get.”
“Right.”
I straightened up and went striding toward the man, digging a hand into my pocket as I went. When we were toe to toe, I offered him a nice shiny dime.
“There you are. You can keep the change—and the cabbage, too. Just tell me . . . what?”
The Chinaman was shaking his head, and he brought up his free hand and spread three fingers wide.
“Thirty cents?” I groaned. “Oh, come on. That moldy thing ain’t worth a plug nickel.”
The cabbage man shook the fingers at my face.
“No!” he barked. “Three
dollah
!”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
“Shut up, the both of you,” Old Red snapped in that hoarse, whispery way that cuts through you quicker than a holler—because you know folks only use it when trouble’s coming.
And trouble
was
coming, clomping down the stairs inside wearing brown brogans and tweed trousers. And a badge, too, I knew, though I couldn’t yet see anything above the knee.
I didn’t have to—I recognized those big, clunky shoes. They were the ones the Coolietown Crusader had been so tempted to plant up our behinds not half an hour before.
It was looking like they might get there yet.
11
HIDE AND PEEK
Or, Old Red Spots a Double Cross of Note
The cabbage man did us the favor of dropping his voice—though not his price—as Sgt. Mahoney came down the stairs inside.
“
Five
dollah.”
It was a whole new haggle now. The Chinaman wasn’t just peddling information (or a crappy old cabbage) anymore. He was selling silence, and it was most definitely a seller’s market.
Through the window, I could see Mahoney—or his feet, anyway—stomp down a couple more steps, then stop.
“Move it, would ya?” the copper said, twisting around to face someone at the top of the stairs. “We don’t get outside soon, I’ll never get this stink off of my suit.”
I turned back to the cabbage man, jammed my hands in my pockets, and pulled out every coin and crumpled greenback I had. It wouldn’t add up to five bucks, I knew, but I was hoping the sheer size of the wad would be too tempting to pass up.
“Here. Take it all. Just get to talkin’ quick—and quiet.”
The peddler took my money with one hand. The other he used to jab the
“You no po-lee,” the peddler said again. “You want hok gup, yeah?”
“We want
whati”
I said.
“Hok gup,” the cabbage man said. “Black . . .” Words failed him—English ones, anyway—so he tried pantomime instead, pushing his hands together and flapping his fingers.
“Black . . . bunny?” Gustav guessed.
“Bunny?” I said. “How in the world do you get ‘bunny’ outta that?”
“Well, he’s doin’ floppy ears, ain’t he?”
“Naw. It’s more like he’s diggin’ or something.” I turned back to the Chinaman. “Black gopher?”
The peddler shook his head in frustration and brought his still-fluttering hands up over his head.
“Black
bird”
Diana said.
The Chinaman nodded, shooting me a glare as he dropped his hands. “Sorry,” I said. “Usually I’m pretty good at this game.”
“Hold on,” Old Red said. “This feller’s tryin’ to sell us a
crow?
”
Diana ignored him. “Why do you think we want the hok gup—the black bird?” she asked the cabbage man.
He pointed at the building behind us. “With Gee Woo Chan. But now . . .”
He spread his hands out and shrugged, and there was no mistaking what his gesture meant this time.
Who can say where it’s gone?
And his widening smile provided the answer.
I can
.
“So . . . what is it
you
want, mister?” Gustav asked.
The peddler walked back to his cart and inspected his wares. After a moment’s consideration, he picked up the limpest, brownest, wormiest-looking cabbage and waved it over his head.
“You buy!”
“Well, there’s a stroke of luck, at least,” Diana said. “As extortionists go, he’s pretty cheap.”
“Brother,” Old Red said, “go buy us a cabbage—and whatever else we can get.”
“Right.”
I straightened up and went striding toward the man, digging a hand into my pocket as I went. When we were toe to toe, I offered him a nice shiny dime.
“There you are. You can keep the change—and the cabbage, too. Just tell me . . . what?”
The Chinaman was shaking his head, and he brought up his free hand and spread three fingers wide.
“Thirty cents?” I groaned. “Oh, come on. That moldy thing ain’t worth a plug nickel.”
The cabbage man shook the fingers at my face.
“No!” he barked. “Three
dollah
!”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
“Shut up, the both of you,” Old Red snapped in that hoarse, whispery way that cuts through you quicker than a holler—because you know folks only use it when trouble’s coming.
And trouble
was
coming, clomping down the stairs inside wearing brown brogans and tweed trousers. And a badge, too, I knew, though I couldn’t yet see anything above the knee.
I didn’t have to—I recognized those big, clunky shoes. They were the ones the Coolietown Crusader had been so tempted to plant up our behinds not half an hour before.
It was looking like they might get there yet.
11
HIDE AND PEEK
Or, Old Red Spots a Double Cross of Note
The cabbage man did us the favor of dropping his voice—though not his price—as Sgt. Mahoney came down the stairs inside.
“
Five
dollah.”
It was a whole new haggle now. The Chinaman wasn’t just peddling information (or a crappy old cabbage) anymore. He was selling silence, and it was most definitely a seller’s market.
Through the window, I could see Mahoney—or his feet, anyway—stomp down a couple more steps, then stop.
“Move it, would ya?” the copper said, twisting around to face someone at the top of the stairs. “We don’t get outside soon, I’ll never get this stink off of my suit.”
I turned back to the cabbage man, jammed my hands in my pockets, and pulled out every coin and crumpled greenback I had. It wouldn’t add up to five bucks, I knew, but I was hoping the sheer size of the wad would be too tempting to pass up.
“Here. Take it all. Just get to talkin’ quick—and quiet.”
The peddler took my money with one hand. The other he used to jab the
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