Dan O'Shea - Penance

Wang shouted something in Chinese, and Lynch heard a truck engine start under the float. The float drove down the alley and turned left onto Wentworth.

More people than Lynch had ever seen lined the sidewalks and the edges of the street. Even more hung out of windows along the upper floors along the route. The street was full of dancers and acrobats and young men running paper dragons in serpentine patterns. Fireworks exploded everywhere. Gongs banged, and people shouted and laughed.

Lynch heard his name. “Johnny! Johnny! Over here!”

Lynch looked to his left. His mother and Uncle Rusty stood right in front, outside the Emerald Pagoda, Mom holding his sister’s hand. His uncle had his hands cupped around his mouth, making a megaphone.

“Happy birthday, buddy!”

Wang pressed something into his hand. Lynch looked. It was a coin, bronze, half the size of Lynch’s palm. There was a square hole in the middle of it, with Chinese characters on either side.

“Happy birthday, indeed, young man. This is your father’s legacy. Never lose it. It is magic. It can buy anything.” It was the happiest Lynch had been since his father’s murder.

At 5.15am Lynch and Johnson sat in her kitchen, drinking tea, Johnson in her panties and an old Golden Gophers sweatshirt, Lynch showered, dressed again, figuring he’d have to head straight to work.

“You never told me if it works,” said Johnson.

“Jesus, Johnson. It works, OK? Needs a little rest now, though.” Lynch giving a little laugh.

“I know that works, Lynch. The magic coin? Does it work?”

Lynch fished out his keychain. The coin was threaded onto the metal loop. He set it on the table. “Tried it once, my senior year at Mount Carmel. I was, I dunno, sort of a jock punk then. Not really, I guess. I was never comfortable with that, but that was the crowd I hung with mostly. Anyway, spring break that year, some of us got to talking shit like guys do. You know, I know this guy, my old man knows that guy. So I say I know Paddy Wang. Which gets me a big bullshit from everybody. I mean, they know my old man had been a kind of quasi-ward boss on the side, but they figure that’s Triple A ball at best, and Paddy Wang, well, Paddy Wang is the big leagues.”

“So you figure you have to show them, right?”

“Yeah. I figure we drive down to the Pagoda, flash the coin, maybe we get comped a meal. Maybe Paddy even comes out, says hello. Anyway, we’re driving down Cicero, just north of Chinatown, and Mutt Warren — he was this big slob of an offensive tackle, complete asshole — he sees the Manila, titty bar used to be down that way, another joint Wang owned. It was pretty infamous. He says, you’re tight with Paddy Wang, you get us in there.”

“Hey,” Johnson said. “This is getting good.”

“So we park, we’re walking up to the door, and there’s this guy, looks like Oddjob from the Bond movies, standing there, and he doesn’t even talk to us, just makes this shooing gesture. So I hold up the coin. Guy kinda freezes, give this little nod, and opens the door. So, anyway, I made my case. Coin works.” Lynch took a sip of tea, feeling kind of sheepish.

“Oh, no you don’t, Lynch.” Johnson pulled her feet up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees, leaning her head forward. “You have to finish this story.”

Long exhale from Lynch. Sip of tea. “OK. Place is pretty seedy, really. Got the big runway down the middle, couple of Asian girls up there, supposed to be in pasties and G-strings, but they’re not. Not real crowded. It was a weeknight, and it was early yet, at least by the standards of that sort of joint. Some guys at the tables, they’re probably mostly OK, you know. I mean, a little loud, a little drunk, but mostly guys in their twenties just not grown up yet. But the guys lining the runway? I knew right off I never wanted to be one of those guys, staring up into these anonymous crotches like they’d just found God. I tell the guys I made my point and let’s get out of here, and I think most of them were ready to go. But Warren, Jesus, he’s turned into one of the guys at the runway already. Says we’re all fucking pussies, must be gay, and that turns the group’s whole mood around. Nobody wants to be the guy when we get back to school Monday who gets the rap for chasing us out of the Manila. Thing is, though, we’re all standing there, trying to be cool, not one of us has any idea what we’re supposed to do. Do we get a table? Do we go join the mouth-breathers at the runway? Then one of Paddy’s Suzy Wong girls walks up, and I’m thinking this has to be one of those girls who stuffed me into that robe when I was eleven, but it can’t be because it’s been seven years. I think he must clone them or something. Anyway, she walks up, takes my elbow, says, ‘Mr Lynch, gentlemen,’ and she ushers us through this beaded curtain and into this room off to the right. Mess of food on the table, appetizer-type stuff. Beers on the table. And four of those girls, like up on the runway.”

“Meaning naked?” Johnson asks.

“Yeah. Meaning naked. So we sit down, and these naked girls are serving us food, serving us beers. Suzy Wong standing in the doorway like a chaperone. Warren pawing at the girls. They don’t actually say no, but they’re pretty good at avoiding him. Finally, he says to me, ‘Hey, Lynch, use that coin, man. I bet we can do these chicks right here.’ This whole thing’s got me pretty weirded out already, and now it looks like it’s going to get ugly. And I say, ‘That’s it, we’re out of here.’ And this time, the other guys are with me. They pretty much jump up out of their seats. Warren sees it’s going against him and is just kinda pouting. And then fucking Warren, he grabs this one girl from behind, got his hands all over her, and instantly that Oddjob guy is behind him, peeling his arms off her like they’re pipe cleaners. And the Suzy Wong chick, she steps forward, says if I give her my keys, she’ll have the car brought around. So, we’re out on the walk, car’s waiting. Just as I’m walking around the back, this stretch Lincoln pulls up, back window slides down, and there’s Paddy Wang.

“‘Young Lynch. What a surprise to see you again,’ he says. I’m thinking I should apologize or something, and all I get out is ‘Hi.’ He says, ‘Do you know the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, young Lynch?’ I say yeah. He says ‘In which a man trades his magic beans for a cow?’ I say yeah again. He says ‘Seems a waste of magic beans, doesn’t it, young Lynch?’ And the window goes up, and the Lincoln glides off, and I get to drive home, car full of guys carrying on about how they grabbed this and grabbed that, and Warren saying how he should have kicked the Oddjob guy’s ass, and I’m just hoping this doesn’t get back to my mom, and I’m feeling stupid and dirty and not grown up at all.”

“So the coin works.” Johnson looking a little sad for him, Lynch amazed how well she understands, falling more for her all the time.

“Need to be real careful what you wish for,” said Lynch.

Jose Villanueva sat at one of the plastic tables outside the pastry joint on Wabash, drinking his coffee, eating his chocolate croissant, and trying to find a way out of his current fix. An L train crashed and banged along overhead, but the noise didn’t bother Jose.

Jose was a professional creeper. Best alarm and second-story guy in the city. You wanted something out of somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, you wanted Jose, especially if that somewhere was wired up. Jose’s workload was increasingly by referral. Work-for-hire stuff. Private collectors looking for a certain piece, industrial espionage, some work coming out of divorces. Once, some fat cat sent him into a house up in Lake Forest. All he wanted was a painting of a cocker spaniel. Wife got it in the settlement, so he was going to take it. Jose telling the guy that was going to point right back at him. Jose telling him that he’d better take some other shit, make it look good. The guy saying take all the shit you want, just get me the damn picture. Guy paid him five grand for the painting; Jose made another fifteen on the other stuff he grabbed.