A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  More laughter.

  “Burnt circuits,” he grumbled, sulky.

  * * *

  “I hurt myself today / to see if I still feel / I focus on the pain / the only thing that's real,” Seven Dust jammed from the Scion's stereo system. Blondie and I sat in the backseat, her warm leg touching mine in the small space. I kept looking at the camo' pattern of her skirt. It was a real chore to keep from finding out the pattern of her panties underneath. She wouldn't tell, the vixen, preferring that I find some devious means of doing so, while she countered my attempts with sass or blistering jabs. It was fun and games to her. I, on the other hand, took this very seriously.

  I just had to know.

  Dammit!

  Ace turned a curve sharply, giving me reason to lean. I flopped over in Blondie's lap, hand reaching, and was head-butted in the ear.

  “Ow! Fine.” I sat up and rubbed my head.

  She smiled, flicked imaginary dust off her skirt. Pursed her lips primly.

  The rain had relented to a light drizzle, sky beginning to lighten. The FR-S handled the slick roads with perfect repose, sound-insulated interior smelling strongly of new car, MP3 playing a range of rock music we all enjoyed. We turned into a large neighborhood of small houses, import cars in every driveway, half of them customized, indicative of a primarily young Asian community. Turned right, right again, and spotted Big Guns' Prelude parked in the street with eight other cars in front of a brick house that looked to be hosting a party.

  The front door was open, two almond-eyed hotties clustered next to it, giggling, three young men enticing them loudly in Vietnamese from a wooden porch swing to the right, crepe myrtle trees green and pink in front of them. The guys saw us, stood abruptly and motioned for the girls to go inside. They did without question, closed the door quickly.

  As Ace and Shocker got out and held the seats up for us to shimmy out, Blondie stepped on something plastic, heel cracking the unseen item on the tiny dark floorboard. “Shit! I'm sorry,” she said, stepping out of the car, leaning back in to inspect the damage.

  Ace tried to jump in front of her. “Don't worry about it,” he said too late.

  Blondie stood, holding a box set of DVDs, smiling beautifully. She read the titles out loud. “The Art of Sex Positions. The Art of Oral Sex. And The Art of Orgasms.” She turned to her pal, swatted his shoulder and squealed, “You dirty dog!” She put them back in the car.

  Ace's face had turned a darker shade after every title. He looked over the roof at his girl. “I, uh…We…You,” he stuttered.

  I laughed at Shocker's expression. She had no knowledge of the DVDs. I jerked my head up at the geek. “I can tell you some things they don't put on DVD. Fifty Shades of Razor.” Now it was Blondie's turn to blush. I indicated the three armed Viet soldiers walking toward us. “Game faces now, sex faces later. What do you say?”

  They nodded quickly. Shut the doors.

  The men wore baggy jeans and dress shirts. Long gold and silver necklaces, boots, and skateboard shoes. One had bright red bangs framing his chiseled face. All wore Who The Fuck Are You? scowls.

  I matched their demeanor, stepped in front of my team and demanded, “Where is Big Guns?”

  “Who wants to know?” Red Bangs said, English heavily accented.

  I looked each of them in the eye. “Razor.”

  Their manner changed instantly. Eyes widening, mouths loosening, hands finding hair or clothes to straighten. Blondie hmmpted in satisfaction. Red Bangs turned to his left, commanding the youngest of the trio, “Kiem thang xuon bu,” find Big Guns.

  He hurried off, boots squishing across the wet lawn. Red Bangs and his partner had no small talk, opting to inspect Ace's car while stealing glances at the girls. Young Vietnamese were serious about import cars, and the FR-S was a threat to their Hondas and Acuras in style and performance. Scion, a subsidiary of Toyota, was only partly accepted by these guys. Tolerated. They looked at the machine with a mixture of skepticism and admiration.

  They'd really get their auto-panties riled if they saw it disappear, I mused.

  My crew remained quiet as well, listening to the party sounds coming from the backyard. There was some kind of contest in play, maybe a gambling tournament, shouts, jeers, and laughter voiced eloquently in their foreign tongue. Curiosity began to eat me, and I couldn't wait for my muscle-bound friend to get his ass out here so we could go join the action.

  Big Guns and the messenger appeared through the front door. My friend smiled silver at us, turned and barked an order to the messenger, who hurried off to another task. The Viet gangster motioned for us to come inside, scowling at Red Bangs and his partner. Both dropped their eyes in their superior's presence, hurriedly searched us four guests for weapons, patting our arm pits, waists, ankles. Then they sat on the porch swing once more, back on guard duty.

  Ace closed the door behind us softly. Pop music played from a TV, living room yellow with white trim, tastefully furnished with Ikea's best. We followed Big Guns into the dining room. He turned and pointed at Shocker, Ace, at the living room. “You two have to stay here,” he said apologetically.

  They made disgruntled expressions, but complied, sitting next to each other on a blue sofa, rejects at a VIP event.

  Through the sliding glass door in the kitchen was a patio with white plastic furniture, an umbrella table with six older Vietnamese men, two with young women in their laps, stacks of cash and writing tablets in front of them. They were cheering, laughing, heads twisted to the left, gesturing wildly as their girls chortled and squirmed in tight shorts. They quieted when we walked out, shut the glass door. Hooded eyes stared us down. We ignored them, looking at the source of the ruckus: a three foot tall circular ring of plywood, twelve feet in diameter, surrounded by whooping and hollering Asians of all ages, mostly male, a couple grandmas. Eyes on the cock fight in progress, they didn't notice our approach.

  A wooden fence encompassed the quarter-acre yard, tall thick bushes lining it for additional privacy. A small stone statue of Buddha, pot-bellied and grinning at the heavens, cast his charms from the center of a bird bath in the middle of the lawn, several small children playing under it with toy cars. Big Guns motioned for us to stand by the fence until the fight was over.

  We didn't have to wait long. The dinosaur descendants bokked loudly, furiously, one of them warbling in pain, the other in triumph, and half the men around the ring groaned at their loss. “Cac !” several spat, a word with a very amusing sound that translated to “shit” or “fuck.” One winner, a thirty-something in khakis and heavy gold chains waved a wad of cash in his friend's faces. “Du ma! Du ma!,” he told them. “Fuck your mom,” or “Shit, that's what's up,” depending on the context. I laughed, feeling their energy. I love high stakes risk, and knew what it felt like to beat the Odds, and get scuffed by them.

  A man older than everyone else at the ring noticed us and stared for a moment, eyes slitted. He smiled suddenly. Fended off two women who clamored next to him, one holding his winnings, and walked over to us. Trung was around seventy, though it was hard to tell. He had one of those expressionless Asian faces that never accumulated wrinkles. The only sign of his age was from the sun he slaved under on shrimp boats before climbing to the top of the Dragon Family. He wore a plaid short-sleeve button-up, navy slacks and dark leather sandals. Hair gray, combed to the side. His smile was yellowed from decades of coffee, but friendly and powerful. The man didn't look fancy, but still managed to convey CHIEF somehow. I've had the pleasure of his acquaintance twice before, and was equally impressed those times as well.

  He stopped several feet from us. Nodded to his subordinate. “Em Hung,” young protégé, he greeted Big Guns formally, voice warm but commanding. He looked at me, Blondie, eyes nearly black. He spoke perfect English, like a news journalist. “Razor, what brings you and this lovely golden warrior to my family's home?”

  Blondie smiled at his charm. I inclined my head respectfully and said, “To make a request, Anh Long
.” He waved a hand for me to go on. “We are going to put the brakes on the Two-Eleven and their allies. They are on a destructive path that has been unfortunate for many people, as I'm sure you know. We want to stop them before they reach a point where they can't be stopped.”

  Anh Long was quiet for several seconds, assessing the three of us. He said to his protégé, “Who is 'we'?”

  Big Guns bobbed his head. “Razor, Blondie. A fighter that calls herself Shocker. Her boyfriend Ace, who is a tech specialist. And a bodybuilder named Bobby.” He gave a small bow, smiled. “And myself, Anh Long.”

  “Hmm,” he considered. “I would meet this Shocker.” He folded his arms, seeming to know she was here and would discuss no more until she was present.

  Big Guns hurried over to the patio, ducked through the sliding door and returned with the girl-beast in tow. In the unflattering warm up suit Shocker's appearance was deceptive. She looked athletic, sure, but no one would ever guess she was the baddest chick to ever put on gloves. She wore an uncertain, innocent look that belied her confident, violent nature. An act I admired so much that I tried the expression myself. It felt gay after a moment, so I quit.

  Big Guns started to introduce her. The Elder Dragon said, “I know who Shocker is.” He turned to her. She sucked in a breath. Big Guns looked confused while Blondie and I smiled. The old man chuckled. “Don't look so surprised, Miss Ares. After all, you were a celebrity to fight fans, which includes the decrepit Elder in front of you.”

  He looked very concerned about her panicked countenance. She looked ready to sprint for her life. He stepped closer and took her hand. “You have nothing to fear. No one here will bring you harm. I can assure you.”

  Shocker smiled, Thanks. Took a breath. “Pleasure to meet you, Anh Long.”

  “Oh, the pleasure is all mine. This is a treat. You make me feel like a young man asking for an autograph.” She turned scarlet. He chuckled again, released her hand and looked around at us. “Now. What is it you require of the Dragon Family?”

  “Permission, and someone good with a rifle,” I said, eyeing him and Shocker. I had heard Anh Long was a kickboxing enthusiast, and good at it. I'm not surprised he follows boxing too, though I am surprised he seemed to know Shocker before even seeing her. The messenger told him she was here, I thought. Blondie and I are known boxers. Big Guns called her a “fighter.” A lot can be inferred from that.

  How many chicks called themselves Shocker?

  “Permission to war against Tiger Society?” Anh Long said, clasping hands behind his back.

  “That's right. Some of our fighting may happen on the DF's turf. We don't want any misunderstanding with your guys.”

  “I see.” Instead of answering, he glanced at his watch, turned and waved a specific gesture at a kid who looked like a street urchin, skinny with dingy shorts, ragged sandals and a shirt with holes in it. The boy had been watching the Elder Dragon like a squire watches a king, eagerly awaiting his commands, hoping to anticipate them. He took a huge rooster out of a cage, held it out in front of him to avoid being clawed by the sharp steel spurs attached to its feet. Walked quickly over to kneel in front of his liege.

  Anh Long knelt and stroked the rooster's head. The cone, the red Mohawk of skin that crowned a rooster's head, had been removed. It was a common practice, kept them from becoming snagged by spurs or pecked during battle. Same reason you don't see fighters with long hair; it's highly inconvenient when your opponent grabs a handful and steers you wherever they want. The feathers were white and black, golden brown, a few fringed with a gnarly purple that looked airbrushed. It was a magnificent animal.

  Anh Long took a bottle of water from his pocket. Removed the top and poured a swallow between his thin lips. He stroked his killer, then spat a stream of water into its beak. The bird bokked in frustration. Shocker wore a What the Hell? expression, though the rest of us had seen this before. It was a technique to keep the birds hydrated, to improve performance. They wouldn't drink on command, too nervous around fight rings to do anything but bok, poop, and wait anxiously for the inevitable fights. Anh Long obviously tends his own fighters.

  The boy stood with arms outstretched, and walked the rooster quickly back to the cages. The crowd around the ring chatted quietly, waiting for the Elder Dragon to return before starting the next battle.

  Anh Long looked at us and smiled, Excuse me. He said, “Cock fighting has been in my family since its invention. It is a great source of pride, a tradition that brought villages together in the old country, and brings families together even now, in this new world. The Dragon Family values tradition.” His face turned plaintive. “The Tiger Society used to, but what do they know now? Their Anh Ho isn't even forty years old,” he said, meaning the Elder Tiger. “And they like dog fights, for Buddha's sake.” He spat, grimacing. “They have lost touch with their roots, adopting American religion and traditions, losing their identities and respect in the process. And what are we without roots and civility?” He threw his hands up. “Tu chang ca chon!” showoff assholes.

  He spat again. Glared at no one in particular. His voice took on a quiet passion. “The Two-Eleven and Oriental Baby Gangsters are boats without rudders, deep in a treacherous storm. Their Elders have failed them. They think the only way to power is to destroy the old ways of the Families, and rule by an American gangster style. They weren't educated properly in our traditions of community, doing business so that everyone benefits. All they know is the strong take from the weak, and they do it with guns and cruelty. They have become the Viet Cong reincarnated.” He sighed sadly. “Myself and other Elders of the Dragon Family have tried for years to be diplomatic towards the Tiger Society; we understand the cultural pressures that have influenced their direction and behavior. But we have our own Family troubles to worry about. We can't afford to put any more energy into righting their problems. And because of that, they have started attacking us, dismantling our nets thread by thread so that our catch becomes less while theirs grows larger.”

  He chopped a hand into his palm loudly, eyes wide. He focused on our attentive faces. Waved a hand at me. “No one wants war. Our people are in enough danger as it is. Can you do this without revealing us as allies?”

  I glanced at my girl, at Shocker. They nodded, and I too felt we could operate under some fabricated premise, one that would allow our associates to stay in the dark. Almost immediately I had an idea.

  You miss creating scams, my subconscious said, rubbing mental hands in giddy anticipation.

  “No problem. Big Guns will have to lay low. We'll make sure of that.”

  Anh Long nodded. “I have someone who is a specialist at operating out of sight. I think he will be of help.” He looked at his Em Hung and commanded, “Take them to see Loc. Tell my Con Xoan he is to give Razor and his team whatever assistance they need.”

  “It will be done Anh Long,” Big Guns assured him.

  Hmm. He's loaning us his Eldest Son… that's a big deal in Asian culture, showing us and the mission the highest respect. I felt a mountain of responsibility suddenly weigh me down. It wasn't unpleasant. I do my best work under pressure, and usually show my ass when this particular feeling strikes me. Sometimes I literally show it.

  My responsibilities involving people have always been minimal- my bitch and my bike were all I ever took care of. This job here has thrust a load on me I've never felt the consequence of before. I hated to admit it, but doing good for a lot of people felt sort of…okay.

  Yeah, but if you screw up people that counted on you could get hurt. Do you really want go through with this? I grilled myself, having second thoughts. You know damn well you don't like being around so many people for very long. You could still back out, give some BS excuse…

  “Quit trippin',” I muttered. Blondie patted my shoulder encouragingly. Anh Long gave me a sharp look. I told him, “You honor us. I'll do my best to hold up my end.”

  “You are a general about to go to war,” he said gravely. “I have
no doubt you will give your best effort.” He looked at me, then Blondie, Shocker, knowing our reputations as accomplished fighters. He said, “War requires speed of mind and body, ruthless nature, to win. Your war council has more than enough.”

  The compliment had its intended effect. The girls smiled. My inner wolf howled, chest tingling, hoping for a chance to whet his muzzle on enemy blood at the nearest opportunity.

  Anh Long was about to return to his cock fights when Shocker asked him, “What's your Con Xoan's name?”

  * * *

  “Loc was a sniper in the Marines,” Big Guns told me as we parked by the harbor. Ace, Shocker, and Blondie pulled in next to his Prelude. He killed the ignition. Bayou mud breezed our faces as we got out. Seagulls cawed over the fishing boats docked at the piers, scavenging for scraps of decaying fish, shrimp or crabs that could be sensed on the old wooden planks. Big Guns closed his door. We did the same, gathering around him so he could brief us on the mysterious Viet killer. “Loc is not, uh, right in the head.” He scratched his cheek.

  “You mean he got messed up in the Iraq War?” Shocker asked, brushing a lock of hair out of her eye.

  “He was messed up before he joined the military.”

  “What happened to him?” Blondie said.

  Big Guns looked uncomfortable talking about Loc. “About ten years ago his baby died. Then his fiancé left him.”

  “Ouch,” Ace commented. The girls' eyes widened at the juicy gossip.

  “Yeah,” Big Guns agreed. “Loc was a Buddhist with a Christian girlfriend- a recipe for trouble. The Two-Eleven go to church, so naturally they were enemies of the cliques that went to temple. They ran into Loc and his girl at church one day and jumped them. She was pregnant. They were beaten badly by five or six Two-Eleven, and she lost the baby at the hospital that same day. They were devastated. Loc wasn't a violent person back then, and couldn't bring himself to retaliate. It went against his beliefs. His fiancé was an Old Testament kind of girl and thought he was weak. She left him. So he joined the Marines to learn how to kill people.” He shrugged. “He became a sniper. Won some shooting competitions and some awards for valor. He conquered his cowardice, but his depression turned into something psychotic. He came back last year but won't speak to anybody. Not even his own father. He lives here, on that shrimp boat.”