Page 29 of Our Violent Ends
Ouch.Juliette physically flinched, a throbbing hot sensation starting in her heart. But she could handle it. What was a small bout of meanness? At least he wasn’t trying to shoot her.
“You don’t want to know what errands I was running?” Juliette pressed, following his brisk walk. “I offer you information on a platter and you do not even take it. I was checking the postmarks on the letters, Roma Montagov. Did you think to do that?”
Roma glanced over his shoulder momentarily, then turned back around as soon as Juliette had caught up at his side. “Why would I need to?”
“They could have been fake if the blackmailer hadn’t truly sent them out of the French Concession.”
“And were they?”
Juliette blinked. Roma had stopped suddenly, and it took her a second to realize it wasn’t because he was enraptured with their conversation. He was simply waiting to cross the road.
Roma waved for them to cross.
“No,” she finally answered when they were on the sidewalk again. From here, she could already hear the thundering of hooves. “They indeed came from various post offices across the Concession.”
What Juliette didn’t understand was why someone would go through the labor. It was harder to make stamps talk than people... Juliette could accept that. No one would be foolish enough to hire help for delivering the messages, because then Juliette could catch the help and torture a name out of them. But to use the postage system? Could they not have left letters around the city for any old gangster to pick up and bring to Lord Cai? It was as if theywantedJuliette to storm into the French Concession, given how obvious the postmarks were.
She didn’t say any of this aloud. Roma didn’t look like he cared.
“You’re giving this blackmailer too much credit,” he said. “They come from the French Concession because, as expected, it is someone around these parts of the city who took on Paul’s legacy.” A sigh. “So here we are.”
At once, Roma and Juliette lifted their heads, looking upon the race club’s central building. The clubhouse stood on the western side of the racetrack, spilling outward with its grandstand and climbing skyward with its ten-story tower. A collective roar sounded from the track to signal some race finishing, and activity inside the clubhouse rumbled with excitement, awaiting the next round of bets.
This was a different face of the city. Each time Juliette walked into a Settlement establishment, she left behind the parts that juggled crime and party in the same hand, and instead entered a world of pearls and etiquette. Of rules and dazzling games only maneuverable by the fluent. One wrong move, and those who did not belong were immediately ousted.
“I hate this place,” Roma whispered. His sudden admission would have taken Juliette by surprise if she, too, weren’t so simultaneously captivated by awe and revulsion—by the marble staircases and oak parquet flooring, by the betting hall within glimpse of the open doors, loud enough to compete with the grandstand cheering.
Roma, despite what his words were saying, could not look away from what he was seeing.
“Me too,” Juliette replied quietly.
Maybe one day, a history museum could stand where the clubhouse was instead, boxing within its walls the pain and beauty that somehow always existed at once in this city. But for now,today, it was a clubhouse, and Roma and Juliette needed to get to the third floor, where the members’ stand was.
“Ready?” Roma’s voice returned to normal, like the previous moment had been erased from memory. Rather reluctantly, he offered his arm.
Juliette took it before he could have second thoughts, wrapping her fingers around his sleeve. Her hands were gloved, but still her skin jumped upon contact.
“There were sightings yesterday. In the outskirts of the city where workers were striking. They said a monster was present.”
Roma cleared his throat. He shook his head like he didn’t want to discuss it, though monsters stalking their city were precisely why they were here. “Unless people are dying, I don’t care,” he muttered. “Civilians make up sightings all the time.”
Juliette dropped the topic. They had stepped inside the clubhouse, and the double takes started almost immediately. It would have been impossible to go entirely under the radar, not when Roma Montagov and Juliette Cai were wholly recognizable, but Juliette had thought at least there would be a delayed reaction. There was no delay at all. Frenchmen in suits and women twirling their pearls were positively craning their heads with outright curiosity.
“None of them are going to be helpful,” Roma said under his breath. “Keep moving.”
The onlookers thinned out as they climbed upward, passing a bowling game happening on the mezzanine level. The second floor rang loud with a billiards game clacking across the space, almost in tune with the hooves clamoring just outside.
On the third floor, there was a booth installed outside the closed double doors, standing sentry to the long lines of dark timber and glazed panels that made up the domineering entranceway. A fireplace roared close by, keeping the floor warm enough that an immediate sweat broke out under Juliette’s coat, prompting her to undo a few buttons until the fur hung open.
“Hello,” Juliette said, waiting for the woman behind the booth to look up. By her hair, she appeared to be American. “This is the members’ stand, yes?”
A collective outburst of laughter wafted from the doors, accompanied by the sound of glasses clinking, and Juliette immediately knew that it was. In there were all the well-to-dos and must-knows of the French Concession. In a city that teemed with people,someonehad to be aware ofsomething. All it took was to find the right people.
“Are you members?” the woman asked dryly, sparing the briefest glance up. Her accent came out clearly. American.
“No—”
“Grandstand for Chinese is outside.”
