Free Scalpdancers by Kerry Newcomb Page B

load of smoked and salted fish.
    Temp continued on to the warehouse. He glanced anxiously at the ominous sky. If the weather worsened and they couldn’t slip away at sunup, there would be hell to pay. Damn Penmerry, would he never take things seriously?
    Temp hauled the double doors to the warehouse open; they banged against the back wall as the irate seaman barged into the storage area. Gray light streamed in behind him and illuminated a pyramid of pork barrels and crates. “Don Rodrigo, you scheming blackguard. Show your-self Those new barrels fooled us, but my nose found you out. I’ll have decent salt pork or by heaven it will be your hide in the barrel.” Temp’s voice carried throughout the warehouse and returned unacknowledged, for the Portuguese merchant was either hiding or had business away from the pier.
    â€œHe doesn’t seem to be here,” a mild-mannered voice said from the doorway leading into Don Rodrigo’s office.
    Temp, startled, swung around and recognized the missionary, Emile Emerson. “You looking for the tricky little bastard too?” the first mate asked.
    â€œNo. I thought I might find Captain Penmerry here,” Emerson replied, trying to keep himself under control. His hands firmly clasped his Bible. He feared to loosen his hold upon the Holy Scripture for fear of picking up a gun. “Is Captain Penmerry aboard ship?”
    â€œHere? That young rake? Hardly,” Temp scoffed. “If I know the captain, he’s probably found him a properly disposed gal and enticed her to mischief.” Temp started to laugh, then realized to whom he spoke. He gulped and tried to fumble his way out of the hole he had dug for himself and the captain of the Hotspur . “What I mean is these Chinese gals can be mighty willing—uh, I mean for the right price … the ones that work in the Banyan Gardens or House of Heaven. That’s what I mean.”
    Emerson’s fingers tightened on the Bible, the knuckles bloodless. “I see….” the missionary managed to say. Without another word he turned and walked from the office, his shoulders sagging as he made his way past the first mate and out into the street.
    â€œTemp Rawlins,” the first mate muttered to himself, “sometimes you talk too damn much.” He followed Emerson out of the warehouse and watched as the black-clad figure made his way along the pier. How bright the man’s tight white collar seemed, even from a distance, even in feeble light.
    What few rooms the Jade Willow Tavern could offer were airy, lushly appointed accommodations that belied the inn’s austere, brown-washed facade. Julia took note of the way Madame De Builliard, the tavern’s proprietress, fussed over Morgan Penmerry. Though Madame wore too much powder and rouge, and her attire was suggestive, to say the least—her bosom all but exposed beneath a bodice of lace frills—she had aged with grace. Her body was trim and desirable; her eyes sparkled and her appetite for life was infectious. She appraised Julia frankly and glanced knowingly at Morgan as she gave them a key to the last of her available rooms. Julia knew that her own high-necked and purposely drab dress had roused Madame De Builliard’s curiosity, and she had the distinct feeling her presence in the company of Captain Morgan Penmerry would be the subject of gossip throughout the Jade Willow Tavern.
    Once in the room and alone with Morgan Penmerry, alone with and for the first time in close proximity to a man other than her father, she tried to conceal her misgivings as she crossed to a velvet-draped window and peered out at the street below—a noisy thoroughfare with what seemed an unending parade of humanity. There were children at play, fish merchants, silk peddlers, a silk-clad hawker hauling a two-wheeled cart piled high with caged birds. A girl sold preserved eggs from a makeshift stall.
    Where were they all going?