She headed to the restaurant’s main entrance. Near the door, a counter held a rosewood Buddha statue on one side, and on the other, display boxes filled with Wrigley’s gum and cigarettes sat next to a cash register. Day or night, one of the owners stood behind the counter—usually this was Mrs. Lin, as it was today.

Aida waited for a customer to pay his check, then stepped up to the register and rubbed the potbellied Buddha for luck. “Afternoon.”

“Miss Palmer,” Mrs. Lin replied cheerfully. The kindly Chinese businesswoman was petite in height and round in girth, with pretty plump cheeks and loops of black hair pinned tightly above the nape of her neck.

“Any mail for me today?”

“Mail and more.” Mrs. Lin lifted a small key that hung on a long chain around her neck and opened a lacquered red cabinet behind the counter, which housed tenant mail and packages. She retrieved two pieces of mail. The first was from a woman in Philadelphia; Aida had performed regular séances for her when she’d worked at a club there last year, and they’d since maintained a correspondence.

The second envelope was from an address in New Orleans. The Limbo Room, a new speakeasy. The owner, a Mr. Bradley Bix, was interested in booking her later this summer. He would be in San Francisco visiting his cousin at the end of June and proposed to call on her after taking in one of her performances at Gris-Gris. If he was satisfied by what he saw, he would offer her a booking. He included a brochure printed with photographs of the club, intended for potential members; their annual fees were much higher than Gris-Gris and the photographs made it look nice. It was a good prospect, and she was happy to receive it, but part of her was growing weary of planning her next move when she was barely situated at her current job.

Or maybe she was being too sentimental about San Francisco.

A group of noisy customers approached the counter. Aida moved out of their way and turned to find herself face-to-face with someone familiar.

“I said you had mail and more,” Mrs. Lin explained. “Mr. Yeung is ‘more.’ Been waiting for you the last half hour. I was going to send Mr. Lin to fetch you, but the kitchen is backed up.”

“Bo,” Aida said in surprise, greeting Magnusson’s assistant, who was dressed in another smart suit and brown argyle newsboy cap. “Mr. Yeung, I mean. What a pleasant surprise.”

He politely canted his head. “Either is fine. And it’s nice to see you again.”

“How’s your boss doing?” she asked in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder at Mrs. Lin. The restaurant owner was making small talk with the customers at the counter.

“Much better. And no ghosts,” Bo reported. “Or at least, none following him. He sent me here to inquire if you’d be willing to get rid of the ghost in his study.”

Aida’s pulse quickened as adrenaline zipped through her. “Oh?”

“It shows up mid-afternoon, so that’s why he sent me to fetch you now. If it’s not too inconvenient, I’ve got the car outside.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“So he just assumed I would drop what I was doing and rush over there?”

“To be honest, people usually do,” Bo said with a sly smile. “He wants to hire your services this time. For payment.”

Aida almost laughed. “I’m very expensive.”

“He’s very rich.”

“I expect he is.”

“He’s impatient as a boy on Christmas and never invites people up to the house, so you should probably come. Let’s get going before everyone finishes their lunch and jams the roads.”

Calling on a man in his home? Surely wasn’t a sensible thing to do, especially a man like that. But when did she ever shy away from a novel experience? And it certainly would be interesting to find out where a rich bootlegger lived.

Besides, she could always use the cash, so she should probably go. The dimples in the small of his back had absolutely, positively nothing to do with it.

“I can’t stay long,” she told Bo. Then she slipped her mail into her handbag and waved at Mrs. Lin, whose keen look of curiosity followed her out the door into light gray drizzle.

Aida’s first lesson in a bootlegger’s personal life loomed at the curb near the neighboring sidewalk newsstand. There was a dark red Pierce-Arrow limousine with a polished black top—like something the Prince of Darkness would drive out of the gates of hell. And even with the nefarious coloring, it was an insanely well-bred automobile with whitewall tires, glinting windows, and gleaming chrome. Its enormous chassis looked like a steamer ship on roller skates, led by a silver archer ornament on the hood. Showy luxury. Hollywood stars owned these cars. Aida had only seen them in magazines. She dumbly stared along with the tourists passing by.

“A beauty, yes?” Bo said. “She’s brand-new. Custom-built.” He held open the back door for her while she slid inside. The interior was a dream: polished wood steering wheel, chrome reading lights, crystal pulls on the window shades. It was all Aida could do not to whistle in appreciation as she settled into the leather backseat, propping her heels on the footrest below.

A long window, rolled down halfway, served as a privacy divider between the front and the back. A small handheld motor phone made it possible to talk with the driver. Bo saw her eyeing it as he started the car. “You want the divider all the way up?”

“So that I can talk to myself back here?”