Black Dove Read Online Free PDF Page B

goop-covered fingers up toward my face. “Please. Allow me.”
    I let him smear the stuff over my forehead. Almost instantly, the stinging faded. There was a price to pay, though.
    “Good god, Doc,” I said, giving the air a sour sniff. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?”
    “Herbs. Ground roots.” Chan stepped back and inspected his handiwork—which gave him an excuse not to look me in the eye. “This and that.”
    “Well, the ‘this’ stinks and the ‘that’ reeks.” I jammed my ruined derby down over my head. It chafed against my burn, but I was alright with some discomfort if it would stifle the stench. “How do I look?”
    “Fine,” said Chan.
    “Ridiculous,” said Gustav.
    I sighed.
    “Truly . . . I am so very sorry,” Chan said.
    I waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it was an accident. No need for more apologies.”
    “It’d be good to hear a
reason
, though,” Old Red said.
    For the first time, Chan seemed to be aware that we had an audience. His gaze darted up and down the street, at the other Chinamen out gawping at us like kids watching a circus parade.
    “Yes. Certainly. Perhaps we could discuss it over a meal. I was just heading out for lunch, and I’d be honored if you’d join me. As my guests, of course. To make up for what happened.”
    “Alright,” Gustav said with a nod. “Thank you.”
    “Yeah, sounds good, Doc,” I threw in. “Why, if it’ll get us a free meal, you can take a potshot at me any time.”
    Chan smiled weakly and headed back to close up his shop again. I caught a little glimpse of the inside, and it sure didn’t seem like any doctor’s office I’d ever seen. Bins and baskets lined the walls, all of them full of what appeared to be nuts, berries, and roots. Given that Chan called himself a doctor, I assumed it was a pharmacy . . . though one that looked like it was run by and for squirrels.
    When Chan was done locking the door, he led us around the corner to a quiet, dimly lit restaurant—and one of the finest meals I’ve ever had.
    Now, Chinese cooking was nothing new to me and my brother. Every city of any size in the West has its share of chop suey shacks, and Old Red and I track them down whenever we can, for Chinese food sports twin virtues men of our means can ill afford to ignore: It’s hot and it’s cheap.
    But the eatery Chan took us to was a far cry from the drafty lean-tos we’d come to expect when sniffing out our next plate of chicken chow mein. It was clean, for one thing. And fancy, too—brightly colored tapes-tries hung from the walls, and every last bit of woodwork was festooned with ornate swirls and curlicues. The other customers were a prosperous lot, by the look of them—plump, chatty, and cheerful. A few were even dressed American-style, like Chan.
    All stared openly as we took our seats.
    Chan did the ordering in his mother tongue, talking to the waiter so long he may as well have saved himself the bother and just said, “One of everything, please.” And indeed that’s what it looked we were getting when the food started showing up. We were served soup, rice, dumplings, buns, and such a bewildering array of vegetables and meats I quickly lost track of what was what.
    Chan whipped up quite the wind as the plates came and went, rattling on about how this or that dish had been prepared, which ingredients were local and which imported, the proper way to hold the “chopsticks” the Chinese did their eating with, and the special healing properties of a good cup of hot tea. Everything, it seemed, except why he’d tried to put a hole in my noggin not a half hour before.
    Of course, I was too busy packing on fat for the winter to worry about pinning Chan down. But Gustav’s got about half the appetite I do and four times the curiosity. So naturally he was first to finish with the food and dig into the mystery.
    “Thank you, Dr. Chan. That was a right tasty meal. I’m just glad my brother could be here to share it with us. You