Monkey Around

by Jadie Jang

Lefty took the receipt and seemed to study it for a moment, then reach a decision. “Mr. Soh say somebody follow him, two night before. But he doesn’t know who. He doesn’t see anything, he just feels like somebody follow him so he sleep at friends’ house. But next day, nothing, no following, so he go out by himself again and no more problem.”

  “Two nights before he died?” I asked, feeling somewhat breathless.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to know where he was when he picked up the tail?”

  The cat actually pulled a top-bound notebook, like an old-fashioned reporter’s notebook, out of his jacket pocket and flipped through it. “He was in Chinatown. He go to his office, den he visit Golden Gate Fortune Cookie, den he have a dinner meeting at—” here he said a word.

  “Which one is that?” I interrupted.

  “Great Eastern,” he said. “Den he go to friends’ house. But he think he is follow after he leave his office.”

  “So he might’ve picked up the tail at the fortune cookie factory?” I asked, trying to control my breathing, which was speeding up.

  “Yes, he think somewhere around dere.”

  “Okay,” I said as neutrally as possible, standing up. “Thanks. I’ll definitely let you know if I find out anything.”

  They knew a dismissal when they heard one. They exchanged a group look again.

  “You call when Ayo have information?” It sounded like a polite question, but I knew a demand when I heard one.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” I said, and stood patiently, waiting to be let out.

  Lefty frowned a bit, but I’d engaged his politeness already and he couldn’t take it back. He gestured at the henchcats, who each stepped forward and handed me a rope. I pointed at the flares as well, and they went and got them for me. All the while, Righty stood behind me, blocking my way out. When I’d collected my things—ropes in one hand, a bouquet of road flares in the other—Righty led me out the door, holding the door open for me and following me out. The entire group, in fact, followed me out.

  I was hoping they’d go back inside so I could take directly to the sky without being seen, but politeness cut both ways, and going invisible in front of them wasn’t going to be possible at this point. Well, they’d gotten a good whiff of me by this time, and probably had a good idea of where the rope and road flares had come from. And I needed to show them some trust if they were going to trust me.

  I sighed and turned the items all back into hairs and let them return to my head. One of the henchcats gasped, although Lefty and Righty didn’t look surprised. I called down a cloud, and stepped onto it, and Righty said something to Lefty, who nodded. What he said sounded like “shee mm hoong” or something, but I had no idea what even language that was, much less what it meant.

  I waved and took off, watching them wave below me as long as I was in sight.

  The moment they were out of sight I let out all the air I’d been holding. Holy crack-monkeys!

  The Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory was a popular tourist destination, but it wasn’t Wayland’s sweet tooth that had me clenching. The factory was located in Ross Alley, passing below my cloud right now, which was around the corner from the entrance to Bountiful Import/Export Co., the Hung For Tong’s business headquarters. Bountiful was also the last place Dalisay had been seen.

  In the crammed architecture of Chinatown, all buildings in a block essentially share a roof. Which means if you are on the roof of the Bountiful building, all you have to do is walk to the eastern side to look directly down into Ross alley, and see the entrance to Golden Gate Fortune Cookie Factory. Hovering over the Bountiful building, I was looking right at it now, an unusually clean spot—kept so for tourists—in normally grubby Chinatown alleys.

  My brain started clicking overtime. Two nights before his death was when Wayland had picked up the tail. Two nights before Wayland’s death was when Dalisay disappeared. I’d met Bu Bu two nights later on the rooftop of the Tong’s massage parlor several blocks southeast of the Bountiful building: far out of sight and earshot.

  But placing a guard on your roof was unusual. Humans didn’t typically break into buildings from the roof (which is why it was my entry of choice.) What if … what if Bu Bu had been working at the Bountiful building previously, and sighted the soul-sucking shadow creature—and its “like me” companion—on the roof? What if that’s why they’d stationed him there on Monday?

  This left a lot of questions unanswered. Such as, why, then, move Bu Bu to the massage parlor? What were the shadow and its monkey companion after? What was the link to the Hung For Tong? And what did all of this have to do with Dalisay? Did she … could she have gotten her soul sucked? But why? Who would be out to get her? Was it at the Tong’s behest? Maybe even by accident? In their territory? That would certainly explain why they still had her, or her body, but hadn’t kidnapped her.

  But then, was the shadow/monkey after Dalisay or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What would they want from her or from the Tong? And Wayland’s connection with the Tong was through business, but he wasn’t a close associate. So why did it go after Wayland?

  I’d need to check into the connections between the Tong, Dalisay, and Wayland. And I’d have to ask Ayo if there was any way I could help expedite her research into shadow creatures. I was sure that this was no coincidence, but that was about all I was sure of.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friday, October 14, 2011

  San Antonios’ HQ, Oakland

  Friday I spent the morning asking around—by phone and on foot—but no one knew Bu Bu or had even heard of a bajang wandering around.

  I also couldn’t pick up any other leads on Dalisay, although I did fly out to Daly City late Friday morning to check out her apartment and the sweatshop, which were the last two places she’d definitely been before she met with representatives of the Tong, just in case there were any clues others had missed. There weren’t, that I could see.

  The aswangs who met me out there told me that as far as they knew, blood plasma was Dalisay’s only connection to the Tong—well, that and the Tong had originally connected her to the fence she used to sell valuables taken during their grave-robbing. They’d never heard of Wayland, would not let me look at her books and papers, assured me that they had done so themselves and there were no mentions of Wayland or the Tong, and then had the audacity to look disappointed that I had nothing new. There was, however, an ominous glint in some of their eyes, that told me that situation needed a resolution soon.

  I took advantage of the Occupy march on the police headquarters that afternoon to canvass a couple of activists I knew who worked at community development corporations in San Francisco. These CDCs tended to focus on elder and newcomer housing, and a lot of aswangs and other nasties ended up housed in their SROs (single-room occupancy residences.) These advocates, of course, had no idea that some of their cute, wrinkled old clients were legendary monsters, but they were deeply tied into on-site gossip, and would have heard about it if there were some interesting word on Dalisay, who organized her younger aswang cohort to volunteer at the elder community centers monthly. But there was—as I’d expected—no word. And, amidst thunderous frowning and one accusation of stereotyping (if they only knew!) no one had heard anything about Dalisay being involved with Chinatown mafia.

  As for Chucha, the werecats had made me go so late I decided not to try to find her last night, but instead to get some sleep, and wait for late Friday night when, my sources told me, everyone would come back after hours to smoke up or whatever, but more importantly to report on the week’s activities and prepare for the weekend. So, by the time I took my leave of the Occupy encampment that evening after the general meeting, I was full-up with frustrated mission and rarin’ to go.

  Oakland’s San Antonio district was at once the most diverse neighborhood in the Bay Area (albeit divided up into distinct enclaves) and one of the Bay Area’s classic food deserts (albeit bordered by a corrido
r full of restaurants from a dozen different cultures.) The San Antonio’s HQ was a small three-story apartment building with six units, two on each floor—situated in the middle of a block of mostly single-family and duplex houses, in the middle of a neighborhood full of more of the same. It sat next door to an empty lot overrun with straggly grass (and one tree in the back) and right now, at around midnight, it was all lighted up inside. I changed to monkey and came in off the roof of the building to its left. The HQ roof was accessible by a wooden staircase that would let me into backroom windows. Easy.

  But before I could even take stock and make an entry plan, I heard the distinct thud and crash of a fight in the yard below. Fun! my monkey brain thought, and I hunkered down for a bit of spectatorship. Squinting down past the staircase, I saw a body smack against one of the dirty garbage bins lined up along the backside of the fence. It settled into a lax sitting position on the concrete. I squinted at the fighter. He looked like he had clawed hands and feet, and a familiar, wrinkled face that might be handsome on a human. Wait, that looked like Bu Bu! Was that Bu Bu?

  I waited for him to get up and get at his opponent—I’d be able to identify him from his fighting style—but he didn’t move; he’d been, apparently, knocked unconscious. Bummer! I missed most of it! Where was his opponent? I looked around the yard, but didn’t see any other figures.

  If that was Bu Bu, what was he doing here? Had he not gone back to the Hung For Tong? Had someone else caught him, or had he sold himself to someone else on the meat market?

  Looking closer, I thought for a moment that something was on fire, since I was looking at the downed fighter through a cloud of smoke. I squinted a little more, then swore and changed into a cat for the night vision. The dark scene below snapped into monochromatic high contrast, and I realized that what I thought was smoke was actually … a human-like figure, but a figure that wasn’t entirely solid. I reared back for a moment, there was something so uncanny about it.

  But my curiosity reasserted itself and I squinted at it again. The smoke-figure reflected no light at all, but rather created a darkness, like a shadow with no solid object to cast it. The figure was roughly human-shaped—no, maybe it was shaped like a four-legged creature—and it bent over the body of the other fighter. The creature should have blocked most of it from my view, but I could see the body through the shadow. The downed fighter suddenly became rigid and started twitching, as if the shadow figure were doing something horrible to it.

  As if waking up slowly from a nap, my rational brain stretched, yawned, and mumbled something about a soul-sucking shadow creature.

  What? Monkey Brain screeched.

  Soul. Sucking. Shadow. Creature.

  All of me woke up at that.

  I switched back to monkey and dropped three times, straight down, catching my long arms and legs on the anchoring timbers of the staircase to slow my fall. The shadow figure hadn’t moved since it crouched over the body, and remained in this position as I approached cautiously, having to overcome a strange reluctance with every step. Monkey was quiet, my fighting aggression almost completely calmed.

  The body continued to jerk horribly, and I could hear the sound of hoarse gasps. Although I couldn’t see clearly what was being done, I carried a deep certainty that the downed fighter was losing his soul. Monkey should have been up in arms, along with my anthropomorphized moral certainty. But I couldn’t dredge up any feeling except dread.

  Finally, I stood directly behind the figure. Up close it was more shadow than smoke, more an absence of light than a mass of something. Come on, Maya! I thought, possible fight here! but I couldn’t make myself dive in. Not knowing exactly what to do, I poked at the shadow figure with my elongated fingers. The tips sank slightly into the darkness, then encountered resistance, as if pushing against rubber, although it didn’t actually feel like that.

  The shadow figure—and I don’t know how I knew this, because it had no face—turned to me somehow. It was like its attention reversed, although its body—such as it was—didn’t shift. Monkey shrieked in horror and retreated to the back of my mind, yelling at me to flee. I changed back to human in some bizarre reflex. My whole body shuddered for the long moment during which it studied me.

  Then, without any change, it simply … extended a portion of its … shadow smoke, and … pushed me back. I didn’t expect any strike, yet found myself windmilling halfway across the yard, gasping with the impact of what felt like a car hitting me at 15 miles an hour. But worse: for a moment I felt utterly humiliated and worthless—much worse than having my ass handed to me should have felt.

  The … thing gathered itself into an amorphous shape and … floated—there’s no other word for it—through the fence and away from the house. Floated fast.

  I struggled to recover, both physically and psychologically. It took me a long minute to remember that I was capable of anything. Then, urged by that same reluctant alarm, I ran back and crouched over the body of the other fighter, who was gasping for breath.

  It was Bu Bu, at last. And he was dying.

  The door burst open, I spun around, and four human gangbangers spilled out. They stood for a moment before the foremost noticed the crumpled fighter behind me.

  “Help me!” I cried at the same time as he shouted, “He got Bu Bu!”

  Another guy ran out the back door and stood, taking in the scene. His stance told me he was better trained than the others, and his disgusted frown told me he was a boss—lieutenant, probably.

  “What the fuck?” he said expressively.

  I didn’t care; Bu Bu was dying. My chance was dying. I crouched back over Bu Bu, whose pained gasps were slowing down. But it wasn’t because he was recovering his breath. I put my head against his chest and heard his heart stutter, then stop. No no no no no. I pushed my head in and listened harder, but it didn’t start again. His chest looked like it was deflating. Fuck fuck, no!

  “Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” the lieutenant said warningly, as I started feeling around Bu Bu’s chest—for what, I didn’t know.

  “Do you know where a bajang’s heart is?” I asked frantically. He looked at me, startled, as if he hadn’t noticed that I was a stranger until then, or maybe hadn’t noticed I was female. He drew a gun out of his waistband and pointed it at me.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Dude! We so don’t have time for all that! He’s dying. Help me.”

  He just stared at me. I gave up and pulled Bu Bu down flat to the ground to start CPR. Let him shoot me if he wanted. I didn’t have time.

  But I couldn’t find a heartbeat and, though my breaths in were inflating his lungs—or whatever bajang had in place of lungs—it was clear that I was just blowing into what amounted to inanimate matter. Bu Bu was dead.

  “Fuuuuuuck!!!” I screamed. I had no other words. “Goddamn motherfucking shit!” Okay, those were other words, but they weren’t particularly good ones.

  The henchthugs were gathered around their lieutenant when I recovered enough to look up. Goddammit, I still had a job to do. The lieutenant was still watching me, and pointing the gun, but hadn’t taken the safety off. I wasn’t sure if that was incompetence or overconfidence.

  “He’s dead,” I said, and inside me something wailed with rage and frustration, but I was calm on the outside again.

  “Yeah, that’s what happens when you kill somebody,” one of the henchbrains said.

  “I didn’t kill him,” I said. “That shadow-thing did.”

  “Who sent you?” the lieutenant demanded.

  “I’m here to see Chucha.”

  He looked confused, then shook it away. “Give the Huexotl back. Then we can talk.”

  I didn’t understand what he’d said for a moment and had to parse out the sentence.

  “The what you say?” I asked. The word sounded like “way-shuttle”

  “The walking stick you killed Bu Bu for. No fucking around now.”

  I stood up and he released the
safety. Not incompetence, then. I held up my hands. “Do you see anywhere I could be hiding a stick?” I turned, slowly, all the way around. He looked even more confused. “I seriously do not know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re lying,” he said, unsure. Not incompetent, but not super bright.

  “Can you describe this … stick?” I tried to keep irony out of my voice, because he might be smart enough to pick up on it.

  “Bu Bu was holding it,” he said to one of the henchthugs. “Go check him.” Dude obliged, to no avail. I realized that they were all focused, first on me, then on the guy who was checking Bu Bu. If this all-important stick hadn’t been spirited away by the shadow, then it must be lying around here somewhere. I looked around and caught a flare from the opposite corner of the yard, a shadowed spot.

  “Is that it?” I asked, pointing.

  The others all turned and looked, like flock of birds switching direction. But the lieutenant wasn’t a sucker. “Beto, go see,” he ordered not taking his eyes off me. The henchbrain went, and after a bit of awkward feeling around in the dark, returned with the stick. It was actually a cane, or, like he’d said, a walking stick, about three and a half feet long with a knob shaped like an animal head at the top, carved entirely out of a single length of wood. Unremarkable, except for the fact that it was making my eyes flare so hard I’d soon be crying fire.

  The henchbrain held it up. “Good thing we came when we did, or she mighta gotten away with it.”

  Oh. My. God. This dude was unbelievable. The lieutenant was experienced enough to be watching my torso for signs of an attack, so instead I turned my body to rubber, stretched my still upraised wrist across the seven or so feet separating us and switched the safety back on his gun. Then I detached it from his hand with a simple twist and drew my hand back to its original shape. While he was still scrambling about himself to grab the gun back, I popped the magazine, then the one in the chamber, and tossed the gun back to the shocked lieutenant, who fumbled, but caught it at last.