Masked by Moonlight. Allie Pleiter

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      Mighty nice.

      Stuart congratulated himself again for having the foresight to build the Herald’s offices so near his home. He hadn’t realized until today what an advantageous view of the park the windows offered.

      There was no mistaking the pair on the bench across from his front steps. Covington was reading the paper—his paper—to Georgia. And she was looking as if she enjoyed it immensely. Stuart smiled.

      “Dex?”

      “Yes, Stuart?” Dexter Oakman came up behind him, to stare out the windows.

      “Will you look at that?”

      “Seems your sister is playing hostess quite well. How’d you convince her to do it?”

      Stuart turned. “My secret, Dex.”

      Oakman smirked. “You and your secrets.”

      “How far did Covington get in his audit this morning?”

      “Halfway into last year’s first quarter.”

      Stuart smiled with satisfaction. “I doubt it will be too difficult to see that he doesn’t get much further than that.”

      “Sure looks like it.”

      Stuart brandished his file like a banner as he sang,

      “I am the very model of a modern Major-General, I’ve information vegetable, animal and mineral…”

      Georgia set the paper down on the Grace House kitchen table and looked at Quinn. “Well, what do you think?”

      The boy tore another large chunk of bread off the loaf she’d set in front of him before she began reading the original Herald installment aloud. He narrowed one eye as he pointed at her with the bread. “I knew somebody was watching.” He grabbed his mug of juice with the other hand. “But a girl? Who’s dumb enough to let a girl run the money home?” He took a gulp of milk large enough to make Georgia wonder if he was eating at all outside the meals she gave him at Grace House.

      “That Bandit man’ll be busy if things like this keep happening,” Quinn said, raising his voice to be heard over the banging of pots and dishes in the mission’s kitchen. He thunked his mug down on the rough wooden table where Georgia had set a place for him after he’d missed lunch by turning up late for the second day this week. Georgia winced a bit at the lavishness of her own home compared to the squalor she saw South of the Slot. The more she got to know Quinn, the more desperate his situation seemed. And there were so many more like him.

      “Really,” she said, still unable to find a way to convince him the Herald wasn’t reporting actual Bandit sightings. Quinn seemed to take such hope from the tale, she couldn’t find it in herself to try any harder to take it away from him. Not that she hadn’t attempted to. Quinn, it seemed, just wasn’t interested in being convinced. She gave in to his insistent belief, half because she couldn’t fight it, and half because she found she no longer wanted to.

      “I hope Bandit Man gets to sleep during the day. If he’s out all night, he needs to keep his strength up.” The boy swiped his hunk of bread around the tin plate, picking up every last bit of food before he stuffed the bread in his mouth. “More egg?” he asked, his cheeks puffed out as he chewed.

      Georgia rested her chin on her palm and raised an eyebrow at the grimy lad. He stared right back at her, until it apparently dawned on him what she was expecting.

      “Fine.” He grumbled, swallowed, then sat up straight. “May I please have another egg?” A more reluctant show of manners could not have been conceived. He made a face, as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. The fact that he acquiesced to “please,” “thank you” and napkins at all was further proof of how truly hungry he must have been.

      Georgia smiled. “Most certainly. As a matter of fact, why don’t we wrap up half a dozen so you can take them home.” She leaned toward the boy as the house cook slid another egg—Quinn’s third—onto his plate. “Does everyone have enough food at your house, Quinn?” While the answer seemed obvious, she wanted to hear his assessment of his own situation.

      The lad looked at her as if she’d asked if the sky had recently fallen. “’Course not. Who does? I mean, ’cept for here.” Somewhere in the background, Reverend Bauers’s off-key baritone resounded as he worked. Georgia often felt God had never created a man more enthusiastic but less gifted in song. Still, San Francisco was a good place for him. The city’s faults and vices could easily overtake a more sensitive soul.

      “Da was yelling about being hungry just last night. Something about still not getting paid, but I think it was mostly his leg again. I sure hope he goes back to the docks soon. He’s sour about having to sit around all the time.”

      A fight two weeks ago had injured Quinn’s father’s leg. The wharves seemed less safe with each passing week. Reverend Bauers had been patching up too many victims of dock fights recently. Georgia had to ask half her women friends to donate old shifts to be cut up into bandages. She’d even seen the reverend resort to whiskey to tend to wounds, because the medicinal alcohol was running low. Reverend Bauers had no musical talents, but he excelled at making do with what he had.

      “I’m sorry to hear that, Quinn. I hope things will get better for you soon,” she told him. “I’ll see if Reverend Bauers can stop by and take another look at that leg.” No matter how one viewed it, things seemed to be going from bad to worse in San Francisco lately. How long would Grace House be able to keep up with the load? What would happen when its small team buckled under the strain? Heavenly Father, she sighed, stretch out Your mighty hand over this city. Things feel so desperate. What can be done?

      Georgia СКАЧАТЬ