“There’s beer in the fridge,” she said, reaching for one of the empty bottles that littered her coffee table and up-ending it over her mouth, just in case. A few drops fell on her tongue. “Get one for me while you’re at it, will you?”
I did as she asked. From what I saw in the kitchen, Mia had been existing on butter cookies, pork rinds, and beer. One more bottle wouldn’t hurt her. And after everything I had done and survived today, it sure as heck wouldn’t hurt me.
We sipped our beers in silence until I had figured out how to begin. “It’s over.”
She grunted out a harsh laugh. “You think?”
“I meant your problems with Tran.”
“Who gives a shit about Tran? If he wants to kill me, let him. My life sucks.”
I understood. Mia had lost her job, her friends, her man. And without Freddy to help pay the rent, would probably lose the apartment. But she wouldn’t lose her life. “What will you do, now?”
“Beats the shit out of me.”
I sipped my beer. “Have you considered moving back to Vegas?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Why not? You must have friends there. Couldn’t you get a job at one of the casinos and live with your mom until you get on your feet?”
“In the trailer park?”
I shrugged. “You’d be with family.”
She scratched the edge of her soggy beer label as she considered the possibility. “I have friends. And I do know a couple of casino managers.”
“See?” I wanted to ask what she had to lose, but I didn’t want to make her feel any worse than she already did.
“I’m really out of danger?”
“Yep. Tran’s gone. He won’t bother you again.”
She picked at a label and rolled the strip into a pellet. “I lied to you before. I did have boyfriend. His name was Freddy.”
I nodded, as though surprised to hear the news yet understanding of her secrecy. “Was?”
She shrugged. “I’m not really upset about him dumping me. I mean it sucks—don’t get me wrong—but it’s not like I loved him. I just—” She shook her head and flicked the pellet across the room. “He was nice, you know? It made me feel good to think someone nice could care about me.”
I thought about the nice guy in my own life. Could a good Chinese son like Daniel Kwok truly care for a rebellious ninja daughter like me? And if he did, would I like it?
And then there was Tran.
Nothing about him was nice or good. And yet…as much as it disturbed me to admit, Tran had awakened something I wasn’t sure could be put back to sleep. Maybe I could focus whatever that was onto Daniel. Maybe not. But I was willing to try.
“Yeah,” I said. “Nice is...” I shook my head, uncertain how to finish.
Mia exhaled loudly, as if I’d confirmed the depressing state of her life. “Right? So where does that leave me?”
I shrugged. “In transition? Sometimes we have to clean house to make room for new things and new people.”
“And new lives?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She chuckled. “Move back in with Mom? Wow. But, you know, I think she’d like it.”
I thought about Ma and me munching gourmet potato chips and giggling about escrows. Would she want me to move back home? I had no idea—the mother-daughter dynamic baffled me. Although, if we could giggle over potato chips and tea after everything we’d been through, maybe one day, I’d find my way through the labyrinth of emotions and misconceptions.
“I bet your mom would like it a lot,” I said, and believed it with all my heart. Then I put down my beer and stood. “There’s a good future waiting for you in Vegas, Mia. I’m sure of it. Go home.”
Ma and me. Mia and her mom. The timing felt significant—just like finding the newspaper article about Mia in Kateryna’s bedroom and then getting that SMG email about Tran’s preliminary trial, the next morning. They weren’t coincidences; They were signs.
And a good Chinese ninja daughter always paid attention to the signs.
Chapter Fifty-Five
My phone buzzed with a text. It was from Tran. I had just returned from Mia’s and had spent the car ride processing all that had happened, and now he wanted to add more? What else was there to say? How much more did I really want to know?
I opened the text.
Buy Pacific Blvd.
That’s all he had written, and yet it said all I needed to know. Pacific not Santa Fe—the original route for Metro’s proposed Copper Line. The message was clear: Freddy, Mayor Young, and Councilman Vasquez could vote as they saw fit.
My phone buzzed again. This time Tran had chosen a more graphic means of communication—a photo of Zherdev and Dmitry Romanko, gutted on the Mid San Gabriel Trail.
Whoa.
A new message appeared.
Everybody pays.
Then the photo and both texts vanished.
I shook my head. Leave it to Tran to send self-destructing messages.
I turned off my phone and tucked it into my pocket. Anyone who wanted to reach me could wait until morning. I was well and truly done.
Tomorrow, I’d send an anonymous message to the TAC voting members to make sure they knew the pressure was off. And another to the LA district attorney that explained the violent land-grab scheme as concisely as I could manage. Tomorrow, I would also tell Kateryna the news about Zherdev and her husband. She had a right to know. Hopefully, she would proceed as planned to Argentina where she and Ilya could live a new life. There wasn’t anything for them in Los Angeles except painful memories, danger, and a mountain of debt. They deserved their chance at happiness.
I unlocked my bike from the railing and carried it up the stairs. Then I breathed in the scent of garlic and ginger. Inside, I’d find Baba in front of the wok, tossing shrimp or stirring vegetables as steam rose into his face and drops of oil splattered onto his arms. He wouldn’t care. He’d squirt a long stream of soy sauce, making the hazard worse and the dish taste better. Then he’d pour the contents of the wok onto a platter that Uncle had left on the prep table and shout the order.
I opened the door and rolled my bike inside.
“Dumplings,” Baba yelled.
He hadn’t seen me. He was referring to the crispy jian jiao hot off the wok. While it wasn’t the shrimp dish I had imagined him cooking, my stomach rumbled all the same.
“Nǐ hǎo!” Uncle said when he saw me. “Food on counter. You eat.”
I smiled. “People want skinny noodles again?”
He cackled. “You smart girl. Chow fun better. I know—”
“I fix,” we said in unison. Then we laughed.
A server whisked away the platter of crispy dumplings and headed out the swinging doors to the dining room. I tried not to feel envious. If I asked nicely, would Baba would fry me up another batch?
I leaned the Merida against the kitchen wall, knowing I couldn’t leave it there for long, but desperately in need of food. And a hug.
Baba gaped when he saw me. I checked my jacket to make sure it was zipped over the blood-stained shirt. Had death marked me in ways I couldn’t see?
As DeAndre and the rest of our staff bustled about their business, Baba wiped his big farmer hands on his white apron and marched toward me.
Tears welled in my eyes. I dropped my head and let my hair fall into my face. I felt exposed and wanted something to hide behind, but Baba wouldn’t have it. He pushed my hair behind my ears and cupped my cheeks in his warm, comforting palms.
“Are you okay?” Then he folded me in his arms without waiting for an answer and murmured my nickname in a soothing drone. We stood that way, bound together by love and trust, until my tears had dried and my shuddering had ceased. Then he pushed me back and repeated his question. “Are you okay?”
I thought about that for a moment.
I was better than okay. I had done what I set out to do. Mia Mikkelsen was safe f
rom J Tran. Kateryna and Ilya were safe from Dmitry Romanko. And hopefully all of them would find a brighter future. Metro would decide the fate of the Copper Line based on its merit and not on the machinations of a ruthless crime boss. I felt bad about the tattooed woman, but she had put her life at risk when she lay down with those wolves. She must have known they were murderers, and had probably also known about the evil things they did in that backyard house. She might have been unarmed, but she hadn’t been innocent. And as for Julie Stanton and the councilman’s old college flame? Well, there wasn’t anything I could do for those poor women beyond the anonymous message I would send to the district attorney and my hope that the truth of their murders brought closure to their friends and families.
My life was still full of secrets, but now that some of those secrets could be shared with Baba—and to a lesser degree with Ma—my heart felt lighter. I would always have Sensei, who knew the whole truth, and friends like Aleisha, Stan, and Kansas who knew enough. But nothing filled a lonely heart as much as the unconditional support of family.
I nodded to Baba and smiled. “I’m fine. Hungry. But fine.”
He puffed out his cheeks and poked me in the belly. “One order of dumplings, coming right up.”
THE END
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for any writing endeavor must always begin with my husband, Tony, for his boundless encouragement, support, and patience to listen and read again and again—and again. I don’t know how he does it, but I hope he never tires. He and our sons, Stopher and Austin, have encouraged my crazy journey from actress to ninja to writer with faith, love, and humor. They bless my life and fill it with joy.
This particular novel began, as we say in Hawaii, by talking story with several of my Chinese-American friends. Mahalo to Alisa Young, Kelly Lum, Emily Hsu, and Mary Qin for sharing their stories. And special thanks to Shing Hwong, who I met during Wushu training, and who not only shared her family stories but also read my early drafts. Mahalo also to all the Chinese mothers who made powerful impressions on me, especially my own dear Ma who shared her heritage unknowingly and often unintentionally but left her imprint all the same.
On my North Dakota Norwegian side of the family, thanks go to my cousin Becky Ulven and her salt-of-the-earth husband, Vern. I see his cheerful face whenever I write a scene for Baba. And, of course, my heart is full of gratitude for my dear father who proudly shared his stories and instilled in me a deep love for my Norwegian ancestry. I’m forever grateful that Dad was able to read an early version of The Ninja Daughter and know how much he and his heritage meant to me.
I am exceedingly grateful for the training I received through To-Shin Do, the modern evolution of Ninjutsu founded by Stephen K. Hayes and Rumiko U. Hayes. My life has been enriched by all of my To-Shin Do teachers, and my ninja friends and training partners from both the To-Shin Do and Bujinkan communities. Thank you for sharing your knowledge, skill, and experiences with me. Thanks also go to my dear kunoichi beta readers, Sylvia Steere and Kim Stahl, and to my good friend Jack Hoban, ninja master and U.S. Marine, for his keen beta-reading feedback and support.
I’d also like to thank my wonderful author-editor friends Janice Gable Bashman and Patricia Gussin for their exceptional critiques. Love and thanks also to my dear friend and former agent, Cherry Weiner, for her steadfast belief and tireless effort, and to Pam Stack, cheerleader, advocate, and friend who led me to Jason Pinter and his remarkable publishing house.
I’m very grateful to be one of the launch authors for the Agora imprint of Polis Books and delighted beyond measure to be collaborating with a genius editor like Chantelle Aimée Osman. Chantelle and Jason have guided me through the debut author process with infinite patience and wisdom. To have my debut novel published by such caring and dedicated people has been a dream come true.
I’m blessed with so many supportive friends, mentors, and family. All of you have helped me stay on this path and become a better writer. All of you have enriched my life. I can only hope that as you read this, you know I’m speaking to you with fondest gratitude and aloha.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The Ninja Daughter is an homage to my Chinese-Hawaiian mother, my North Dakota Norwegian father, and the Japanese art of the ninja that has informed so much of my life. Although not by any means an autobiography, I did draw extensively from my own heritage and experiences. The cultural perspectives and ninja interpretations belong entirely to me and my beloved protagonist, Lily Wong.
Part of my goal with this novel was to portray the ninja in a contemporary light, not as supernatural assassins or illusive mythic figures, but everyday people with skill, commitment, and a desire to do good. To this end, I set my story in a city where I’ve lived for thirty-five years and rooted it in as much fact as my fiction could contain. If you’re wondering which is which, read on. What follows are insights to my thought process, and facts versus fiction concerning Los Angeles, Chinese language, cultural heritage, and—of course—ninja.
Of all the martial arts I’ve studied, Ninjutsu is by far the most comprehensive and effective. Ninjutsu practitioners fight unarmed on the ground, standing, or in the air—wherever and however is necessary. We are trained to fight with and defend against swords, spears, chains, staves, knives, shuriken, and other traditional and modern weapons, including firearms. A large part of the practice is recognizing and using whatever’s at hand to distract, attack, and defend, and keeping open to new methods of fighting that we can adapt for our use.
Long weapons, like staves and spears, were a specialty of mine, and since my eldest son was competing on the UCLA Wushu team a while back, I had the opportunity to train with his Wushu master to learn Chinese spear fighting techniques. Although Wushu is very different from Ninjutsu, I found great beauty, merit, and compatibility. Naturally, I had Lily study both of these martial arts—Chinese Wushu from her heritage and Japanese Ninjutsu for her destiny.
Every fighting technique Lily executes in this book is, in fact, possible by someone with Lily’s training, grit, and athleticism. I have witnessed, performed, or researched every move she makes and can attest to her effectiveness. Although I’ve retired from teaching and no longer actively train, I use my ninja skills every day to create a safe and harmonious life. I also maintain a daily practice of mantra, mudra, meditation, and esoteric training, some of which I describe in The Ninja Daughter.
Of course, my novel weaves fiction into fact in more ways than fighting.
I set this story in sprawling, cultural Los Angeles, where I’ve lived for thirty-five years, and had a blast injecting my fictional characters into real yet uncommon locales. Wong’s Hong Kong Inn, Aleisha’s Refuge, Paco’s Tacos, and all personal residents are fiction, but the rest of the locations can be found right here in Los Angeles. If you’re ever in town for a visit, I highly recommend a hike to Sandstone Peak, surfing at County Line (where I lived for twenty-three years), and a trip to Hollywood and Highlands for the novelty. You might even take a Metro rail from Santa Monica Pier to Arcadia, where Lily’s parents live, with a stopover in Chinatown and Union Station for a bit of Chinese culture and Art Deco grandeur. And don’t forget the epicurean delights at République, the site of Lily and Daniel’s first date.
Speaking of Metro: they do have plans for expansion, but it doesn’t include my fictional Copper Line. And while they do have a Technical Advisory Committee, none of my characters serve as voting members nor is Freddy Weintraub a Planning Supervisor.
The Varrio Norwalk 66 and the Ukrainian mob (as it appears in my novel) are complete fabrications. Any resemblance to any existing gangs is purely accidental. However, the LGKK and Korean Killers do and did exist.
This brings me to the complex issue of Chinese language and way too many methods of transliteration.
Lily studied Mandarin (the national language of China) in high school and college and learned Cantonese (the official language of Hong Kong) from her mother and in Saturday Ca
ntonese class. Both of these languages (also known as dialects) can be read using the same simplified or traditional Chinese characters. However, the spoken words are completely different, not just in vocabulary but in sound—Mandarin has five tones, Cantonese has nine, and the English speaker hears…who knows what.
That brings me to my first language-related challenge: how to spell what I imagine Lily hears.
My mother’s maiden name was Ching, which makes her—and me—a potential cousin to anyone with the last name Cheng, Chang, Chen, Chin, Shing, or Chung. Why? Because when immigrants arrived in the United States or—as was the case with my grandfather, pre-statehood Hawaii—the Chinese names were written according to what the registrar heard and how they decided to spell them. The discrepancies continue with Chinese words we Asian-Americans commonly use. For example, when I polled my friends—whose families all hail from Guangdong province or Hong Kong—they all called their maternal grandfathers by a common Cantonese name. But none of them spelled it in the same way. Then I searched on the internet and saw even more variations. In the end, I decided to use the spelling that most appealed to me. But, although I liked the hyphen for Gung-Gung and Po-Po, it didn’t feel cozy enough for Baba. As for Ma, I spelled it the way I did for my own mother. She grew up in Wailuku, Maui. My maternal grandfather immigrated from Guangdong and died before I was born. I imagine Ma would have had me call him Gung-Gung. I never met my Chinese-Hawaiian grandmother, but since we can trace our Hawaiian ancestry to the late 1700s, I think Tutu (Hawaiian) would have trumped Po-Po (Cantonese) in Wailuku (Maui).
As the daughter of a Hong Kong-born mother, Lily grew up speaking Cantonese. However, Violet Wong also works in international finance where the universal Asian language and the national language of China is Mandarin. As a result, Violet made sure Lily studied and practiced both. Keep in mind that these are complicated languages. Once Lily moved out of her mother’s home, she practiced less and forgot more until her Chinese became a hodgepodge of whatever she happened to remember or the first word embedded in her mind. This is why she calls her favorite dim sum by an assortment of Cantonese and Mandarin names.
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