The man with the beard was called Blake. Danny knew this because Blake was surrounded by many people in the dream, all of them shouting his name in adulation as he stood before them and yelled at them. Blake was angry in the dream; he shook his fist at the people and shouted at them. But no one in the crowd seemed to notice; they called his name joyfully and waved to him until Blake spun around and disappeared into a building with a green-painted door. The moment that green door slammed shut was always when Danny woke up.
Danny hated Blake, yet found him fascinating at the same time. He was sure he’d never seen the man in real life; Blake was entirely a creation of Danny’s own mind. After seeing him in his dreams almost every night since childhood, though, Danny knew the man’s face as well as he knew his own. At one time he had wondered what Blake was angry about, and why the people seemed to love him so, but the dream provided no answers and Danny eventually stopped asking the questions. Every morning, as Danny dragged himself out of bed after another ruined night’s sleep, he cursed Blake and wished the man would leave him alone.
11
Buddha’s Head
Danny awoke to the frenzied clacking of his broken alarm clock whose bell had fallen off years ago. He switched it off and sat up. It was 6:15. His mother was expecting him at the shop in fifteen minutes for another long day. He yawned and scratched his head, and noticed that his hair was getting shaggy again. His mother would remind him of that fact three times a day until he let her cut it.
His sister was sacked out on her bed still in yesterday’s clothes. She would sleep until noon, probably. Their mother had left before dawn, as usual, to putter around the shop and scrub at yesterday’s bloodstain before opening. Danny changed into some marginally cleaner clothes, grabbed a pear from the refrigerator, and, yawning again, made his way down the five flights to the street.
Chinatown was already wide awake. Men were pushing carts of produce in the street, paying no attention to the cars that sped past, barely avoiding the mobs of scurrying people. Shop-owners were spraying down the sidewalks in front of their stores with hoses. It was astonishing how much garbage and general filth could accumulate on a New York sidewalk in a single night. The water was black with grime by the time it reached the curb. Danny dodged the streams of water as the proprietors aimed their hoses at his ankles, incensed at his intrusion on their freshly-washed sidewalk.
Keeping an eye out for cars and mad bicyclists, he crossed Bayard and ate his pear on the way to the shop. He was already pulling his keys out of his pocket as he rounded the corner onto Elizabeth. He didn’t notice something was wrong until he had inserted his key in the door and found that it swung open freely. The jamb was bent, as if by a crowbar.
Someone broke in, he thought belatedly, and as soon as this understanding leapt into his mind his thoughts turned to his mother. Had she been there when it happened?
“Ma?” he called. There was no answer.
He stepped inside, only then realizing that someone might still be lurking in the dim interior, waiting to clobber him while his eyes were still adjusting. No one clobbered him, though, so he made his way toward the back room. There had been a fire. The smell of smoke was so strong that he could hardly breathe. There was water on the floor. Something crunched under his feet—his mother’s carvings and lucky trinkets, strewn across the floor. Whoever had broken in had been determined to leave nothing unbroken. Even the shelves had been ripped down from the walls. It looked like someone had smashed everything they could see and set fire to what remained.
He found his mother in the back room, sitting on the floor in a puddle of water amid the charred splinters that were all that remained of her little wooden table. In her hands was the old ceramic Buddha statue that had looked down from the high shelf. Moving closer, Danny saw that it was not the whole statue but just the head, apparently the only part that hadn’t been smashed.
“My grandmother’s,” she said, tracing the Buddha’s smile with a finger. “She left it to me when she died.” She tossed the head onto a pile of debris in the corner. “Did your friend do this?”
“Ching?” Danny contemplated that for a moment. “He wouldn’t do that. It had to be Li.”
“They’re all the same.” She stood up, dusted off her dress (which had no effect except to smear the stains around), and looked around at the devastated shop. “All your father and I saved, we put into this place.”
Danny sighed and kicked at the splintered remains of the table. “We could still stay open. It’ll take time to clean up―”
“The merchandise is all destroyed.”
“So we’ll just do fortunes for a while.”
“The smoke, the water. We can’t work in here.”
“But―”
His mother shook her head. “No one will come now. The criminals have claimed it as their territory. Who will want to take a chance on being the next person to die here?”
Danny didn’t have an answer. Instead of replying, he went back to the other room and dug through the black debris until he found the lockbox. It was still locked and appeared to be undamaged. A common burglar would have stolen or broken open the box, even though Danny never left any money in it.
“Tien-Ming,” his mother said, “do not tell your friend about this.”
“Why not? Maybe he can help. Mr. Wang could―”
“I don’t want Wang’s help. I’d rather starve to death than take anything from him. Don’t you dare tell your friend about this. Where are you going?”
“I need to go wake up Alice,” Danny lied, slipping out the front door before she could object.
* * *
“It had to be Li’s people. Looking for their money, or sending you a message” Ching was pacing the floor in Danny’s apartment. Alice sat on one end of the old, sagging sofa sipping tea and looking bleary-eyed, while Danny sat deep in thought at the other end. “Probably both.”
“How’s Ma?” Alice asked Danny. “Shouldn’t you be over there with her?”
Danny sighed. “Not good.”
“They didn’t take her Buddha, did they?”
Ching stopped pacing. “You didn’t leave that money there, did you?”
“What money?” Danny had forgotten all about it. “Oh, it’s under my bed.”
“You better get out of here, Ching,” Alice said. “If Ma sees you―”
“Ching didn’t do anything, Alice.”
Ching laughed and punched Danny hard on the shoulder. “I saved your ass, bro. Don’t that count for something?”
“You know what I mean,” Danny said, rubbing his shoulder. “But she’s right. Ma thinks it’s your fault, just for being related to Mr. Wang.”
Ching’s smile faded. “She just lost everything she had, in a war that has nothing to do with her. Can you blame her for being pissed off?”
“She can’t judge you by what your grandfather does,” said Alice.
“Sure she can. Everybody does.” Ching leaned back against the doorframe. “He’s a dick, my grandfather. People hate him. But at least he’s better than Li. This is all Li’s fault.”
Alice put down her tea. “I’m going down there to help her clean up. You coming, Tien-Ming?”
“Be over in a minute.”
Ching waited for the door to close behind her before he spoke. “My grandfather gets back today. We have to tell him.”
Shivering, Danny got up and put a hand on the radiator. It was barely warm. “Goddamn heat never works. What the hell do we pay rent for?”
“We can give him the money and ask for help. Maybe he’ll lend you some so you can reopen.”
Danny knew how his mother would react to the suggestion of taking a loan from Wang. “Why should we give it to your grandfather?” he asked. “Isn’t it Li’s?”
Ching shrugged. “Probably. But Grandfather knows you’ve got it, or he will know soon, so we should give it to him before he asks about it.”
“Fine. I don’t want it anyway.”
; “You’re not as dumb as everybody says, bro.”
* * *
The Double Harmony Restaurant was hazy with cigarette smoke and bustling with irritable waiters who scurried about, arms full of clinking plates and sloshing teapots. Danny followed Ching inside and nearly got knocked over by a waiter who grumbled at him for getting in the way. The smell of food reminded Danny that he hadn’t eaten a proper meal since the previous night.
Ching led him to a stairway at the back that took them down to a dark corridor in the basement. He strode confidently to the end and knocked on a plain wooden door. The door opened, letting out a cloud of tobacco smoke, and a sizeable Chinese man with a buzz cut stepped out to meet them. Recognizing Ching, he stepped aside to let them in, looking Danny up and down as he walked past.
Everyone knew Wang conducted some sort of business down in the basement of the restaurant—men could always be seen coming and going through the back door—but Danny had never known anyone other than Ching who had ever been invited down here. He stopped in the doorway and looked around in surprise at a mahjong parlor the likes of which he’d never seen. The room covered the same floor space as the huge dining area upstairs, with Mahjong tables set so close together that the players nearly bumped elbows with those at neighboring tables. There were dozens of men, four to a table, playing their games and shouting to be heard over the din. Money was changing hands wherever games were finished—a lot of money, Danny noticed. These were not like the friendly games he played for quarters with Ching and their friends. This was a big business, and an illegal one. The clacking of tiles was deafening. Danny stuck his fingers in his ears and followed Ching around the edge the room to another door in the back.
Ching shut the door behind them, attenuating the noise somewhat. They were in a dark, wood-paneled room with Chinese paintings on the walls and a mahogany desk at the far end. A rotund and severe old man behind the desk was speaking quietly to two thinner ones. The man took notice of Ching and Danny, nodded at Ching, and concluded his business with the two men, who bowed slightly and hurried out of the room.
“Yan-Ching,” the old man said. He showed no trace of affection for his grandson. In fact, his stony face didn’t appear capable of expressing any emotion whatsoever. In Cantonese he said, “How is your mother?”
“She’s well,” Ching replied formally. He introduced Danny, who shook Wang’s hand with some trepidation. The old man had a surprisingly firm grip, for all that his hands looked like prime cuts of beef.
Wang settled back into his chair, which groaned wretchedly under his weight, and said, “I’m told we had an incident while I was away.”
Ching told Wang what had happened at the fortune-telling shop. At what seemed like an appropriate point in the story, Danny slung the duffel bag off of his shoulder and plopped it down on the desk.
Wang nodded to himself, jowls quivering thoughtfully, as Ching finished. After a momentary silence he said, “Hong was transporting a routine delivery to me. Which side of the street is your mother’s shop on?”
Danny frowned. “The right side. The east side, I mean.”
“So we can assume Hong stayed in my territory at all times. Li’s man should not have done what he did.”
“Yeah,” said Danny. “That’s what I thought, too.”
Wang gave him a dark look. “It’s a good thing my grandson arrived when he did, or you would have been killed as well. Did you open the bag?”
Ching shook his head at Danny ever so slightly, but Danny said, “Yes.”
“Did you take anything out?”
“No.”
Wang smiled an emotionless smile. “I can always tell a liar. You’re an honest boy. My grandson could learn that from you. You’re Chan Fu-Jing’s son, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought you were younger.”
“I used to be,” said Danny. Ching gave him a warning look.
Wang’s smile disappeared. “Tell me, Tien-Ming, do you make good money working for your mother?” he asked.
“I guess I don’t work there anymore,” said Danny, sidestepping the question. “Somebody broke in and trashed the shop.”
“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.” Wang did seem genuinely sorry, although Danny didn’t believe it for a second. “I hate to see you get caught in the middle of this business with Li. He is ruthless. Surely he thought he would find his stolen money there. How bad is it?”
“Destroyed. Everything.”
“Ahhh.” Wang made a face. “You know, I’m always in need of more help. And I daresay I could probably pay you more than you earn today.”
Danny had to admit the idea appealed to him on some level. Wang’s army of young gangsters was feared throughout Chinatown, almost as much as Li’s. But he snapped back to his senses within moments. His mother would never approve. “No,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Very well. You have a sister, don’t you? I have an opening for a hostess in the restaurant. Maybe she would―”
“No!” The suddenness of his reply made both Wang and Ching jump. Then, unexpectedly, Wang broke into laughter.
“I like you, Tien-Ming. You don’t let anybody scare you. That will cause you trouble, but it’s better to be brave than meek. Here.” He unzipped the duffel bag and counted out a few bills, which he handed over to Danny. “Give this to your mother. Or if you don’t think she’ll accept it, keep it for yourself. Consider it a token of my thanks for holding my money so faithfully.”
Danny glanced down at the bills in his hand. Wang had given him fifty dollars. Fifty dollars! The shop would take thousands to repair. He looked at Ching, who shrugged at him and raised his eyebrows. Don’t push your luck, the look said.
“Thanks,” Danny said. But he knew his tone betrayed his feelings, and he couldn’t look Wang in the eye.
“What’s the matter?” Wang said. His mouth tightened. “Not enough for you?”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
Ching was looking quite alarmed. “Nothing, sir,” Danny said, hoping that the added respect would defuse his developing predicament.
“I just gave you a gift, boy,” Wang said. There was a softness to his tone that hid a deep, long-simmering anger. “You show proper respect when given a gift. Thank me properly!”
Danny looked Wang directly in the eye. “Thank you, sir.”
“Still not very good.” Wang nodded once, sharply. “But better.” He lifted his considerable backside out of his leather chair and walked around them to open the door. “I have things to discuss with my grandson. Would you excuse us?”
Danny got up, patted Ching roughly on the shoulder, and went to the doorway, stuffing the money into his pocket. The chaos of the Mahjong parlor outside was so overwhelming that he had to pause in the doorway.
“Do you play?” Wang asked quietly.
“Whenever I can.”
Wang gave his grandson an odd look before turning back to Danny. “Why don’t you sit down for a game?” He put his arm around Danny’s shoulders and guided him to a table where four men were just sitting down to begin a round. Wang whispered to one of the men, a greasy-haired specimen with a shifty look, and the greasy man wandered off, leaving a chair open for Danny.
Danny turned and looked for Ching, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t have money,” he said. “Except for―” He put a hand on his pocket.
“No no,” said Wang, “that’s yours. I’ll cover you. Just don’t lose big.” He slapped Danny’s back, then turned and left him there with the three players staring at him suspiciously.
“Hi, guys,” Danny said as he sat down. His three opponents looked down their noses at him without saying a word. After giving him a good, long stare, one of them—a thin one with wire-rimmed glasses who sat to Danny’s left—snorted noisily and began to mix the tiles. Danny and the other two quickly joined in, “washing” the tiles by pushing them around and around the surface of the table with both hands. When
the tiles were sufficiently mixed, each of the players built his wall two tiles high. The man with the glasses rolled the dice, counted down the length of his wall, and took four tiles for his hand. Then each player picked his tiles, in turn, until everyone had thirteen.
“No chicken hands, boy” the man with the glasses warned him. No one would be permitted to claim a win with a hand that was worth no points. Danny nodded; this was a common house rule, and nothing to worry about.
The game began. They played silently for the most part, speaking only when claiming a discard to complete a meld. It was nothing like the friendly games Danny was used to playing. There was no friendliness here. And they played at incredible speed. Danny hardly had time to identify each of his opponents’ discards on the table before the next player took his turn. When Danny took more than a second or two to decide on a discard, the others frowned at him coldly. He started making mistakes. After his third bad discard, Danny decided he had to change the atmosphere if he wanted to have any hope of winning. Or even losing gracefully.
“So...” he said the next time his turn came around. He ignored the scowls of the others and smiled in what he hoped was an inoffensive way. “I didn’t catch your names. Do you have names?”
The one in the glasses narrowed his eyes. The man across from Danny, who had a dark, hairy growth on his left eyelid that made Danny deeply uncomfortable, scratched his chin and stared at the discard pile without saying a word. Only the third man, a fat one with impossibly bad teeth, spoke.
“Jiang,” he said, smiling. Those teeth were nauseating, but Danny smiled back.
Forest of the Mind (The Book of Terwilliger 1) Page 10
