by Ian Bull
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask Walter and Sammy, sitting in the front seat.
“Thirty minutes. It’s just before noon,” Walter says, glancing at his watch.
My legs jitter and my hands shake as my adrenal glands shoot energy into exhausted muscles. My body needs rest, but my brain is staying in fight or flight mode. The stitches in my side throb again, rapid with my pulse.
There’s a half-assembled Nikon camera in my lap. As Sammy sped through the Aberdeen tunnel with police lights flashing, I tried to assemble the camera from Uncle Han. But the lights made me carsick and I had to close my eyes…and must have passed out.
We’re parked in front of an English pub called The Pickled Pelican, already open for business, next to a pedestrian market. Red lanterns stretch across the narrow streets, linking souvenir shops and stalls. Tourists wander past, dressed in their bright t-shirts, cargo shorts, and sensible fanny packs. On the other side of the street, there’s a railing, a beach, and then the South China Sea. Sailboats are anchored just offshore, and in the distance a luxury yacht coasts by. It’s a blend of San Francisco Chinatown and Miami South Beach, with a dash of London tossed in.
“Any word from your cousin Lawrence?” I ask as I finish assembling the camera.
“Not yet,” Walter says. “Get out and stretch your legs. Enjoy Stanley Market. Buy yourself some clean t-shirts.” He waves his hands as if there’s smoke in the car.
“What if you get a call?” I ask.
“We’re four minutes away from the prison,” Detective Sammy mutters.
“Can you spot me a hundred Hong Kong dollars?” I ask, sticking my hand between them in the front seat. When they pause, I move my fingers. “I did just donate $5,000 to Lord Guan.” Walter snickers while Detective Sammy Louie hands me money with his nose in the air. He’s already tired of this obligation, and I’ve been in Asia less than three hours. Walter’s right, though—my sore, smelly body is crying out for fresh clothes.
I snap photos of four sleek yachts in the harbor to make sure the camera works. They are just out of range to bring out any details, but the photos are clear. Swinging the camera over one shoulder, I head into the line of stalls.
Tiny Buddhas, Bart Simpson neckties, fake Louis Vuitton, and Karate Kid toy drums—this place has it all. As I pass one stall, a long-sleeve blue t-shirt with the Cadillac logo calls out to me. My Mexican-American dad loves his Cadillac Sedan de Ville, and I think of him parked in front of the house, reading the paper with the stereo playing. He did it to get away from my mom, and because it was the best stereo system we had. The family probably drove to my funeral in it. I buy two shirts.
Next door is an electronics store, and I freeze. Julia’s photo is on the TV monitor, with Chinese writing underneath. It’s a tabloid news show. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s not smiling. It’s a mugshot. Julia’s been arrested. The next photograph is of Simon Le Clerq. She’s been arrested for assault.
It cuts to the photo that Le Clerq took in Santa Monica Canyon on Saturday night, showing me and Rikki Lassen dead in her smashed car. It’s weird to see myself gray and lifeless on a huge TV monitor in sunny Hong Kong. I look around, convinced people will recognize me.
I need to get online. I step inside and find the display phones, each one tethered to its Lucite holder. I grab the largest Samsung and start typing.
“Need a phone?” an overweight college kid asks me. He must be the owner’s son, because his middle-aged father stares at me with crossed arms at the register deep inside the shop.
“I need a phone with Internet service while I am in Asia,” I say.
“Asia Pacific has the best service and speed,” he says, handing me one to check out. “Are you American? Americans like this phone. Apps are preloaded.”
“Can I check it out?” I ask, then enter Julia’s name in the search engine. Websites pop up—Le Clerq is suing her for assault and battery, and she may appear in court next week.
Jerk Le Clerq—that’s what the paparazzi call him. He’s a former TV cameraman. Confrontation is his specialty. I’d be outside a Hollywood party, waiting for a celebrity arrival, and he’d stand next to me and trash talk people until fists were flying. One time, Ryan Gosling got out of a car with his wife, Eva Mendes, and Le Clerq started screaming that she was illegal Mexican wetback trash, even though she’s a Cuban-American born in Florida. Every straight Latin male knows that, and I told Le Clerq to shut his trap. But that didn’t stop Ryan Gosling from throwing a punch at him.
Then, after Julia and I survived the madness in the Bahamas and we started dating, he began stalking us. He stalked Julia first, scaring her as she was coming out of grocery stores or pumping gas. That’s when I started going places with her. One time, he cornered us in the cement stairwell of a parking lot. When I told him to back off, he turned the cameras on me, and my screaming face ended up on a tabloid cover. It was weird payback after all my years as a paparazzo. But I never confronted people. I used my skills to stay hidden and get better candid shots. This meant I made more money than he did, which pissed him off.
I need to know more, so I hit the Twitter app. Posts about her are flying in: Julia Travers has lost it…Travers is Gone, Girl…Travers is Wacko Now….
I go to her Twitter feed and find her post from less than two hours ago: Thank you, fans. Taoist meditation calms me when you visit a temple, but I found the man behind the curtain in my own backyard.
A shiver goes up my spine. Finding the man behind the curtain is why I left, and she’s found him in LA? Is she just playing me? Trying to lure me home? I don’t think she’d risk ruining her image with such a crazy statement unless it was true. But I also know she won’t reveal what she’s found until I’m safe with her in LA. Her strategy is all right there, in an eighty-character tweet.
“We can give you a discount,” the owner’s son asks. “Can I put that on a card for you?”
“Let me think about it,” I say as I log out and hand the phone back to him.
My body feels calmer now, connected to Julia half a world away. She’s thinking of me, and working for me. My heart rate slows and I breathe deeply—my own little Taoist meditation. Until my belly rumbles. No food has passed my lips since my airline breakfast six hours ago. Darting across the street, I use my Hong Kong money to buy two pork buns from an outdoor vendor. I swallow the first one in two bites, when a siren chirp grabs my attention.
Walter stands in the open door of the running BMW and waves at me to hurry. The blue police lights on the dash are already flashing. I dash back down the street and get in the backseat, just as Sammy pulls into the narrow street that leads up to the main road.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“My cousin just dropped off the video crew at the St. Stephan’s pier. They got on a yacht,” Detective Sammy says, lurching the car into a hard right-hand turn.
“What were you just eating?” Walter says.
“Pork bao,” I say, tossing the paper bag onto his lap. “The other one’s for you.”
We race on a narrow road built into the steep hillside, under a canopy of trees so thick it’s like we’re in a tunnel of green. A school bus rounds the bend and hogs the whole road.
“Watch it!” I yell. Sammy swerves to the left, bringing two tires of the BMW up on the stone wall. Once the bus passes, he yanks the wheel hard and we bounce back on the road.
“Tell him to shut up,” Sammy says, but Walter’s too busy chowing down on the pork bun.
Three more curves, then he makes a hard right onto a road called Wa Ma Kok. He slams on the brakes to avoid plowing into a herd of Sunday beachgoers decked out in swimsuits and carrying food cartons and umbrellas. He whirs the sirens, but the crowd parts too slowly. Grabbing the backpack and the camera, I jump out of the car and push my way through the crowd.
“Stupid tourist!”
“Dumb American!”
Dashing between the bathers, I reach St. Stephan’s beach and a pier that juts out into th
e sea. I snap a photo, but the yacht is too far away to make out the name or see anyone on board. It was the same yacht I saw earlier close to shore, probably headed to pick them up. At least I have the shape of the ship, so I can maybe get its model—
—until someone yanks the camera from my hand.
Six uniformed men surround me. The guy who grabbed my camera is an older officer with more stripes on his uniform. He pokes me in the chest, yelling in Cantonese. Two guys kick at my ankles, trying to sweep my feet out from under me. If I go down, I’m toast. Walter and Sammy appear and force their arms into the circle, shouting. The guards shout back, all of them trading spittle spray. Sammy manages to pull the head guard to the side while Walter gets inside the circle of hostile guards with me, holding his palms up to keep them at bay.
“Whatever happened to disappearing in plain sight?” Walter asks. “You leaving the car and not trusting us is a total insult, dude. We all look like idiots now.”
“I’m sorry. M’hou yi si,” I say, casting my eyes downward. I heard Walter spout that apology countless times to his parents whenever he disappointed them for not being perfect. My accent is terrible, but the gesture seems to work, because the guards stop kicking my ankles.
“Whoa, you pulled that out of your ass,” Walter laughs.
Sammy and the head guard argue and point at me, ten feet away. The head guard has a leather satchel on his shoulder with him, which looks odd. Walter catches something they say and shouts at them from inside our angry circle. “You need a doctor? This guy’s a doctor!”
“What’d you say?” I ask, grabbing his elbow.
“Go with it,” he whispers. “You’ve done your share of field trauma care. That and working a camera are the only skills you had as a Ranger.”
Detective Sammy Louie and the guard come close. “This is Major Chu. He’s a cousin,” Sammy says, raising one eyebrow. I get it—you’re all Louies somehow, in the same fraternity, like the wooden statue of the guy carrying the fish.
“There’s been an accident. A prisoner lost his ear,” he says. “We only have one doctor on staff today and he’s not dependable.”
“How long ago was the accident?”
“Twenty minutes. We have the ear on ice.”
“Let’s take a look,” I say, with a shrug. I’ve seen legs blown off. I’ve sealed off open, pulsing arteries and sewn up gashes and wounds. I’ve been shot three times myself. Losing an ear can be bloody, but if I can stop the gushing and keep it clean, it heals up.
Major Chu waves his hand, and the guards climb into their three cars at the head of the pier. I slide in the back of Sammy Louie’s car as Sammy and Walter slide in the front.
“We’re making progress, guys. Thanks.”
“No thanks to you back there,” Sammy says.
Walter grabs the pork bun he left on the dash and devours it, shaking his head.
“That airline food sucked. We want some real food,” he says to me. I feel another shakedown coming, maybe for my audacious screw up.
“What I need right now is some beef chow fun with fresh noodles, some blanched vegetables in oyster sauce, winter melon soup, and then some persimmons,” Walter says.
“Persimmon season is over. We get loquat in March,” Sammy says, swerving into place behind the cars in front of us. “That’s an expensive meal, and we’re still too busy helping your pushy San Francisco friend to even eat bao.”
“I’m just dreaming, cuz,” Walter whines. “I’m in the homeland and I need soul food.”
“You want me to handle that, Walter?” I ask.
“That’s hella cool, bro,” he says, looking at me in the backseat. “Can I add more?”
I need these guys, and I’m already hip-deep crossing this river with them. “No problem.”
Walter talks to Sammy, who’s memorizing the order. “Bird’s nest soup, snow clams and papaya, sea cucumber, and chicken feet. Not the smooth kind. We want the salty, chewy kind.”
“I feel the same way,” Sammy says. “I’ll make some calls.”
“Is this all for you two?” I ask.
“You can have some, too.” Walter says.
“You just better be good with a needle and thread, otherwise they may not let you eat anything!” Sammy shouts, and he and Walter nudge each other and laugh.
We drive four hundred yards and make a hard left through a red and white gate. We leave the trees behind, and all color disappears. We’re in a maximum security prison, a labyrinth of gray walls within gray walls, but just a stone’s throw from the South China Sea.
We park in an inner courtyard. Leaving his cronies outside, Major Chu leads Walter, Sammy, and me into a side building with a red cross on the door. We enter an infirmary from the 1930s, with rows of empty metal cots. There are wide windows, but they’re covered with a wire mesh, so the bright white tropical light burning through them is dulled to a dingy yellow. The room is muggy, and only a small, swiveling table fan in the corner adds a breeze to the room.
This can’t be the main infirmary; it’s too empty. It’s an extra infirmary, but from another era. In the middle of the room, a stocky Chinese man in a brown prison uniform sits on a metal exam table, holding a blood-soaked cotton towel to the left side of his head. A young man in a white doctor’s coat paces behind him. As we approach, his eyes widen, like he’s drowning in deep water but afraid to scream for help.
“I’m Dr. Quinn,” I offer, but when he exhales, clouds of plum brandy envelope me. He’s staggering drunk. “Take a break, doc,” I tell him, and he lies down on one of the empty metal beds. Further back on another cot is a prisoner with a bloody sheet over him. He seems…dead.
“Ear is there,” the patient says, drawing my eyes back to him. He points at a small cooler on the exam table next to him. I peer inside and see a torn piece of ear in a baggie on ice.
“You lost an ear, but he lost the fight?” I ask, nodding at the body in the back of the room. The prisoner doesn’t answer, but glances at Major Chu, who leans against a porcelain sink. Walter bounces on his toes a few yards away, glancing at his watch. Sammy is busy texting, probably trying to score Walter’s meal.
“Let me wash up,” I say, and walk over to the sink. Major Chu shifts his leather satchel to his other shoulder and moves so I can scrub up my hands. “How much can I ask him?”
“Ask him what you want. Just stop the bleeding before we all get screwed here.”
I dry my hands and walk over to the patient, who still holds the bloody towel to his head.
“I’m Dr. Quinn. What’s your name?” I ask. “Lay giu meh mang?”
“Ming Lee,” he says.
“Who made you fight?” I ask.
He shrugs like he doesn’t understand what I’m asking, but I think he does. He just earned himself a spot on this show I’m chasing, and he doesn’t want to risk losing it. That’s also why we’re not in the main infirmary with all the other sick prisoners, and why only one overwhelmed, drunken doctor is on duty to handle this unexpected crisis.
The metal wheelie cart next to the exam table has enough medical supplies to handle the worst prison riot, however. Gauze, sutures, gloves, scalpels, bandages, styptic powder, antibiotic and antiseptic fluids, and some expensive stuff—Dermabond medical glue and microfibrillar collagen hemostats to fill wounds and seal up gashes. There’s also a curved piece of metal with a handle—an enswell, which cutmen use in boxing to apply cold pressure and stop bleeding.
I put on sterile gloves, then reach into the cooler and pull out the baggie. Inside is half of Ming’s outer ear, but it looks more like chewed-up white gristle. I show him.
“Ming, the edges are like hamburger. Even if I could reattach this, it wouldn’t look or work right,” I say, trying to sound disappointed—but I’m actually relieved.
“I don’t care. Just fix what’s left. I need to be better by Saturday, with no bandages.”
I toss his ear into the garbage bin under the exam table and put the metal enswell into t
he small ice chest. I haven’t done a lot of this in the last few years, so I hope it comes back to me.
“The warden will be here in thirty minutes. You need to be finished and gone by then.” Major Chu says. Ming’s eyes are saying to hurry up, too.
“Let’s see the damage, then,” I say, pulling away Ming’s left hand. He’s got an elf’s ear that spurts blood in time with his pulse. It’s a pretty clean bite, but there’s a tear down the remaining cartilage, like a tear in the top of a curved piece of paper.
“Lie down,” I say. I push Ming down sideways on the table and motion for Walter to help me. “Hold Ming’s head while I work on him.”
Walter nods, placing one meaty hand on Ming’s forehead and the other on his shoulder. Ming groans, and I motion for Walter to loosen his grip.
“Just hold him, don’t break his spine,” I say, and then get face-level with Ming. “You’re going to get drenched, so keep your mouth and eyes shut. Breathe through your nose. Got it?”
“Just fix it,” Ming says. He exhales and closes his eyes like he’s meditating.
I’ve got twenty-five minutes to fix the elf ear spurting blood in front of me.
I pour on antiseptic, and Ming jerks from the sting. I pull out the metal enswell and push it against his ear until the frozen metal stops the blood flow. The cold flesh stays clean when I pull it away, revealing the vertical gash in his ear. I change gloves, open a package, and pull out a curved needle with a blue dissolving suture attached. I channel Betsy Ross—push needle, pull thread, push needle, pull thread—taking breaks to reapply the cold enswell. I sew up the gash in the middle and the torn edge, so he looks like he has an elf’s ear with the letter T sewn into it. The blood no longer gushes, but it’s still oozing.
“A bandage with some gauze wrapped tight around his skull will stop the bleeding.”
“No,” Chu says. “No bandages and no blood!”
“Why not?” I ask, which makes Chu stiffen. I know the answer has something to do with that satchel over his shoulder, but I don’t push it.
“No more questions, just do it.”
I rip open a package of Avitene Flour. It looks like powdered salt, but it’s actually cow collagen. I rip open another package of styptic powder, the kind you spread on a dog’s cut toenail to stop the bleeding. Then, like a chef prepping a steak, I shake the Avitene flour and the styptic powder like salt and pepper on the bloody edge of the ear. The styptic powder constricts the blood vessels, and the collagen powder mixes with the blood platelets to create a scab.
