He added a little oil to the rag.
Shaggy could’ve done it, he figured, all by himself. From his apartment across the street, to the park.
He flipped out the gun’s empty cylinder, spun it before polishing it with the rag.
Stuff her body into a suitcase or something. Roll it across the street in the dead of night.
He left the little bullets in the shoebox.
The homeless bums in the park would be unconscious to the world. And who the hell is out on Mulberry Street at four a.m. anyway?
The police never found any of her clothes, not that it mattered now after twenty five years. Unless the sicko kept the items as a souvenir, which could be incriminating.
He cocked the hammer, then triggered it back slowly under his thumb. Again, checking the smooth movement. He put the Taurus back in the shoebox, confident that the barrel and action were clean and operating well.
The shoebox went back under the bed.
He felt a pang of hunger. There was some leftover cha siew in the refrigerator, and he boiled up some ramen, gung jai meen, to go with it. He topped it off with a fried egg.
The bootleg cable TV adapter allowed him to watch the overnight races as he ate. Horses running around the Happy Valley track in Hong Kong. Other races from Australia. He made a few fantasy picks and watched them win.
For dessert, he smoked cigarettes and drank more Johnny Black, sitting up in bed waiting for the sunrise.
* * *
Skelly’s final viewing was from noon to seven p.m., allowing mourners to pay their respects later, after work. He had plenty of time, and spent most of the afternoon in the cool of the apartment.
He loaded the Taurus with a mix of subsonic and high-velocity bullets, wondering if Shaggy would show up like he did at Jocky’s wake.
He stuffed a Chinese newspaper, a bottle of water, and a ball cap into a plastic takeout bag. If Shaggy did go to Suzie’s after the wake, he’d be near Delancey Street. The big newspaper would cover the Taurus, and the ball cap with the long bill would help obscure his face. He could hop a cab going east or west on Delancey, or even drop down into the subway if necessary.
It was five p.m. when he slipped the Taurus into a slim holster that allowed him to carry it clipped inside his waistband. A belly gun ready for a quick draw. He wore a loose summer shirt over it, letting it hang out below his waist.
* * *
He sat on a wooden bench in the children’s section of Columbus Park, across from the Wah Wong Sing. He took a sip from the bottle of water, and pretended to read the Chinese newspaper as he watched the doors of the funeral parlor.
The park bench offered a good view on the street, and nearby shrubbery gave him some cover. He looked like any other old man resting in the park.
There was less than an hour remaining in Skelly’s final viewing, but he hadn’t recognized anyone who went in or came out.
The gun sat snug against his stomach.
The afternoon light turned golden, and the sun started to drop behind the taller buildings. The street was empty. It was a long shot anyway, he thought. Maybe just another one of Skelly’s mad junkie stories. He took another sip of water.
A yellow cab came down Mulberry and stopped near the Wah Wong Sing. The passenger stepped out, looked up and down the street. There were deep wrinkles around his eyes but he still wore his hair the same way he’d gotten his nickname; Shaggy. The hair was grayer but the wise-ass smirk on his face hadn’t changed a bit.
Shaggy hesitated before entering the funeral house.
He took a calming breath, put on the ball cap. He stretched his legs, tossed the empty water bottle. Folded up the newspaper. Fifteen minutes passed, then the door swung open and Shaggy stepped out, donning a pair of sunglasses. He made a left on Worth and headed for the Bowery.
He followed Shaggy from the park side, a half block behind, keeping his head down beneath the ball cap. It occurred to him that Shaggy might try to hail a cab to Suzie’s, or anywhere, and he’d lose him. The nearest taxi stand was at Confucius Plaza, but by then he’d be halfway to the whorehouse.
They crossed Chatham Square, with Shaggy occasionally looking back over his shoulders. He still had that swagger in his step. Almost to Confucius, he made an abrupt right onto Division. He wasn’t looking for a cab. He was going to Suzie’s through the back door, via Eldridge Street, through Fukjo land.
He loosened the distance between him and Shaggy, watched him make a right on Grand, walking a zigzag route to Suzie’s. The stalk would end near the corner of Broome and Allen streets.
They were four blocks away.
There were plenty of people on the streets still, discount shopping before the evening meal. He hung back as Shaggy marched north, until they were in view of Suzie’s converted tenement building.
Shaggy rang a bell and was buzzed in.
He found a spot in Roosevelt Park where he could sit and watch the building. The park ran through an isolated area where Chinatown intruded into the Lower East Side. It used to be a junkie park.
It’d take about an hour, he knew. Sexy Suzie would welcome Shaggy with the pussy palace’s complimentary cocktails and engage him in some small talk while he previewed the three or four available ladies. He could choose one, or wait if his favorite girl was occupied.
She’d start with a ten minute blowjob. He’d try hard not to ejaculate, in anticipation of the half hour of plowing her in six different positions. Maybe a generous happy ending. There would be a rinse and a warm toweling off of his lun, then more cocktails after.
About an hour. Then he’d head for his car, parked somewhere.
The light had left the sky while he waited, and the streetlamps around the park fired up the yellow glow of evening light. He remembered Jocky, and Yucky, dead from stroke and cancer. Gotta give God an assist on those two, he smiled. But the high-end heroin speedball he’d gifted Skelly turned out to be one pitch the junkie couldn’t catch up to.
An hour.
By then it’d be deeper dark, and he could just tail Shaggy, gun him down in an alley or basement landing along the way. The nine shots were plenty enough to do the job, he reminded himself. He’d be squeezing off head shots at close range, using the high velocity bullets to shatter Shaggy’s skull bone. The subsonic bullets would tumble inside his head and rip up brain matter.
The final three bullets he saved for anyone foolish enough to play good Samaritan, to try to block his escape. He’d leave the area, and circle back to his apartment.
* * *
Shaggy appeared in Suzie’s doorway, hesitated before turning north toward Delancey. The long block was deserted, and he followed him from across the street. He could tell by the way Shaggy was ambling along that he’d had one too many of Suzie’s cocktails. Shaggy never threw a look back, was tipsy and careless.
He crossed the street toward Shaggy, tucking the newspaper under his arm, letting the ball cap hide his eyes as he angled in behind him. I never liked the fucker anyway. Unfolding the newspaper, he shielded his stomach and felt for the butt of the Taurus.
Shaggy continued to pimp-walk down the dark street. What a wonderful whoring life it was.
He drew the gun, held it behind the newspaper, and stepped up. Shaggy was only an arm’s length away, oblivious to the whisper of death behind him. This one’s for Joo Lee Miller.
He cocked the hammer, let the newspaper drop away. After tonight, maybe the ghosts won’t be so hungry anymore. Raising the gun, he fired point blank into the back of Shaggy’s head.
Like firecrackers going off.
Ghost Month had claimed another victim.
THE FACE OF THE YUAN GUI
by
Sean Taylor
— :: —
“For if prepared to die, what can they not achieve?”
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
怪物说话
“His face,” the man in the black suit cried. “It was missing, I tell you. His goddamn face was cut off.
What kind of sick shit is that?”
“Can it,” said the man beside him. Short, heavy, and built like a hot dog stand, he needed only to twirl his mustache to fully embody the stereotype.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Wu,” the man in the black suit said with a wounded humility.
“I don’t care about James,” said Hot Dog Stand. “He’s dead, and that’s that. But I am concerned about who killed him and how we stop him.”
“You guys don’t seem very Chinese to me at all.” A tall, thin man dressed like a movie gangster uncrossed his legs and spoke up.
“You watch too many movies,” said Black Suit.
“Shut up, both of you,” barked Hot Dog Stand. “I need to think.” He wriggled his face into a thoughtful gaze for almost a minute, then let it relax. “Anderson?”
“Yeah, Boss,” said the movie gangster.
“You want to move up. Here’s your chance. Find this guy and put a few holes in him.”
“Sure thing.” Anderson lit a cigarette. “You want me to bring you his face?” He took a long draw then blew out two smoke rings.
“Yeah. That’d be a nice touch.” Then Hot Dog Stand turned to Black Suit. “Yang?”
“What, Boss?”
“Go get the new batch of girls. I want to see what kind of business we can look forward to this week.”
Yang grinned like the horny letch he was. “Be happy to, Boss.”
“Mind if I stick around a few minutes?” Anderson asked. “Might want to pick me out someone to cuddle with.”
The boss shot around like a rocket and locked his glare on the American. His eyes burned like two phoenixes freshly reborn. “Don’t ever touch my girls. They are to remain pure until…”
He didn’t have to finish the point. Anderson got it and got it good. He nodded. “I was only joking, Boss. Calm down.”
“Don’t ever tell me what to do, Anderson. Nobody tells me what to do.”
“Whatever you say, Boss.”
A minute or so later, Yang returned with a group of seven girls. Not one could have been older than twelve. Their hands were tied in front with coarse rope, and their feet were bare. They wore little more than a thin robe, dirty from their journey across the sea. Only one had the audacity to look the boss in the eye.
“Finally, a girl with spirit,” he said, getting up from his chair and making his way around the metal desk to get a better look at his newest batch. “She’ll bring us lots of money. The clients like the girls to have spirit, and this one burns with it.”
He walked to the girl and lifted her jaw with his index finger.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Why does it matter?” she asked.
“Smart girl. But I asked you a question.” Without any further warning, he slapped her across her right cheek. Her head snapped from the blow, but she did not cry out.
“Why do you care?”
“I care because I expect you to obey. Or would you prefer to have my hand print on both sides of your beautiful, young face?”
She winced, but only slightly.
“You can call me Yǐjīng sǐle,” she said, “for it is now my name.”
“Oh, no, my dear. You may wish you were already dead, but you would be no good to me that way.”
“Make no mistake,” she continued. “The girl I was born to be is dead. You have only a shell. The spirit has left this body.”
“You lie,” the boss said. “There is much spirit inside you. More than you either know or wish to reveal. It will be my pleasure to see you broken finally and watch that fire burn out in your eyes at last.”
He turned to Yang.
Yang noticed and sprang to attention.
“Okay, Boss?”
“They’ll do. Take the rest of the girls to the cells in the basement, but take this one to the education room. I want her to learn just how much she is lying to herself.”
“Yes sir, Boss.”
Yang pushed the shoulders of the first girl, and she began the parade leading back into the hallway. As they exited and Yang closed the door behind him, Anderson crushed the butt of his cigarette out against the sole of his boot.
“You’re not gonna… you know, are you?” he asked.
The boss shot him another glare. “It’s none of your business what I do. You work for me only as long as I feel like keeping you around. You’d do well to remember that.” His glare softened to mere annoyance after a moment. “But no, I am not. That would be bad for business. But she does need to face the truth she refuses to see.”
The phone on the desk rang with a loud clanging. Anderson jumped up and ran to the desk to answer it.”
Yeah,” he said, then, “Okay,” and handed the phone to the boss. “It’s for you.”
The boss listened for nearly a half a minute, then smiled. “That’s wonderful. Have her meet me for lunch at her mother’s place. My treat.”
“A date, Boss?” Anderson asked.
“My niece, Jiao.”
“The cute one?”
“That will be enough, Anderson. You would do well to remember your place.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
鬼说
My father died on July 17, 1976. He named me “dainty and lovely.” I used to love the name.
He smuggled Chinese refugees from Vietnam when the country embraced the loving touch of the Soviet Union. He packed them on his boat like so much human luggage, but always learned each and every name. He even called each one by that name when he spoke directly to any of his charges. He taught me that names are important. He taught me that people are important. No matter how any situation might try to diminish the individual, I must never let it take that name, that person, that unique creation from me.
He made his last trip in 1976.
The Heng family had been our neighbors in our Hoa town before we left for China, and my father chose to rescue them from one of the Communist brainwashing camps and relocate them to China to become our neighbors once again.
He was gunned down at the gate beside Mr. and Mrs. Heng and their daughter, Jun. Only one newspaper carried the story, an American paper that called my father a hero.
So I moved to the United States on August 15, 1976. I changed my name to Zheng, the name of a warrior.
怪物说话
“How is business, Uncle Song? You’re still running the import company, right?” Jiao asked.
She sat opposite her large uncle, across a normal-sized table made small by the size of the heavy man. She appeared as American as any other girl her age, in her boots and jeans and baggy peasant shirt, with hair feathered at the top and worn long over her slender, pale shoulders. She crossed her legs and let the dominant foot tap the air like a bass drum.
Her uncle, on the other hand, wore a gray suit and a black tie that made his neck grow an extra set of rolls. He seemed to be perpetually sweating, and the buttons of his shirt strained but managed to avoid revealing his belly. His mustache twitched above his lip each time he opened his mouth to speak.
“Absolutely, Jiao. I take it you’re still in college?”
She shook her head. “I quit. No sense in it. Besides, I want to see the world first, travel a bit, maybe visit a few communes, at least the ones that are left.”
Uncle Song made a face and let his smile drop. “Your father would be very disappointed in you.”
Without any added feeling, she said, “My father’s dead.”
“Your mother would agree with me.”
“My mother is old, and she is still steeped in the tradition of our people. But our people are changing. We’re becoming something different here in America. You know that. I figured you might understand me and help me talk some sense into her. I want more than to grow up and become some man’s wife.”
“That has nothing to do with college, little flower.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go back to it. I just need some time to be me first.”
“I can’t say I approve, but it’s not m
y place to be your father. Though I do wish you might grow to think of me that way.”
Before she could respond, the waiter showed up with two plates of lo mein. He put one in front of each of them. “More water?” he asked.
“Tea,” said Uncle Song.
“Sure. More water,” said Jiao, then she added, “Take me back to your office, Uncle. I want to see the big businessman at work. I want to see how you come to America and live the American Dream.”
Uncle Song grinned. “Not today, Jiao. We have too much going on. I’ll take you one day. I promise.”
“What’s new today? Spices? Statues? More junk for the tourists?”
He shrugged. “Another day at the office,” he said.
“Sounds like fun.”
“You’d be surprised how boring my job can be.”
“I can’t imagine, Uncle. Always something new and exciting every day, I’d imagine.”
“Not really,” he said. “Same old faces. Same old merchandise. But sometimes—only every now and then—something exciting does come along and surprise me. But not often.”
“Something like that come in today?”
“Maybe.” He shook his head and coughed. “But enough about me. How’s your mother?”
“Working her fingers to the bone, as usual. Life isn’t worth living to her unless she can fill it up with sixteen hours of hard work. I try to get her to relax and watch the news or one of those cop shows on the television, but she won’t have anything to do with it, and that after I bought her a new color TV.”
“As you said, she’s traditional.”
“I never said traditional. I said old and steeped in tradition.”
“It is the same—”
“Not remotely,” Jiao said. “One makes it a good thing, and the other means it’s backward and behind the times.”
“Youth is wasted on children,” Uncle Song said.
“And money is wasted on the old.”
They both laughed.
“Uncle Song?”
“Yes, Jiao?”
Asian Pulp Page 25
