Henry Chang - Year of the Dog

She put her thumbs into the depressions at the base of his skull and worked the nerves, then followed with hands, firmly grabbing, kneading the musculature and cords inside the back of his neck.

He took a long and deep breath, held it a moment before releasing it, thinking, He was fifty-nine, and she was thirty-something, yet she was mothering him?

Bo’s pressing and digging, pushing and rubbing, forced his inner energy, his chi, to circulate. He felt his blood moving, the joints of his fingers crackling as he clenched and unclenched his fists underneath the plastic sheet. Finally, she balled her fists and pounded his back. Playing the drum, it was called.

When she was done, he gave her his usual ten-dollar tip, generous but not so overly generous that it suggested anything more than simple appreciation of services received. Knowing her story, Sai Go felt sorry for her, for her predicament, supporting two generations back in China, and having to fend off the snakeheads.

After Sai Go left the New Canton, Bo had begun to sweep up the hair on the floor around her station when she noticed the folded square of paper directly underneath the chair. It was a prescription card with notations she didn’t understand, from the Mon Tang Pharmacy on Mott Street. Folded along with the card was a piece of notepaper from Chinatown Imaging, and a scrap of crinkly cellophane that had the Chinese words Ming Sing, or movie star, scrawled on it.

On the Chinatown Imaging note was the word chemotherapy with appointment dates during previous weeks. They all seemed to be Thursdays. Below the dates was a scribble of Chinese words, several of which she understood to mean cancer and radiation.

A freezing wind suddenly swept into the salon, and Bo quickly glanced toward the door, but she knew that Sai Go was long gone. She stepped out into the cold street anyway, looking both ways to make sure he wasn’t still in sight.

Back inside the shop, Bo tucked the papers into her pocket, and reminded herself to return them on his next visit. She realized then why Sai Go had missed his last trim and although she hadn’t noticed any hair loss, he did appear fatigued, quieter than usual. The word radiation lingered in her mind, and she considered whether there was another talisman that could prevent the pain of cancer.

At eleven, the Sunset Park waterfront shimmered in the frosty moonlight far below his studio window. Dressed for the chill, Jack was adjusting the holster with the Detective Special on his hip when his cell phone trilled. Seeing Alexandra’s name appear in the little window above the keypad, he was surprised, because the only times she’d ever called before was when he was on the job.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Alex sounded tired.

“No, I was just going to drop by Grampa’s.”

There was a short pause, as if she were sipping a drink or something. “Right. Got a question about a permit for a gun,” she said.

“Shoot.” He felt himself grinning.

“The application process is real complicated, I hear.”

“Wait, who’s this for?”

“Myself.”

“You?”

“Long story.”

“Well,” he checked the Timex on his wrist, “give me the short version.”

“There was a smuggled girl we put up in the shelter. In the last few days, Doris has been getting nasty threatening calls at the reception desk.”

“What kind of threats?”

“‘Stay away from our women.’ ‘Your office may catch fire.’ Crap like that.”

“No shit. In Chinese?”

“Mandarin, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Doris said, with a sort of accent, like Fukienese, maybe. Two nights ago, when we closed, two guys were peering in through the blinds. After that, I felt like someone was following me, like from a distance.”

He pulled his black North Face jacket from the little closet.

“Fukienese?” he asked.

“Chinese, for sure. Last night I thought I saw one of them outside Confucius.”

“Go to the precinct and file a Form Sixty-One report so it’ll be on record. And it could support your pistol application.” He paused, checking for his keys. “You still have that friend in the DA’s office? ”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, you’re a lawyer yourself. That will help. But the DA’s office could call the Licensing Division. Know what I’m saying?”

“Right.”

“After you get the paperwork in, I’ll set you up at a pistol range. Learn how to shoot the right way. I know a guy on the West Side. Nice guy, Chinese, too.”

“Yeah, sure.” He heard her chuckle. “Thanks a lot.” It sounded like she took another sip, before saying, “There’s some other stuff. .”

He checked his watch again.

“Tell you what,” he said. “ Why don’t you drop by Grampa’s later?”

He thought he heard “You bet” before she hung up.

The Golden Star Bar and Grill on East Broadway was known to the locals as Grampa’s, a revered Chinatown jukebox joint frequented by a Lower East Side clientele of Chinese, Puerto Ricans, blacks, and whites. It was three steps down to a big room with an oval-shaped bar, and even in the dim blue neon light, Jack could make out Billy seated at the end of the long glossy counter. He was watching two Latinas shooting a rack on the pool table in the back.

Jack took a barstool next to him.

“Hey hey,” greeted Billy. “Wassup?”

“You tell me,” answered Jack. “What’s the buzz?”

“Just a coupla the Fuk slop boys talking,” Billy said, signaling the bartender for a beer for Jack. As he waited, Jack remembered Vincent Chin, editor of the Chinese language newspaper, the United National. He had assisted Jack in the past. Jack knew Billy’s words would be neighborhood lowdown, in contrast to Vincent’s professional view.

They tapped beer bottles and Billy swiveled on the barstool, put his back to the two ladies at the pool table and leaned toward Jack. “In the slop room,” he said quietly, “I overheard the Fuk boys talking about the big shootout under the bridge. The crap didn’t start there, and probably won’t be the end of it. A coupla weeks ago, some Fuk Ching gangbangers threw a beat down on a few casino bus drivers who weren’t knuckling under. What happened the other night, the young guns chased a Fuk Chow crew chief down Henry, through the backstreets near the bridge. They shot him as he ran. Six times, both legs and arms.”

“They let him live,” Jack said, knowing now why the shooting never made the blotter as a homicide.

“It was a warning.” Billy continued, “The young Chings felt they were being squeezed out of the tour-bus game, like a new deal was coming down. The older Fuk Chow guys didn’t like the attention the young guns were attracting.”

“Well, too late now.” Jack smirked. “The shit’s hit the fan. Whatever the shady bus deal was, there’s a spotlight on it now, and they can’t be happy about that.”

“That’s a bet,” said Billy. “And about Jeff’s office getting robbed out there? The slop boyz claim that the Ching crews ain’t into burglaries. They don’t want stuff they gotta resell. They only want cash money, gold and silver. Easy money, jacking home invasions, kidnap, strong-arm. They threaten the victims to keep them quiet. The victims don’t really want to pull in the cops, get deported. It’s a win-win deal for the bad boyz.”

Jack remembered Ah Por’s bad, monkey vision, and kept silent. He knew that a third of cases went unresolved, and if Jeff’s family members were really robbing him, would he want it made public? To bring the family shame?