ponytail. “Hair like hers?”
A few smiles. The women kept twisting the stems.
Didn’t they understand? Did they think she was crazy? Or both?
But she had an idea.
She rooted in her bag. Found the red velvet jewelry box she’d forgotten to give back to René. Held it up.
“Meizi forgot her birthday present.” She cleared her throat and sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Meizi …”
More smiles. One woman nudged the pixie-haired woman next to her, who smiled.
“Meizi Wu,” she said, pointing to herself.
A joke? But no one laughed.
“I mean Meizi Wu, who worked for Ching Wao.”
She nodded. “Me.”
Another idea flat on the dirt. Aimée shook her head. “
Desolée
, but …”
“You look.” In her silk-stained hand, the woman held a
carte de séjour
. It showed her photo with the name Meizi Wu, and the same address on rue au Maire. The luggage store.
Startled, Aimée leaned forward. As Aram had said, no one was who they said they were. Yet she could work this for information.
Aimée took out the luminous pearl ring. “
Belle
, eh? It’s for the other Meizi. Give me Ching Wao’s number, okay? I want to tell him.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know, or don’t want to tell me?”
“Boss call him.” Her face was blank now, no longer smiling.
But she had to get information. Something. “Where do you sleep?”
She pointed to the address.
“No, you don’t. Tell me the truth.” Aimée set the ring back in the box.
“You say you give me.” Her eyes teared, and Aimée’s heart clenched.
“We live at Chinese evangelical church,” said the woman next to her in accented but proficient French.
“Who are you?”
“Nina’s my French name,” she said. “We’re Christian. We study and pray with a pastor, who gives us a dormitory. No one works for Ching Wao, if they can avoid it.”
“But these flowers—”
“Bad times now,” Nina interrupted. “We do piecework. Have to.” She paused. “Ching Wao’s contact gave her this card yesterday. Our families pay lots of money in China for this. We don’t ask questions. You’ll give her the ring?”
“Cash is more useful.” Aimée pressed a hundred francs into the girl’s hands. “But she got a raw deal with that card. The
flics
suspect Meizi Wu in last night’s murder on rue au Maire. Or didn’t Ching Wao tell you?”
Nina spoke rapidly in Chinese to the increasingly frightened-looking girls.
“Something bad might have happened to the other Meizi,” Aimée said. “I need to find Ching Wao.”
“No one knows where he goes.”
Great.
“Can’t you think back, remember something, anything? What if she’s hurt, or being held prisoner?”
Nina shook her head. “Bad people. Better stay away. You’re a French woman. You don’t know.”
Like that made a difference to Meizi? Aimée wanted to shake this woman.
“But Ching Wao pays all of you centimes while he makes thousands of francs,” she said, her voice rising. “A man extorts money from this girl’s family for the
carte de séjour
of a murder suspect? But you think I don’t know, or can’t understand, or not want to help?”
Her speech was met by silence, broken only by the clicking of wire and shushing noises of silk. A chill went up her spine. She turned around.
A Chinese woman stood with Styrofoam containers of takeout food, glaring at her.
“Private business,” she said. “You better leave. We have a permit to work here.”
Aimée doubted that. But she was tired of seeing fake papers and arguing with people who would disappear.
She left another hundred francs by the girl’s leg, then stood and made her way out.
In the dank passageway, she felt a tug on her coat sleeve.
Nina pulled her close. “Ching Wao gets girls from Tso, a snakehead. Bad teeth. Everyone knows him on rue au Maire.”
And then she’d gone.
“T OUGH GOING , R ENÉ . The two sweatshops I checked out were dead
A few smiles. The women kept twisting the stems.
Didn’t they understand? Did they think she was crazy? Or both?
But she had an idea.
She rooted in her bag. Found the red velvet jewelry box she’d forgotten to give back to René. Held it up.
“Meizi forgot her birthday present.” She cleared her throat and sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Meizi …”
More smiles. One woman nudged the pixie-haired woman next to her, who smiled.
“Meizi Wu,” she said, pointing to herself.
A joke? But no one laughed.
“I mean Meizi Wu, who worked for Ching Wao.”
She nodded. “Me.”
Another idea flat on the dirt. Aimée shook her head. “
Desolée
, but …”
“You look.” In her silk-stained hand, the woman held a
carte de séjour
. It showed her photo with the name Meizi Wu, and the same address on rue au Maire. The luggage store.
Startled, Aimée leaned forward. As Aram had said, no one was who they said they were. Yet she could work this for information.
Aimée took out the luminous pearl ring. “
Belle
, eh? It’s for the other Meizi. Give me Ching Wao’s number, okay? I want to tell him.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know, or don’t want to tell me?”
“Boss call him.” Her face was blank now, no longer smiling.
But she had to get information. Something. “Where do you sleep?”
She pointed to the address.
“No, you don’t. Tell me the truth.” Aimée set the ring back in the box.
“You say you give me.” Her eyes teared, and Aimée’s heart clenched.
“We live at Chinese evangelical church,” said the woman next to her in accented but proficient French.
“Who are you?”
“Nina’s my French name,” she said. “We’re Christian. We study and pray with a pastor, who gives us a dormitory. No one works for Ching Wao, if they can avoid it.”
“But these flowers—”
“Bad times now,” Nina interrupted. “We do piecework. Have to.” She paused. “Ching Wao’s contact gave her this card yesterday. Our families pay lots of money in China for this. We don’t ask questions. You’ll give her the ring?”
“Cash is more useful.” Aimée pressed a hundred francs into the girl’s hands. “But she got a raw deal with that card. The
flics
suspect Meizi Wu in last night’s murder on rue au Maire. Or didn’t Ching Wao tell you?”
Nina spoke rapidly in Chinese to the increasingly frightened-looking girls.
“Something bad might have happened to the other Meizi,” Aimée said. “I need to find Ching Wao.”
“No one knows where he goes.”
Great.
“Can’t you think back, remember something, anything? What if she’s hurt, or being held prisoner?”
Nina shook her head. “Bad people. Better stay away. You’re a French woman. You don’t know.”
Like that made a difference to Meizi? Aimée wanted to shake this woman.
“But Ching Wao pays all of you centimes while he makes thousands of francs,” she said, her voice rising. “A man extorts money from this girl’s family for the
carte de séjour
of a murder suspect? But you think I don’t know, or can’t understand, or not want to help?”
Her speech was met by silence, broken only by the clicking of wire and shushing noises of silk. A chill went up her spine. She turned around.
A Chinese woman stood with Styrofoam containers of takeout food, glaring at her.
“Private business,” she said. “You better leave. We have a permit to work here.”
Aimée doubted that. But she was tired of seeing fake papers and arguing with people who would disappear.
She left another hundred francs by the girl’s leg, then stood and made her way out.
In the dank passageway, she felt a tug on her coat sleeve.
Nina pulled her close. “Ching Wao gets girls from Tso, a snakehead. Bad teeth. Everyone knows him on rue au Maire.”
And then she’d gone.
“T OUGH GOING , R ENÉ . The two sweatshops I checked out were dead
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