by Henry Chang
“Okay, I’m out,” he said, taking her hand, giving it a soft squeeze. Awkward, but sweet. “But don’t worry, I’ll be in touch,” he promised, backing out under the security camera and through the street door.
Alex was smiling at him even as he got into the black muscle car parked out front. He threw a quick smile over his shoulder in her direction before disappearing behind the black glass windows.
Billy’s sweets would take the bitter taste off her tongue, he thought as he pulled away from the curb.
Will the court allow the videotape from Confucius? she wondered, watching the Mustang pull away. She looked at the container of bok tong go and retreated to her office. Though the anger still twisted her heart, at least Jack’s desserts would sweeten the bitter taste in her mouth.
The roller-coaster emotions of the day kept him off balance but had worked up his appetite. His brain was numb but his stomach growled. The afternoon had gotten cold and dark in a hurry and he decided to return the Mustang to the garage. He could hop a see gay radio car back to Sunset Park.
He imagined a big bowl of hand-pulled noodles, beef lai meen, and a side of spicy tofu at one of the Fukienese soup shacks on Eighth Avenue. A round of cold beers from the fridge couldn’t hurt either, he thought, urging the Mustang home through the waking neon colors of the Bowery.
Scars
Steam filled the small bathroom, but he could still see his naked reflection in the mirror. A boxer’s body, wiry, taut, muscled. The Fuk snack shack had left him thirsty, and he was looking forward to hitting the six-pack of beer in the fridge and whatever was left of the bottle of XO.
In the mirror, he traced his scars, fully healed now but looking raw in the fluorescent bathroom light.
From the top down, an angled three-inch scar on his left bicep, like the hash mark uniformed officers wear on their sleeves, signifying years on the force. Courtesy of the tong enforcer Golo’s bullet. Below that, two small oval scars on the left side of his chest, slightly above the heart, where a gangbanger’s little .22-caliber bullet had passed through. The mirror fogged up, but he could still see the puncture scars on his left forearm, these being more jagged, from the clamp of a pit bull’s teeth.
The hot shower brought his blood to the surface, made his skin tingle and his throat clutch. He wasn’t due to report until the next afternoon, covering the four-to-midnight tour of Manhattan South. A long night’s rest awaited him.
He grabbed a beer mug and a sake cup, took two icy cans of Heineken from the fridge, and brought everything to a folding table. The bottle of XO there had at least two shots remaining, he guessed, cracking a can and pouring it into the mug. He filled the little sake cup with a shot of XO and dropped it into the foaming beer. Boilermaker, he mused, Asian style.
He remembered how they drank when he was in Army Airborne. Chugging the mug, he fished out the sake cup, poured another shot of whiskey, and cracked open the second can of beer. There was still one shot left in the bottle.
He sat on the corner of his bed, powered up the TV, and took a gulp.
On the TV, Springsteen the boss man singing “Streets of Philadelphia.”
He channel surfed through a mix of programs:
—Massacres and genocide in Bosnia. Serbs and Croats in a toxic mix.
—The AIDS epidemic and “Streets of Philadelphia.”
—The aftermath of a nerve gas attack in the Tokyo subway system. A Japanese cult blamed for eight deaths.
—An old-school performance by WAR, what is it good for?
The United States “rescuing” Mexico with a $20 billion aid program.
He muted the sound, let the images flow by like a slide show. Another gulp of beer turned his thoughts around to Alex, as dystopian images flashed across the screen.
He knew there was no future in memories, and the lady got baggage, whispered the bitter divorcé wisdom of Billy Bow. Was he really going to fall between mother and daughter in a custody fight? Ready to be a stepfather to a young child who would probably despise him?
Still, he hadn’t felt this way about anyone in a long time, and Alex had stirred his desire. Desire, that wise woman Ah Por warned, was the root of all suffering.
He took another swallow of the boilermaker, felt the alcohol seeping into his brain. He took two slow settling breaths, keeping his balance as more disconnected images chased across the godlike screen.
He drained the rest of the mug and let his eyes close momentarily, oddly picturing Pa’s tombstone and May McCann’s legs. His thoughts slowly fragmenting, he got another beer, switched off the room lights, and mixed the last boilermaker by the kinetic glow of the TV.
The room went black when he turned off the screen. His eyes adjusted to night light from the street outside, slipping in along the edges of the window blinds. Sitting up in bed, he let his thoughts drift and took another swallow.
He was hoping to get to oblivion and back without dreams, or nightmares, along the way. He took three deep shaolin breaths. Buddhist chants filled his brain, nom mor nom mor nom or may tor fut, and he let himself go.
LUCKY
Damn Lucky
Yeah, it was like a dream, he realized later, like a crazy long-ass dream. A bang and a sudden burning flash of white light. Then he was gone, how long he didn’t know.
He could hear the doctors talking among themselves. He heard comments from visitors, hospital workers, but was unable to respond. Unable to open his eyes or speak. Unable to move a muscle. Then there was the medicine, which made him punchy in the beginning.
Words from the doctors he didn’t understand. Encephalon. Pons Varolii. Ganglia, cerebellum. More pieces he couldn’t put together. Motor cortex, fibrillae. Optic thalamus.
He learned he’d been shot. Two to the head, surprised he wasn’t dead. IV medication escorted him in and out of the darkness, but sometimes the orderlies and nurses who attended to him left the wall television on while they worked. Not like they were disturbing him, right?
He heard snippets of news, time and dates. February became March. He started regaining feeling in his fingers and toes, knees and elbows.
“He’s lost twenty-five pounds,” one of the male nurses said.
“Well, he was a chubby Chinky when he got here,” the other said, laughing.
His clothes were nearby, he knew. The orderlies conspired to steal the eight hundred in cash in his Gucci wallet. Planned to take his Oyster Rolex, and his 18K gold braid chain and medallion too.
“This gangsta got some fine shit, yo.”
“Quiet! He’ll hear you.”
“Hahaha. He won’t need any of dis where he’s goan.”
He understood thievery and hijacking, so the prospect didn’t faze him, didn’t trouble him as much as what he’d heard from other visitors, speaking freely because they’d been told he lay in a coma. They assumed he wasn’t hearing anything.
He recognized their voices. Pai Kwut’s was nasally, and Yeen Jai’s was like gravel tumbling in a can. Two of his Mott Street crew, street names Spareribs and Cigarette Boy, already writing him off, figuring how to split his shares.
He pictured them—Spareribs, tall and skinny, and Cigarette, built like a fire hydrant, always with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Payback will be a bitch when I come home, he thought.
“We’re taking over his Las Vegas nights shares, and the Kino from Baxter Way.” A dry cough from Cigarette.
“I’m getting the sports book at Eddie’s,” declared Spareribs. “But Hammer wants the numbers out of Mon Lai Wah.”
“What about the weed?” That raspy voice. “The ecstasy?”
“Taiwan and Loy Sung got their eyes on that.” Two outside dailos whom he never trusted. Taiwan and his crew from Flushing. Loy Sung and his Bronx Boyz. Now he knew for sure.
“Think he’ll wake up?”
“Hope n
ot.” They laughed as they left the ICU.
Cocksuckers. See what happens when I get back.
Another time it was Charley Joe, Big Uncle Jo, a gang handler from the On Yee Association, with his phlegmy, watery voice. He pictured him through his eyelids—overweight, a comb-over on his Buddha head—bossing people around.
He was with Dup Choy, a 426-rank enforcer for the Wo faction within the On Yee Merchants Association. Nicknamed Hammer. A burly six-footer, more flab than muscle, spoke like he had a mouthful of marbles. Mumbles Choy.
“We’re paying the bills here.” Charley Joe’s wet voice. “He’ll be released into our care once he wakes up.”
“If he wakes up. Den wat?”
“Then the kai dai motherfucker better have all the right answers.”
Shit they wouldn’t dare say on Mott Street, to his face, without getting a kneecapping, at least.
“We’ll take him out to Long Island.”
Not if I can help it, fuckers.
“We need to get that pad back.”
The notebook he’d taken from the safe at On Yee headquarters. Leverage, he understood. Names, dates, payoffs. Murder for hire.
“What about his crew?”
“They don’t care who’s boss as long as they get paid.”
“All about the money.”
“The dogs are grateful, for now. Not for long if they sniff out how much we’re really holding back.”
“What else?”
“The Hakka powder.”
Chasing the dragon. Smokable Number 3.
“Two kilos.”
“We got Chow’s construction crew, took apart their crashpad. Nothing.”
Did they really think I was going to hide it in the clubhouse?
“So we need to find out.”
Too late. Already sold to Tony Biondo, ha. Powder to cash, suckas.
The IV meds dragged him down again. Motherfuckers . . .
Somewhere along the way, the voice of Jacky boy, blood brother now hated Chinatown cop.
“This how it ends for you?” from the sentimental sap. “Another wasted life?”
Please.
The doctors came and went.
“Could be synapses connecting again.”
“But he hasn’t shown any movement?”
“No.”
He kept still whenever he heard anyone in the room. Voices from the TV told him March had become April. April Fools’ Day.
He was able to open his eyes again, and could make out shapes, movement in the darkness. Almost blinded when daylight arrived, he sneaked periodic glances until his eyes readjusted.
Soon after, during the night shift, he was able to lift his legs and bend his arms. Humming quietly to himself at first, he found his voice again. Did they think they were going to get rid of him that easily?
“Payback,” he whispered, “is gonna be a motherfucker.”
Rude Awakening
A chain of images rattled his boilermaker oblivion, like grainy videotape unreeling in his forehead. A New Jack City crime blotter. Someone in a ski mask robbing a Chinese laundromat. A Taiwanese clerk pistol-whipped in a liquor store. On the Lower East Side, a Cambodian girl raped in a Thai massage parlor. A Korean woman escapes by fighting back.
A robo-alarm going off somewhere. Louder.
Jack jerked up in the darkness, staring down the numbers on the clock radio. It was 4:44 a.m., cursed Chinese numbers. The alarm was his phone jangling, an urgent bleat to it. Nobody ever called in the dead of night, and at first he hoped it might be Alexandra bearing good wishes, but on Easter Sunday morning, he dreaded it could only be bad news.
He held back as the machine cue went to voice mail. A beat, then an edgy female voice.
“Hello, Detective Yu?” It wasn’t Alexandra.
He knuckled off the recording, picked up the handset.
“This is Detective Yu.” He took a slow gulp of air.
“This is Downtown Hospital. We’re calling as you requested.”
He rolled his neck. I requested?
“Your friend has recovered. He’s being discharged.”
“My friend?” His head still fuzzy from the alcohol.
“Yes, your friend Mr. Louie?”
Louie? Tat “Lucky” Louie? He rubbed his temples.
“Detective Yu?”
“Yes.”
“He asked that you come right away.”
“Why?” he asked as she hung up. He got out of bed, reaching for his clothes and his gun go bag.
It was like his dark nightmare coming true. On a black Easter Sunday morning, ex-Chinatown blood brother Lucky had risen from the dead.
Rush
The sky still inky at 5 a.m. He caught a see gay on Eighth Avenue, rushed the night driver to Confucius Towers. The blur of highway lights brought back the case files in his head. Tat “Lucky” had gotten shot during a shootout outside the Chinatown OTB on the thirteenth of January. Friday the thirteenth. He fell into a coma a few days later, lasting until April 16, Easter Sunday. Eighty-eight days dead.
Arisen on Easter Sunday. The number eighty-eight was a double-helix double-lucky Chinese number. Religion and superstition all leaning his way. He was lucky, after all.
The sleepy Paki attendant at Confucius Parking brought the Mustang up quick, conditioned by the tip mode. From there it was a three-minute shot to Downtown, the car at his disposal. Not to depend on a cab or see gay if the scene went sour. He could use his cop parking privileges with impunity.
He powered the windows down. The cold wind and the adrenaline drove the alcohol out and cleared his brain as he sliced south past Park Row, taking the back streets to Downtown Emergency.
ICU/I See You
He badged past the nurses and staff, saw a group of Chinese around Lucky’s bed. Three of them. One guy, short and balding, in a suit. Another one, looked like the muscle. The third guy looked light on his feet, had his eyes on everyone. Slightly built, not a fighter, so he was probably armed. A planner. An officeholder.
The head of hospital security was a beefy red-faced Irishman, retired cop from the look of it. He motioned for Jack to come his way, at a distance from the three Chinese men around Lucky.
“What have you got?” Jack asked. The man seemed impressed, or relieved, by Jack’s New Yawk English.
“Those men are his caretakers of record,” McMahon said. “They’ve been yapping in Chinese, about what I don’t know. Got a little heated. Mr. Louie refused to go, insisted we call you.”
Mr. Louie. Jack wasn’t used to Lucky being tagged so formally, like conferring priesthood on the worst sinner. “What’s next?” he pressed.
“Well, they’ve signed off on the paperwork.”
Jack clipped his badge near his gun, patted it. “Yeah, but this trumps that.”
“You’re arresting him?”
“He’s a person of interest. I’m taking him for questioning.”
McMahon grinned and gave a cop-to-cop nod.
“Well, the lad’s all yours then.”
Lucky, fully dressed, waved to them from the bed. “Mr. Officer!” The first words he’d heard from Lucky in months.
“Mr. Officer!” Wearing a sneer disguised as a grin. The coma apparently hadn’t deleted the wiseass part of Lucky’s brain.
The fathead with the bad hair glared at Jack but the tall muscle kept his mouth shut. The lightweight, officeholder, spoke for them all.
“We have his discharge papers.”
Jack flapped open his jacket, flashed his gold shield and gun. “And I got his discharge right here.”
Everyone was silent a moment, frozen by Jack’s words.
“Yeeaah, cowboy!” said Lucky, laughing. “See, you don’t wanna mess with Officer, I mean, Detective Yu.”
“Shut the
hell up, Tat,” Jack snapped.
“This man is our client. We’re responsible for his care.” Lightweight, trying to step up. “We demand he be released to us.”
“These motherfuckers trying to kidnap and torture me!” Lucky swore. “I go with them, you never see me again.”
That could be a good thing, Jack thought. The orderly who’d dressed Lucky brought a wheelchair.
“He’s been released to my custody,” Jack said. “You can get him at the precinct when I’m done with him.” He never said which precinct.
Lucky stared down the hospital orderly. “Jamal, enjoy the eight hundred cash you and Tyree took out of my wallet, bro.” He looked from Security Chief McMahon back to Jamal and grinned. “And my Rolex, if you haven’t fenced it yet, is worth $10K. Don’t hock it for peanuts. Know what I’m sayin’, homeboy?” Saying it street just the way he’d heard it numerous times with them hovering over his inert body.
All eyes locked on Jamal, who frowned, offering “Here’s ya wheelchair.” He excused himself and quick-stepped from the ward.
McMahon helped Lucky into the wheelchair.
The comb-over muttered, “Dew nei lo mouh,” motherfucker.
“Suck my dick, Charley,” Lucky said, sneering.
Tall muscle said, “You’re a dead man.”
“Just finished being a dead man, Choy,” Lucky said. “What? You gonna kill me twice?”
McMahon escorted Jack as he wheeled Lucky away, with the gang of three following at a sullen distance. They went down the ramp to the curb where the Mustang was parked.
“Whoa,” Lucky exclaimed. “You brought the pimpmobile?” Jack helped him slide into the backseat as McMahon watched.
The three caretakers piled into a black sedan parked a block away. The dead of night obscured the details.
“Just like the old days, huh?” Lucky said. Jack ignored him, fired up the Mustang’s headlights.
“I can get you Witness Protection if you give me something to work with.”
“Still need to be the hero, Jacky boy?”
