figured. All the places they knew about, anyway. Lucky had had other hiding places, Jack remembered, tenement niches scattered across the rooftops of their childhood.
The life-support machine continued to pump rhythmically as he leaned in toward Lucky’s face. In a whisper, he repeated what they used to say as teenagers, “Us against the world, kid.”
Jack stepped back, trying for a moment of clarity. Here was his old friend at the far edge of a life in the shadows, a nonentity, nothing in his name, no history. A ghost ironically, the latest dailo of the Ghost Legion. Jack remembered how Tat had claimed payback against the punk hotheads who’d killed Wing. Then he’d disappeared into gangdom, born again with the nickname “Lucky,” just as Jack was getting his discharge from army Airborne. Their lives went in opposite directions after that.
At 11 PM Jack called for a see gay , Chinatown radio car, to take him back to Sunset Park. He closed the curtain to Lucky’s space and said good-night to the overnight nurse.
The see gay took him back to Brooklyn, to an all-night Chiu Chao soup shack on Eighth Avenue, where he quietly polished off a siew-yeh , a nightcap of beef noodles and tripe. Back at home, he felt exhausted but spent the night at his window, waiting for the light of dawn to break, watching the shades of blackness fade to a new morning.
Searching
When Mona first arrived in Seattle, she had scoured the listings in the Wah bo , overseas Chinese newspapers, settling for a basement rental from a Chinese couple in a two-family house that was formerly Filipino-owned, and was within walking distance of Chinatown.
Concerned about safety, the elderly pair had specified that they’d wanted a female tenant only.
Jing deng , Mona thought. Destiny.
She had told them that her name was Mona, a name she had taken after the Mong-Ha Fortress in Macau, where she’d gone on a gambling junket long ago. She’d paid two months in advance without question, two thousand, cash. No paperwork requested or offered.
They were delighted when she said she’d hoped to stay the entire year.
They’d dedicated a slot on the mailbox for her name. There were Filipinos in the neighborhood but she didn’t encounter any other Chinese in the area, which suited her just fine. Less chance of acquiring nosy neighbors.
The street sign at the corner read JAMES STREET , the English spelling of which she’d remembered from growing up poor in British Hong Kong, near King James Road.
Thirteen blocks west brought her to the cloudy bay. She passed through a tourist area of restaurants and quaint shops, until the waterfront opened to tracks and piers, a juncture for trains and ferries, ships and buses heading north, or south. Seven blocks south brought her to Chinatown, where she could blend in even as she purchased essential daily items and groceries, and memorized the locations of businesses, post offices, and banks.
Bo bo lay , she thought, step by step. Proceed with caution.
She’d learn the destinations of trains and ships soon enough.
The basement apartment was a large studio room that included a tiny shower and toilet. There was a closet and a wall shelf that served as a makeshift kitchenette, fitted with an electric hot plate, a rice cooker, and a toaster oven, all left behind by the former tenant, a pinoy seaman who’d skipped out on the rent. The old couple had recommended a Chinese locksmith, who’d changed the existing cylinder.
Mona had purchased new sheets and blankets for the full-size bed that came with the apartment. In Chinatown, she’d found ingredients for quick-fix meals, and had the Oriental Market deliver a hundred-pound sack of rice. It was more than she needed but would serve other purposes.
Her bed faced the door, in proper fung shui arrangement. Seated at the foot, she sprinkled some ginseng into the Ti-Kuan Yin , Iron Goddess, before sipping from the steaming cup of tea. Scanning the room she saw the small
The life-support machine continued to pump rhythmically as he leaned in toward Lucky’s face. In a whisper, he repeated what they used to say as teenagers, “Us against the world, kid.”
Jack stepped back, trying for a moment of clarity. Here was his old friend at the far edge of a life in the shadows, a nonentity, nothing in his name, no history. A ghost ironically, the latest dailo of the Ghost Legion. Jack remembered how Tat had claimed payback against the punk hotheads who’d killed Wing. Then he’d disappeared into gangdom, born again with the nickname “Lucky,” just as Jack was getting his discharge from army Airborne. Their lives went in opposite directions after that.
At 11 PM Jack called for a see gay , Chinatown radio car, to take him back to Sunset Park. He closed the curtain to Lucky’s space and said good-night to the overnight nurse.
The see gay took him back to Brooklyn, to an all-night Chiu Chao soup shack on Eighth Avenue, where he quietly polished off a siew-yeh , a nightcap of beef noodles and tripe. Back at home, he felt exhausted but spent the night at his window, waiting for the light of dawn to break, watching the shades of blackness fade to a new morning.
Searching
When Mona first arrived in Seattle, she had scoured the listings in the Wah bo , overseas Chinese newspapers, settling for a basement rental from a Chinese couple in a two-family house that was formerly Filipino-owned, and was within walking distance of Chinatown.
Concerned about safety, the elderly pair had specified that they’d wanted a female tenant only.
Jing deng , Mona thought. Destiny.
She had told them that her name was Mona, a name she had taken after the Mong-Ha Fortress in Macau, where she’d gone on a gambling junket long ago. She’d paid two months in advance without question, two thousand, cash. No paperwork requested or offered.
They were delighted when she said she’d hoped to stay the entire year.
They’d dedicated a slot on the mailbox for her name. There were Filipinos in the neighborhood but she didn’t encounter any other Chinese in the area, which suited her just fine. Less chance of acquiring nosy neighbors.
The street sign at the corner read JAMES STREET , the English spelling of which she’d remembered from growing up poor in British Hong Kong, near King James Road.
Thirteen blocks west brought her to the cloudy bay. She passed through a tourist area of restaurants and quaint shops, until the waterfront opened to tracks and piers, a juncture for trains and ferries, ships and buses heading north, or south. Seven blocks south brought her to Chinatown, where she could blend in even as she purchased essential daily items and groceries, and memorized the locations of businesses, post offices, and banks.
Bo bo lay , she thought, step by step. Proceed with caution.
She’d learn the destinations of trains and ships soon enough.
The basement apartment was a large studio room that included a tiny shower and toilet. There was a closet and a wall shelf that served as a makeshift kitchenette, fitted with an electric hot plate, a rice cooker, and a toaster oven, all left behind by the former tenant, a pinoy seaman who’d skipped out on the rent. The old couple had recommended a Chinese locksmith, who’d changed the existing cylinder.
Mona had purchased new sheets and blankets for the full-size bed that came with the apartment. In Chinatown, she’d found ingredients for quick-fix meals, and had the Oriental Market deliver a hundred-pound sack of rice. It was more than she needed but would serve other purposes.
Her bed faced the door, in proper fung shui arrangement. Seated at the foot, she sprinkled some ginseng into the Ti-Kuan Yin , Iron Goddess, before sipping from the steaming cup of tea. Scanning the room she saw the small
Similar Books
