Forest of the Mind (The Book of Terwilliger 1)

by Michael Stiles

  Danny handled the translation. “Mrs. Chan says you are very tall. Most who come in here are short.”

  “Yeah, it’s all midgets around here. Tell her to say something interesting or we’re leaving.”

  “Chin,” said Mrs. Chan.

  “I’m sorry,” Danny said, “but Mrs. Chan insist on payment up-front. Not that we don’t trust you, but sometime we have problem.”

  Red-Head bristled, his face turning almost the same color as his Ronald McDonald hair. “Tell her to do mine first so we can see if she’s any goddamn good. Then we’ll give you some money. Jesus, you people need to learn some manners if you want to live in this country.”

  Danny felt his smile wearing thin. “Mrs. Chan insist. I must take money first.” Red-Head looked like he was ready to get up and either leave or start hitting people. Danny sized him up and decided he probably couldn’t take the guy, but he could at least give him a black eye and some sore nuts before he went down. The girl stepped in before her friend could start a scene.

  “Andrew, come on,” she said. “We came all the way down here; just give them some money and let them do their thing.” Andrew rolled his eyes, pulling some bills out of his pocket and thrusting them in Danny’s general direction.

  Danny’s mother, who spoke all of ten words of English, watched impatiently while this went on. Once Danny had counted the cash and slipped it into his shirt pocket, Mrs. Chan got down to business. She put on her glasses, took Andrew’s hand, and examined it closely in the muted red light. When she spoke, her voice took on a theatrical tone of Oriental mystery.

  “Idiots like this make me wish I’d stayed in China,” she intoned. “Look how pasty they are. They look sick.”

  “She says to keep very still,” Danny said. Mrs. Chan began to examine Andrew’s hand while Danny did his work.

  Willing himself to calmness, he let his mind wander away from thoughts of money and trivial annoyances. He let his eyes go out of focus, and in a few moments he began to perceive what he called his X-Ray Vision. He didn’t know how he did it; he’d just always been able to. His mother and sister had no such talent, although Danny had heard stories about his father that suggested that Danny himself was not the first in his family to be able to do such a thing. The locals all knew about this ability, and most of them seemed utterly unsurprised to learn of it. Chinese superstition left plenty of room for things like ESP, or whatever it was he was doing.

  The thoughts that went through Andrew’s mind appeared to roll off of his head like solar flares in a deep reddish-orange color. Every person’s thoughts appeared to Danny in their own unique color, as distinctive as a fingerprint. As the flares brushed past Danny’s own head, images flashed into his mind for the briefest of moments.

  The same happened with the thoughts of everyone else in the room, and Danny had to concentrate to filter out those that came from the others. His mother’s were easy to ignore; he’d lived and worked with her so long that her familiar thoughts were sometimes hard to distinguish from his own.

  Danny focused on Andrew and the thoughts that flooded out of his brain. The images came and went so quickly that Danny could barely identify them individually. But taken together, they were all part of a larger whole that made sense in the context provided by Andrew’s brain. Immersing himself in the thoughts as they passed around and through him, Danny watched the images flow past without dwelling on any one in particular. Most were useless—sports trivia, dirty thoughts about the girl he’d come here with, remembered scenes from television shows. The valuable ones, Danny knew, were hard to detect. Unless the subject was agitated or emotional; in those cases, the deeper images and hidden memories would come to light.

  Although it seemed to Danny that he was taking a long time to pull together these impressions to form a reading, the passage of time was illusory. To Andrew and the others, only seconds passed. They all watched Mrs. Chan expectantly as she went through the motions of reading Andrew’s palm.

  Danny cleared his throat—an agreed-upon signal that he needed his mother to keep talking.

  “We’re out of oyster sauce,” she said softly in Cantonese as she traced the lines on Andrew’s palm. “Go to the market on the way home and get some. And garlic. Oh, and your sister is working late today. You need to go meet her so she doesn’t walk home alone again.”

  Danny concentrated on the flurry of images as he pretended to translate. “She says you are student at NYU.” He could tell this much easily from the initial wave of Andrew’s thoughts. The girl and Pockmark seemed impressed; Andrew was not.

  “She heard me talking about school when we walked in. Skip the crap and tell me something good,” he said.

  Mrs. Chan continued her examination, pinching the flesh between his finger and thumb so hard that Andrew winced. “Hands like an old lady,” she said. “All bony, no meat. And filthy. I’ll have to wash three times when I get home.” She dug her nails into Andrew’s hand to keep him still. Danny smirked despite himself.

  “She’s saying that you have few true friends. You know many people, but care deeply for none of them.” Anyone could tell that by talking to this Andrew character for half a minute, but Danny’s main goal at the moment was to stir up his emotions and get him upset.

  Andrew shook his head. “This is bullshit. I’m not paying for this.” He started to get up, but Danny’s mother gripped his hand even harder.

  “He squirms like a constipated pig,” she said.

  “Let me go, you hag!” Andrew snapped.

  “She says you are arrogant, you cheat on examinations, and you masturbate excessively.”

  Pockmark and the girl both giggled. Andrew began to shake with rage. All at once, the images pouring out of his head changed from trivial to substantial. Deep memories opened up for Danny, and the images he saw explained much. “Wait,” he said, putting a firm hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Wait. She says you had difficult childhood. Your father left when you were young.” Andrew jerked his hand away from Mrs. Chan and glared at her, but Danny pressed on. “Your mother hit you. Your brother―”

  The other two lofahn had stopped laughing and were gaping at Andrew in horror.

  “What the hell?” Andrew snapped. “You’re making shit up.”

  Danny continued as if he hadn’t heard. As Andrew grew angrier, his thoughts became sharper. “She says your brother touched you. You were scared to―”

  “Shut up about my family, you goddamn lying chink.”

  “I’m sorry. Mrs. Chan says what she see. Sometimes it is very personal. If you want, your friends may wait outside―”

  “No, I’m done with this. Give me my money back.” Andrew’s face was even paler than when he’d come into the shop, if such a thing was possible, making his hair appear even redder than before.

  “I apologize, but as sign says, we cannot offer refunds. If you would like to continue, we can focus on your future.”

  “You said we could have our money back if this was all bullshit.”

  Danny smiled the most irritating smile he could come up with. “I never say that.”

  Andrew stood up abruptly, tipping his chair over, and took one step toward Danny. In this tiny room, one step was all there was. Danny felt a rush of adrenaline as he realized this wasn’t going to end without someone getting hurt. Most likely himself.

  “Listen to me, you yellow turd. You’re gonna give me my money. One way or another.”

  More images flashed in Danny’s head. He heard his own affected Chinese accent fading, but nothing could stop him once he was on a roll. “Is that why you’re such an asshole now, Andrew? Is that why you take it out on your girlfriends? ’Cause your brother used to―”

  Danny was cut short when Andrew closed a hand around his shirt collar and drew back his fist to strike. Spittle flew from his mouth when he spoke. “You sick little―”

  The other one interrupted him. “Let him go, Drew. You’re the one who wanted us all to hear it.”

  Andrew
hesitated, finally relaxing his grip on Danny’s collar enough to let him breathe. “Sure, Pete. It’s my fault.” Andrew smiled at Danny, straightened out his collar for him, and then got ready to hit him anyway.

  “Wait, hang on!” Danny blurted.

  “Why?”

  “I’m just a skinny Chinese guy. You’re not gonna prove anything to your friends by beating me up. They already know you’re nothing but a big asshole with a tiny dick.”

  Danny was constantly surprising himself with his own talent for taking things too far. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to block the blow. But the blow never came. He was saved by a bright light and a loud, metallic crash.

  In the front room, the door to the street had slammed open. Andrew turned to look, giving Danny the opportunity to slip out through the curtain.

  As soon as he emerged into the main room, Danny was almost bowled over by a middle-aged Chinese man with blood running down his face. He was whimpering with fear and clutching an old green duffel bag to his chest.

  “Hide me,” he begged in Cantonese, holding a hand out to Danny. “Hide me!”

  Andrew pushed his way out of the back room, battling the curtain, followed closely by his two friends and Danny’s mother. They all stayed behind Danny and looked over his shoulder at the man. “What the hell’s he saying?” Andrew whispered to the girl.

  “Please!” the man said. His lips were bloody, and Danny could see a gap where a tooth had recently been knocked out. “He’s coming!”

  “Who?” That was all Danny could get out before the door opened again, blinding him with sunlight. It took a moment to make out a Chinese youth, close to Danny’s age, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans, advancing toward the panic-stricken older man. Danny thought he recognized him. He was one of those young men in Chinatown everyone knew not to mess with. He worked for Li Wei Min, the smuggler and operator of one of Chinatown’s biggest prostitution rings. Everyone knew of Mr. Li, and having one of Li’s men walk into your shop was something that every Chinatown business owner hoped would never happen. Where Li’s people went, bad things usually happened.

  Danny’s mother shoved everyone out of her way and planted herself between the two newcomers. Pointing a bony finger at the gangster’s nose, she snapped in Cantonese, “You! Get out of here. You are not welcome.”

  The kid in the t-shirt paused in his advance, blinking in surprise. Then he laughed and shook his head. “Whatever you say, old lady.” He laughed again, incredulously, and turned back toward the door as if to leave.

  “And you―” Danny’s mother rounded on the other man, who looked more frightened than ever. The three white customers, still standing by the doorway to the back room, edged closer to one another.

  “Hey!” Andrew shouted, pointing at the younger one, who had turned back around with a gun in his hand. Danny yanked his mother out of the way as Li’s gangster fired five shots into the older man’s chest. He took his time, pulling the trigger almost lazily and grinning as he watched his target collapse to the floor in a mess of fluids.

  “Are you nuts?” Danny shouted at him. “You almost hit my mother!”

  “Jesus Christ,” whispered Andrew’s friend, the one he had called Pete, as he watched the blood form a wide puddle on the concrete floor. “Jesus Christ.” The girl was sobbing. Andrew stared at the gunman with his mouth hanging open.

  The gangster lowered his gun and nodded to Danny’s mother, still with that bemused half-smile on his face, and strolled over to retrieve the duffel bag that was still in his victim’s dead hands.

  The room lit up as the door opened yet again. Danny’s friend Ching came in, frowning slightly at the scene. The gangster, who hadn’t yet picked up the bag, straightened and pointed his weapon at Ching.

  “Hey, Danny,” Ching said in English, without taking his eyes off the man with the gun. “What the fuck?”

  “He just came in here and killed that guy,” Danny replied. “I think he works for Li.”

  “Yeah. He does.” Ching stepped closer to the gangster, who was looking slightly green in the face now that he had recognized Ching. “You know who I am, you dick?”

  The gangster nodded.

  “Then put that thing down on the ground and get out of here.”

  The gunman did as he was told.

  “Who’s going to clean this up?” Danny’s mother demanded, glaring at Ching.

  Ching looked down at the body. If he recognized the man, he showed no sign. “My grandfather can send someone over. Don’t touch him.”

  “I don’t want any help from your grandfather. Wang Liu Jiang is nothing but a criminal.”

  “We just came in here for a fortune-telling,” Andrew put in.

  Ching looked up at him. “Huh? Oh. Why don’t you get on out of here too?”

  Andrew nodded, looking somewhat more courageous until he noticed that Danny’s mother was looking at him. Then he cringed under her imperious stare and stepped carefully over the body, his friends following him closely.

  “Don’t call the police or nothing,” Ching called over his shoulder before the three reached the door. “They won’t come anyway.”

  “Bad luck, bad luck,” Danny’s mother murmured once they were alone. Danny pulled the duffel bag out of the dead man’s hands and set it on a dry part of the floor.

  “Don’t open it,” Ching said, but Danny unzipped it and looked inside.

  “Whose money?” he asked, reverting to Chinese.

  Ching shrugged. “Li’s, probably. It’s my grandfather’s now. Can you hold onto it until I talk to him?”

  “No!”

  “Should just be a day or two, until he comes back from Las Vegas. Keep it in your apartment, not here, and don’t take any of it out because he’ll know. Don’t touch the body until I can get someone over here.” He glanced at Danny’s mother, who was watching Ching with a cold expression. She had never liked Ching very much. “I’m sorry,” he said. She didn’t reply.

  “Can’t your grandfather’s men take the money when they clean up the body?” Danny asked.

  Ching shook his head. “They’d just steal it. Besides, Li’s men will find out the money ended up here. If they come looking for it, you’ll be glad you didn’t give it to somebody else.”

  “Shouldn’t we keep it here, then?” Danny asked. “So we can give it back?”

  “Of course not,” said Ching. “It’s my grandfather’s.”

  He departed, leaving Danny with the bag of cash and a sinking feeling in his stomach. The door slammed shut.

  “Bad luck,” Danny’s mother said once more. Then, clicking her tongue in dismay, she put on her coat and walked out of the shop.

  8

  In the Buick

  Ed fixed himself a simple dinner, turned on the television, and fished Cliff’s paper envelopes out of his pockets to examine the contents. The local news was on. A grim-faced anchor spent two or three minutes reading Vietnam body counts and covering national stories before moving on to the local news. There were murders in Watts and deadly accidents on the freeways. The city was full of death, it seemed. They spent considerable time reporting a story about some restaurant tycoon who had dropped dead on Thanksgiving Day, right in the middle of dessert. They showed a picture of the deceased—a mean-looking brute with a single bushy eyebrow over a pair of small, shifty eyes—followed by a brief interview with a middle-aged woman and a girl who must have been the man’s family. They seemed angry rather than sad.

  Then the anchor segued smoothly into other local news: a series of bank robberies in Compton remained unsolved; a hooker had been shot to death in front of a hundred people on Hollywood Boulevard (yet somehow no one had gotten a good look at the shooter); a drug bust in Venice Beach had ended in two deaths, and none of the drug dealers were among the dead. There were more shootings, assaults, and rapes in a single day in Los Angeles than most cities saw in a year. Ed carried his dishes to the sink. People were animals. That was the thought that still hung in h
is mind when the phone rang.

  “Yeah,” he groused into the receiver. Whoever it was, he hoped they’d make it short. He was ready to go to bed.

  “Ed? It’s Tom. What are you doing right now?”

  Ed eyed the packets of heroin on the coffee table. “Nothing. Watching the news.”

  “So you heard the news, then? About the shakeup?”

  Ed glanced at the television, but they had moved on to the weather report. “Shakeup?”

  “You and I need to talk. Can you meet me at Kinzie’s at nine?”

  Sighing, Ed said, “Why not just say what’s on your mind and save me the trouble of going out?”

  “Not this. Not over the phone.” There was something odd in the tone of Kajdas’ voice. He wasn’t quite himself.

  “Tom, I’ve had a long day here. Can we make it Friday?”

  “You know I wouldn’t bother you on a work night unless it was important. Humor me for an hour, you’ll be back home by ten-thirty. I’ll even―”

  Ed looked at the clock. “Okay, I’ll be there. You’d better be buying.”

  “You got it, buddy. I was just about to say, I’ll even buy you a tuna sandwich. See you in a while.”

  Ed looked up to Tom in some ways. Kajdas was a few years older, he’d been through some difficult times and come through on top, and he seemed to be a together kind of guy. He’d been through a bad divorce and left his daughters behind when he moved out from the East Coast—not the same as what Ed had gone through, but Tom could understand his loss in a way many others couldn’t. Besides, Ed didn’t have a lot of people on his side these days. He looked around for his car keys and wondered if the gnome kept hiding them.

  His Barracuda was parked on the street, half a block away. The engine refused to turn over again. That idiot mechanic had sworn up and down that the problem was fixed. Ed made a mental note to give the guy a call in the morning and let him have it. He punched the steering wheel in frustration, and the noise of his horn set someone’s dog to barking in one of the nearby apartments.