Robert Browne - Kiss Her Goodbye

Donovan hesitated. She had a point. Even if he chose to confront Gunderson, how exactly would he do it? His first trip to the netherworld had been a fluke, an anomaly. Short of putting a gun to his head, how would he get there again?

Seeming to sense his dilemma, Grandma Luke spoke.

“There’s more than one way to travel to the other side,” Evelyn said. “Less dangerous than what you’ve already experienced, but still very risky.”

Grandma Luke reached to a table beside her chair and opened a battered cigar box. Inside was a collection of papers, some yellowed with age. She searched through them, found a dog-eared business card, and offered it to Donovan.

“This man will help you,” Evelyn translated.

Donovan took the card.

Chinese characters.

An address printed below them.

Rachel stared at it over his shoulder. “This is crazy,” she said. “Why did I even bring you here?”

Grandma Luke smiled at Rachel and spoke again.

“My granddaughter has always been a reluctant believer,” Evelyn translated. “She knows this is the only way, but the truth frightens her.”

“See what I grew up with?” Rachel said.

“I know you’re scared, Rache, but think of Jessie. Right before he was shot, Gunderson asked me if I was willing to die for my little girl.” Donovan paused, then said, “What would your answer be?”

It was an apothecary shop, but unless you were suffering from a serious brain-cell deficiency, you wouldn’t mistake it for the local Walgreens.

A three-block walk from Grandma Luke’s apartment, it was tucked into a narrow cul-de-sac as if hiding from the world, a secret to be shared with only a select few.

There were no signs advertising its presence. Only a dilapidated door and a dirty window filled with what looked like industrial-sized mayonnaise jars holding moldy powders and pickled substances of unknown origin. They reminded Donovan of the kinds of things unwitting reality-show contestants are forced to swallow as America watches. Whatever was in those jars did not look particularly medicinal.

“You sure this is the right place?” he asked.

Rachel nodded. “My grandparents used to bring me here.”

“You must’ve had an interesting childhood.”

“Life,” she sighed. “An interesting life.”

He knew that sigh included the current situation, and he wondered if the reluctance Grandma Luke spoke of had gotten the better of her. Was her support finally starting to waver?

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Don’t forget,” he said, “I’ve done this before.”

The smile she offered was small, but enough to satisfy him. He reached for the door. A bell tinkled as he opened it. Stepping inside, they found a middle-aged Asian woman looking up at them from the book she was reading. “May I help you?”

She sat at a counter littered with jars of various sizes, filled with the same unappetizing substances as those in the window. The wall behind her was lined with wooden drawers, each about the size of a shoe box, which Donovan assumed held various medicinal mixes of stuff from the jars. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, permeating the air with an almost overpowering mustiness.

Donovan ducked under something brown and approached her, handing her the dog-eared business card Grandma Luke had given him. He was vaguely aware of music. A faint strain coming from a distant room.

It sounded like Jimi Hendrix.

The woman read the card, nodded. Handing it back, she flipped the book facedown, then came out from behind the counter and moved to a curtained doorway at the back of the store.

Donovan and Rachel followed.

Pulling the curtain aside, she gestured and said, “Last door on your left.”

They stepped past her, Hendrix’s guitar growing louder as they navigated a corridor with faded linoleum and drab green walls that were vaguely reminiscent of a fifties-era hospital. At least there weren’t any jars in evidence.

Donovan looked around. “Your grandparents bring you here, too?”

“It’s all new to me,” Rachel said.

The last door on the left was open just a crack, Hendrix really cranking behind it. Donovan knocked on the doorframe, but got no answer. He knocked again, louder.

Over the music, a voice called out, “Yeah?”

Donovan pushed the door open to find a twentyish, overweight Chinese-American man standing in the middle of a cluttered room. He was playing air guitar, a burning cigarette tucked into a corner of his mouth.

Donovan felt a momentary twinge. Was it a Marlboro?

Without stopping, the man said, “What can I do you for?”

Donovan glanced at Rachel. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

They were about to turn away when the guy snatched up a remote, silenced the music, and looked at Rachel. “You Mrs. Luke’s grandkid?”

Rachel paused. “You’re Mr. Wong?”

“In the flesh,” Wong said, looking her over. “Where you been all my life?”

Donovan glared at him, then took Rachel’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Wong held up a hand. “Wait a minute, wait-don’t get your panties in a wad. You’re the one picked up the stray hitchhiker, right?”

Donovan paused, looking at the guy. Had Grandma Luke really meant to send them to him?

Wong noticed the look and smirked. “What? You were expecting some wise, old kung fu master? You white boys are all the same.”

Donovan didn’t respond, but that was exactly what he’d been expecting.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Wong said, “but nobody’s snatching any pebbles outta my hand and I sure as shit ain’t gonna call you grasshopper. But I will promise you one thing: I can get you where you want to go.”

He held out a hand to shake. “The name’s Jimmy, by the way.”

Donovan ignored the hand, taking in the clutter of the room: a desk piled with Asian girlie magazines, an ashtray overflowing with butts, a bookshelf full of hardbacks that hadn’t been dusted in months.

He didn’t try to hide his skepticism. “You’re saying you can help me?”

“If I can’t, nobody can,” Wong said, withdrawing the hand. “All I need from you is the answer to one simple question.”

“Which is?”

“Visa or MasterCard?”

He led them back down the hall to a set of double doors. “I inherited this place from my grandfather. My old man was a drunk, so the business skipped a generation.”

He pushed open one of the doors and gestured them inside. Donovan eyed him warily and Wong grinned right back. “Don’t let the youthful facade fool you. I’m an old soul.”

They stepped into a windowless room with an exam table at the center. The only other furniture was a chair, a counter and sink, and a large storage closet tucked into a corner. There were more jars on the counter, containing an unappetizing array of brown and green liquids.

“Take off your shirt and shoes and hop aboard,” Wong said, patting the table.

Donovan hesitated, then did as he was told, feeling a bit self-conscious as he pulled off his shirt and climbed onto the table.

Wong cracked his knuckles and rubbed his hands together rapidly, as if trying to warm them. Moving around behind Donovan, he placed his palms on his bare back and slowly worked them across it.

After a moment he said, “I’ve got one word for you: chaos. You got a lotta shit going on inside there.”

No kidding, Donovan thought.

“Like I said, I can get you where you want to go…”

“But?”

“There’s a speech my grandfather always gave his clients, full of fortune-cookie wisdom and metaphysical mumbo jumbo about chi and meridians and the manipulation of the body to release the soul… But the bottom line is this: I’m gonna stop your heart. And the condition you’re in right now, once I get it stopped, I might not be able to start it back up.”