by Henry Chang
“Come up for some sambuca,” she said. It came out soft but sounded like a command.
“You think?” he asked, still wondering about Bang Sing.
“Yeah, well, you have an outstanding rain check. You need to cash it in before something else happens,” she insisted.
“Okay then,” Jack agreed. “Good to go.”
They were quiet walking the last block before they came to the gates of Confucius Towers.
Alex led the way past the doorman guard in the lobby. At the elevator, she took Jack’s hand, led him in, and tapped the button for the thirty-third floor. A lucky yang number, Jack thought.
The interior of the elevator was a bright yellow, and they both knew they were covered by the surveillance camera, exchanging little smiles as they were whisked upward. The camera couldn’t see that she was squeezing his hand in hers.
Inside 33C, Alex hit a switch, and the lights went low and music started playing softly from somewhere. Jack could see it was the kind of Chinatown apartment that only well-to-do Chinese could afford: large picture windows with a high-rise view, granite countertops in the kitchen, an arranged fung shui living space.
A place he and his Pa could have never afforded.
Alex draped her red jacket on a chair and Jack did the same with his. She gave him a hug and started the espresso machine. There were family photos and children’s books on the shelves, law books to one side. Jack imagined her little girl, Chloe, had a room somewhere, but knew she wasn’t home because Alex wouldn’t have brought him up unannounced. There were art pieces and drawings on the walls.
He could smell the coffee as he watched her bring the sambuca out, setting designer coffee cups on the countertop. He remembered the night in Seattle, and Alex, in gold lingerie.
Quietly, she came up close, and the kiss she gave him made him forget all about Bang Sing, made him forget Seattle and the pain in his shoulder and the emptiness in his soul. He pulled her close, liked he’d wanted to do in his dream, heart to heart, and felt her softness against him. He took a shaolin breath and pressed his lips to hers, a slow smoldering kiss that felt like it was for real and meant something more than just alcoholic surrender to desperate need.
They took their time slow-dancing to the low music. The words ended and then they spoke with their eyes and hands. Along the way toward the bedroom Jack had a hopeful feeling that things were going to be all right, that maybe his hard-hearted cynicism was misguided, and the risks he’d taken were worthwhile after all….
