Buddha kitchen god, a mini orange tree and a potted jade plant, a statuette of the Goddess of Mercy, and various bot gwa , I Ching charms, facing northeast and fending off evil.
The apartment door was covered in red, the Chinese color of luck, like her new jade bangle, not expensive but lucky. The door was festooned with leftover Chinese New Year decorations she’d scooped up in Chinatown, crimson banners and gold posters proclaiming chut yup ping on , “exit and enter in peace,” and welcoming long life and prosperity. At the center of this red collage was a big fold-out lucky calendar from Kau Kau Restaurant, from which she frequently ordered takeout. Whenever she approached the door to leave the apartment, she believed she was heading into good fortune.
She’d found a Chinese hair salon seven blocks to the southeast, a left at Wong Dai gaai , King Street, another English spelling she’d remembered from King James Road. She’d also learned to avoid certain areas near Chinatown where gwailo , white devils, joy mao , alcoholics and addicts, aggressively panhandled. A couple had followed her for blocks through the dilapidated neighborhood of men’s missions and homeless shelters. She’d heard murmured growls of “China doll” and “Suzie Wong” as they wagged their slimy tongues obscenely at her. She didn’t understand the words but felt their angry sexual intent. Men were dogs, she’d remembered from Hong Kong, and these were strays and mutts.
Wong Dai gaai was the way to and from Chinatown, she’d decided, past the small park where elderly Chinese folks in their quilted jackets congregated, played chess, and gossiped away the time.
The Way
In Chinatown, the young man at the Wah chok wui , Chinese “service center,” had reminded her of Johnny Wong. He had been too eager to assist her, overly inquisitive.
Fifty dollars to fill out the immigration forms.
She wasn’t looking to get a green card or Medicare.
Mona realized that she still had this effect on men, her beauty apparent even without makeup. The young clerk had spooked her, and she’d left the agency abruptly, but not before she’d discovered that she’d need a social security card, and non-driver’s license.
Other identification, like a passport, would follow from there.
She’d needed secrecy because, deep in her heart, she feared dead Uncle Four’s thugs would seek her out.
But soon her transformation would be complete.
She’d dumped the Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos in New York, had left behind the Gucci and Chanel outfits, the thousand-dollar designer handbags, the Valentino Sunglass Collectione, the Dolce & Gabbana accessories: all gone.
The fancy restaurants, the racetracks, all the hideaway clubs in New York, in Chinatowns along the East Coast. All gone. Those were perks that had masked her punishment, she’d realized, seeing it now with vision she hadn’t possessed earlier; the abuse she’d suffered had led to freedom.
If I allow it to happen, she’d thought, then I deserve it …
Because all bad things must end.
As all good things must also end.
The balance of yin and yang , the way of the universe.
Changing one’s habits was like changing one’s appearance. No more designer-label lifestyle, she’d thought, they’d be looking for that. Obviously, avoid the nightlife. The night being their time, their underworld.
If they find me, she resolved, it will be in daylight. Bok bok gwong gwong. All clear to see.
And I will not go quietly.
She remembered the letter-opener dagger in her jacket. Be prepared.
72 Hours
The bleak morning brought Jack back to the Ninth, where his vacation days were approved, where he accessed the precinct’s computer setup. He tapped into Seattle’s Bureau of Vital Statistics but didn’t find a birth certificate for Edward Ng. Or for Edward Eng. To Jack, this merely confirmed that Eddie hadn’t been born there but may have been relocated there as an infant.
There were twelve Edward
The apartment door was covered in red, the Chinese color of luck, like her new jade bangle, not expensive but lucky. The door was festooned with leftover Chinese New Year decorations she’d scooped up in Chinatown, crimson banners and gold posters proclaiming chut yup ping on , “exit and enter in peace,” and welcoming long life and prosperity. At the center of this red collage was a big fold-out lucky calendar from Kau Kau Restaurant, from which she frequently ordered takeout. Whenever she approached the door to leave the apartment, she believed she was heading into good fortune.
She’d found a Chinese hair salon seven blocks to the southeast, a left at Wong Dai gaai , King Street, another English spelling she’d remembered from King James Road. She’d also learned to avoid certain areas near Chinatown where gwailo , white devils, joy mao , alcoholics and addicts, aggressively panhandled. A couple had followed her for blocks through the dilapidated neighborhood of men’s missions and homeless shelters. She’d heard murmured growls of “China doll” and “Suzie Wong” as they wagged their slimy tongues obscenely at her. She didn’t understand the words but felt their angry sexual intent. Men were dogs, she’d remembered from Hong Kong, and these were strays and mutts.
Wong Dai gaai was the way to and from Chinatown, she’d decided, past the small park where elderly Chinese folks in their quilted jackets congregated, played chess, and gossiped away the time.
The Way
In Chinatown, the young man at the Wah chok wui , Chinese “service center,” had reminded her of Johnny Wong. He had been too eager to assist her, overly inquisitive.
Fifty dollars to fill out the immigration forms.
She wasn’t looking to get a green card or Medicare.
Mona realized that she still had this effect on men, her beauty apparent even without makeup. The young clerk had spooked her, and she’d left the agency abruptly, but not before she’d discovered that she’d need a social security card, and non-driver’s license.
Other identification, like a passport, would follow from there.
She’d needed secrecy because, deep in her heart, she feared dead Uncle Four’s thugs would seek her out.
But soon her transformation would be complete.
She’d dumped the Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos in New York, had left behind the Gucci and Chanel outfits, the thousand-dollar designer handbags, the Valentino Sunglass Collectione, the Dolce & Gabbana accessories: all gone.
The fancy restaurants, the racetracks, all the hideaway clubs in New York, in Chinatowns along the East Coast. All gone. Those were perks that had masked her punishment, she’d realized, seeing it now with vision she hadn’t possessed earlier; the abuse she’d suffered had led to freedom.
If I allow it to happen, she’d thought, then I deserve it …
Because all bad things must end.
As all good things must also end.
The balance of yin and yang , the way of the universe.
Changing one’s habits was like changing one’s appearance. No more designer-label lifestyle, she’d thought, they’d be looking for that. Obviously, avoid the nightlife. The night being their time, their underworld.
If they find me, she resolved, it will be in daylight. Bok bok gwong gwong. All clear to see.
And I will not go quietly.
She remembered the letter-opener dagger in her jacket. Be prepared.
72 Hours
The bleak morning brought Jack back to the Ninth, where his vacation days were approved, where he accessed the precinct’s computer setup. He tapped into Seattle’s Bureau of Vital Statistics but didn’t find a birth certificate for Edward Ng. Or for Edward Eng. To Jack, this merely confirmed that Eddie hadn’t been born there but may have been relocated there as an infant.
There were twelve Edward
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