Thirteen Orphans (8 page)
“That’s right,” Dad said, getting to his feet and putting out his hand. “I’m Gaheris Morris, and this is my daughter, Brenda. I was wondering if you had time to talk.”
“I’m working,” Riprap replied politely, shaking Dad’s hand, then Brenda’s. His fingers were dry and she could feel calluses. “I get off when the club closes, but that’s not so late during the week, usually about eleven.”
“Do you get a break?” Dad asked.
“Just had one.”
Dad nodded, and Brenda could almost see him deciding he had to put his cards on the table. Knowing Dad, he’d have chosen which ones with care.
“Mr. Adolphus,” Dad said, “this is going to sound ridiculous and melodramatic, but I was wondering if you would do me the favor of making sure you don’t go anywhere alone until I have a chance to speak with you. I’ve come all the way from California for the express purpose of doing so.”
Riprap’s polite expression flickered, incredulity showing for a moment. Then he became very, almost too, polite.
“And might I ask why?”
“I have reason to know you may be in danger,” Dad said, and Brenda could practically feel him pouring all the force of his personality behind the statement. “I came here to warn you, and to explain, but I understand you need to finish your night’s work. Brenda and I will wait, and, if you will permit, we will speak with you after closing.”
This time Riprap grinned, a broad, friendly grin that balanced disbelief and amusement.
“Well, if you’ve come all this way to warn me, least I can do is listen. I usually need time to wind down anyhow. I’ll meet you out front a bit after eleven.”
Brenda was feeling the drag of two long days, but the music was lively enough to keep her going. She switched to coffee rather than tea, and convinced her dad that a slice of incredibly dense chocolate cake was a necessity, even at a price that would buy an entire cake at the grocery store.
To Brenda’s surprise—she was sitting there with her dad, after all—she got several offers to dance. While she was laughing and joking with her various partners, working her way into the unfamiliar dance steps, she took the opportunity to observe Riprap going about his job.
He seemed to be a bouncer, but a bouncer like none Brenda had ever seen before. He broke up one fight just by looking at the two men, and managed to walk one particularly obnoxious drunk out in such a way that Brenda bet that the man thought leaving was his own idea.
A kicking-scratching match between two overly made-up women gave Riprap a little more of a challenge. He didn’t seem to want to risk laying hands on them, but he convinced the floridly handsome young man in the oversized cowboy hat who was one of the young women’s escorts that he really needed to get his date out into the air.
Brenda didn’t hear a word of what Riprap said to convince the other man. It was like watching a silent movie, but she had enough imagination to provide the dialogue.
The end result was that when the band finished playing and the club started clearing out, Brenda found herself anticipating rather than dreading talking to Mr. Charles “Riprap” Adolphus.
She’d seen Riprap glance their way from time to time as the evening had stretched on, and she guessed that he was pretty curious about them, too.
Riprap met them out in front of the club about a quarter after eleven.
“There’s lots of places that will still be open,” he said, “if you want to grab a cup of coffee and tell me what this is about.”
“Sounds good,” Gaheris said. “Lead on.”
Brenda’s nerves were already jangling from too much coffee, so when they got to the all-night diner she ordered a milkshake instead. It came in a tall glass and was topped with melting whipped cream that started running down the side of the glass even before the waitress put the tray on the table. A metal canister contained even more milkshake. Contemplating the probable calories contained within, Brenda began to be very glad she had spent much of the last several hours out on the dance floor.
Dad ordered a slice of cherry pie and coffee. Riprap ordered a towering burger, fries, and a side salad.
“Don’t get to eat much after about seven,” he explained, starting in on the salad, “at least not on busy nights. Usually grab something while the kitchen staff is cleaning up. Now, Mr. Morris, what is this danger you want to tell me about? Why do I need to watch my back?”
Brenda had wondered what clever angle her father had decided to use to answer that question. He’d carried a briefcase with him, and had sat with it between his feet in the nightclub. She figured Dad had his laptop with him, although the case seemed rather bulky for that, but when he rummaged inside, what he pulled out was the box containing the Rat mah-jong set.
He set it on the table with a dull thump, his gaze fixed on Riprap’s face. He opened it to show the contents, then closed it again.
“Have you ever seen one of these?”
Brenda thought there was something guarded in Riprap’s expression.
“A mah-jong set? Sure. Guess the game’s not so popular as Scrabble, but people still play it.”
Dad shoved the heavy box across the table. “I meant a set like this one. Go ahead. Open the box. Take a look. It’s an antique, but it’s seen lots of use. Those pieces were made for handling.”
Riprap opened the lid of the box with one broad thumb against the edge. He examined the pieces inside without touching them. His expression remained neutral. Too neutral, Brenda decided. Either he should be asking questions or he should be thinking Dad was crazy and making excuses to get away. Instead, his demeanor had settled into something like guarded watchfulness.
“Nice,” he commented at last, when neither Brenda nor Gaheris broke the silence. He picked up one piece—a three of characters—at random. “You’re right. It’s old. Bone and bamboo pieces, not plastic like most of the ones I’ve seen. Even those sets can run over a hundred dollars. This set must be a lot more expensive.”
“Priceless,” Dad said. “It’s one of only thirteen such sets ever made. I had word that you might own one of the others, Mr. Adolphus.”
Riprap looked at him, “And owning an antique mah-jong set is going to put me in danger … how?”
“You do own it?”
“Time for you to answer a question or two, Mr. Morris. Otherwise, I think I’ll just enjoy my burger and chat with Ms. Morris here about how well she did out there on the dance floor.”
Riprap’s burger was just arriving then, and he took a big bite and chewed thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving Gaheris Morris’s face.
“Very well,” Gaheris said. “I’d like to say that I let my fondness for the melodramatic get away with me, that by ‘danger’ I meant getting robbed by an unscrupulous antiques dealer or some such, but I only spoke the truth.”
Riprap ate another bite of his burger. Brenda, impatient to get things moving, but not knowing exactly what she’d say if she did speak, sucked on her shake. It was good. Real ice cream, not powdered whatever like fast-food milkshakes.
“I mentioned that only thirteen of these mah-jong sets were made,” Gaheris went on. “I should be more precise. Each set is unique, but the thirteen sets were related, made for a group of thirteen friends. My grandfather was one of those. Your great-grandfather was another.”
“This set is Chinese work,” Riprap commented, gesturing toward the still-open box with a French fry before dipping it in ketchup, “made for the Chinese, or possibly the Japanese market. You can tell because there are no Arabic numbers on the tiles. Sets made for issue in Europe and the United States had Arabic numbers printed on them, and sometimes letters printed on the ‘wind’ tiles. Chinese and Japanese sets didn’t need those indicators because they could read the tiles.”
Riprap ate the French fry, then went on, “You don’t look Chinese. Your daughter … Maybe she does a little if I stretch my imagination. She could be part a lot of eth-nicities, though. There are Eastern Europeans who have those same long eyes. And me, I don’t look at all Chinese, yet you’re saying my great-grandfather was Chinese?”
“I’m saying your great-grandfather had a mah-jong set made specifically for him,” Gaheris countered. “And, yes, his heritage was more Chinese than otherwise.”
Riprap had finished his burger, but he continued on his fries. “Go on. You were talking about danger, back before you started talking about mah-jong.”
“Are you familiar with generational feuds?” Gaheris went on.
“Sure.”
“Well, being the descendant of your great-grandfather has set you up to be targeted by one such feud.”
“Me? And what about my sisters? What about my cousins? My grandfather wasn’t an only child, you know. Neither was my father. There are lots of Adolphus kin out there.”
“That’s why I asked you about the mah-jong set,” Dad said. “Did you inherit the mah-jong set?”
“Do you want it?”
“No! I just want to know if you have it.”
Brenda looked at Riprap, watching his expression so intensely that she didn’t realize that she’d emptied her milkshake until a rude sucking noise broke the waiting silence. She jumped, and felt her cheeks get hot, but neither of the men looked at her. Their gazes were locked, and she could feel the tension between them as if it were something physical.
At last, Riprap spoke very softly. “Tell me what would be on the lid of the box holding my great-grandfather’s set.”
Brenda heard herself answering, “A dog. The Dog.”
“And yours has a rat. The Rat.” Riprap looked back and forth between them. When he spoke next, to Brenda’s surprise, he spoke to her. “I’ve got the set. The lid’s the match to yours, but it shows a dog on it. Big dog, sort of like a chow, but meaner-looking than most chows I’ve seen. Tiles inside are a lot like yours. Now, what of it?”
Dad countered, “What do you know about why these sets were made?”
Riprap seemed to relent all at once. “I know more than you think I do, that’s clear enough. My dad left letters for me, along with the box. He knew a soldier couldn’t count on coming home. I know why those mah-jong sets were made is something we shouldn’t discuss here, not if I want these nice people who run the diner to think I’m sane, and I do because I like how they cook. I also know that there hasn’t been a wink or whimper of trouble for several generations. Why should there be now?”
“I don’t know,” Dad admitted, matching frankness with frankness. “If you would come to our hotel, I could show you what alarmed me enough to end my holiday in California and come here to warn you. Or I could send you off with a warning and tell you to check for yourself. All I ask is that you take us seriously.”
“Interrupted your holiday?”
Impulsively, Brenda dug into her purse and came up with the stub of her boarding pass.
“Look for yourself. I can show you my driver’s licence. We live in South Carolina. I’ve been up since way too early, and my body doesn’t even know what time zone I’m in anymore.”
She heard a trace of a whine in her voice, and hated herself for it, but she couldn’t help it. She was suddenly all too aware that it was closing on midnight here, which was probably something like after two at home, and she’d been on and off planes two days running, and up at dawn both days. Caffeine and sugar were making her feel like her brain and body were disconnected. She wanted to sleep, and at the same time felt like she’d never manage to sleep again.
Riprap studied the stub of the boarding pass.
“Where are you parked?”
“In a garage a few blocks over,” Gaheris said.
“Right. Let me walk you to your car. Then you can drive me over to mine, and I’ll drive straight home with the car doors locked. Consider me warned and careful, but Ms. Morris is not the only one who has had a long day.”
“You want to confirm what I’ve told you,” Gaheris said. “I have no problem with that.”
He reached and picked the check up off the edge of the table, took out his credit card, and waved for the waitress.
“Here’s my phone number and the number of the hotel,” he went on, sliding one of his business cards and one of the hotel’s across the table. “Can I have a phone number for you?”
Riprap wrote neatly on a paper napkin.
“Sure. Cell and home. I check my messages.”
“When can we call you?”
“I’ll call you around noon. I want at least eight hours’ sleep.”
“Noon then.”
They made the walk to the parking garage in a near silence that felt like a screamed argument. The night was distinctly cold, and Brenda pulled her jacket closer around her.
The parking garage was dark, lit mostly by a few security lights and the red glow of Exit signs.
“Gate’s up,” Riprap said, “but I don’t think they’re exactly open for business.”
“Couldn’t find a place,” Dad said, “and just pulled in.”
“Should be okay,” Riprap said, but Brenda was aware that he was looking from side to side, checking the shadows. His gaze was alert, and Brenda had the feeling that if he really were a dog, his hackles would be up.
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