“So what are we waiting for?”
I navigated the clogged Chinatown streets to the Lucky Moon herbal shop, and then started the search for parking, never an easy feat in this part of town. The sidewalks were crowded: Fishmongers touted today’s catch; produce stands were heaped with a vast assortment of vegetables; golden roast ducks hung in display windows; bakeries featured sesame balls, char siu bau, and cabbage rolls; tourist shops hawked silk robes, postcards, refrigerator magnets, and windup cable cars. Gaggles of women and men pawed through the merchandise, bright pink plastic bags hanging from their arms. Double-parked delivery trucks snarled traffic, and small clutches of tourists lingered on corners, consulting their phones and maps, further slowing down the flow of cars.
We wound up circling the block a few times, rolling past the Lucky Moon apothecary repeatedly. I kept pondering Sailor and Sailor’s double. Self-doubt clutched my heart. What in the world was going on? How could I prove Sailor’s innocence?
I was on the verge of using my parking charm to free up a space when a small hatchback pulled out near the corner of Grant and Sacramento. I parallel parked, smoothly backing my Mustang into the tight space.
“Not bad,” said Patience.
I smiled. I was proud of my parallel-parking prowess—I’d had plenty of practice since moving to San Francisco. And in comparison with parking the bulky shop van, the nimble Mustang was a breeze.
The Lucky Moon was a typical Chinatown herb shop in many ways: An innocuous sign outside displayed the name in Chinese characters, repeated below in smaller English letters. I had been inside a couple of times with Sailor; there were a long counter, and an entire wall full of hundreds of wooden drawers, and shelves lined with dozens of huge jars. Behind the counter stood an old man who served as clerk, diagnostician, and pharmacist. He wasn’t an acupuncturist and was careful to explain that he wasn’t a medical doctor, either. But he filled scripts, mixing ingredients with a mortar and pestle, filling tiny Baggies with herbs and powders, and vials with pressed pellets.
“I love that smell,” said Patience, breathing deeply.
I nodded in agreement. Even with my stuffed-up nose I could sense a bit of the spicy aroma of exotic spices and herbs.
Before we could say anything, the old man called to someone in the back of the store. A boy about thirteen or fourteen, thin and gangly, all elbows and knees, wearing basketball gear, came in to translate for us.
I tried to describe Tristan Dupree, but realized I didn’t have a photo or anything to show.
“Sorry,” said the boy, shaking his head. “We get a lot of tourists in here. Lot of people from out of town, all the time.”
“He was complaining of stomach problems,” I said, putting my hand on my belly to demonstrate.
The old man spoke and placed a small plastic bag full of herbs on the counter.
The boy translated: “He says this tea is good for digestion. Brew five minutes, take after meals.”
“Thank you,” I said, and then sneezed. “But my stomach is fine.”
The boy reached up for a packaged product and pushed the small box toward me.
“Good for colds.”
“Thank you.” I sniffed. “But I’m actually not here for a remedy for myself. I’m interested in the man who came here yesterday.”
The phone rang and the old man picked it up, speaking in Cantonese to the person on the other end of the line.
While we waited, I noticed one of the jars. On a square white label, beneath the Chinese characters, was written Mandrake root. I was no slouch when it came to botanicals, myself, and I was familiar with the mandrake root. In fact, I had used it to make a mandragora—a sort of household imp—for Aidan. I made a mental note to ask Aidan whatever happened to the little guy.
“What is the mandrake root used for?” I asked when the old man hung up the phone.
The boy translated: “He says it is poison.”
I nodded. “I know. That’s why I asked what it can be used for.”
The boy conferred with the old man, who spoke for a long time. Finally the boy turned back to me and said simply: “It’s complicated.”
“Seriously?” Patience rolled her eyes.
I smiled. Whether the boy hadn’t understood what the old man had said, or simply didn’t want to bother to translate, or whether the old man wasn’t willing to give away his secrets, I understood. Like practitioners of magic, those involved in health care had to be careful about sharing their rarefied knowledge.
We were about to leave when I had another thought. I didn’t have a photo of Tristan Dupree, but I carried one of Sailor—a wallet-sized copy of the one that sat on my bedside table. I pulled my billfold out of my bag and flipped it open.
In general, Sailor avoided having his picture taken. This was common for magical folk; after all, if the photo fell into the wrong hands, it could be used for hexing. But with Sailor I thought it had more to do with something else. He didn’t enjoy people telling him how handsome he was. Even me.
But I had talked him into letting me take his snapshot with my antique Brownie camera. I hardly ever used it, but when I did, I loved how imperfect the results were. The photo was black-and-white, fuzzy around the edges, with a streak of light that might have been an orb, but was more likely the result of light exposure from my flawed camera. Sailor was sitting on his bike, his arm resting on his helmet on the gas tank. He looked relaxed, but also happy. Or at least as happy as Sailor got, which was limited. There was the slightest smile playing on his lips. The look in his eye was a little bit lustful, a little bit tender, a little bit cynical.
I wondered what he was doing now, and hoped and prayed that he was all right. And that I could figure
