by B. B. Hamel
“Burmese?” she asked, laughing a little. “Okay, now that I have to try.”
“I’ll take you there some time, I promise,” I said. “Right now, though, we have some business.”
I moved around a display of small brightly colored socks set up on a plastic folding table outside of a clothing store and stopped out in front of a restaurant called Lucky Hog. The door was shut and the gate was down, but there was a small white doorbell right next to the handle. I hit it once, waited a second, hit it two more times, and stepped back.
Clair lingered, looking around with a frown. “It looks closed,” she said. “And the name is really weird.”
“Just wait a minute,” I said, crossing my arms. “He’ll come out.”
“Who are we seeing, anyway?”
“The old Hog himself.” I looked back and grinned at her, but before I could explain, the gate rolled up and the door unlocked.
An old man stood there, his hair white and slicked back. He had tan, wrinkled skin, dark eyes, and a perpetual scowl on his face. His skinny body wore a baggy button-down Hawaiian shirt tucked into a pair of cargo shorts stained with oil.
“Luca,” he said, practically barking at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to collect, Hog,” I said.
Hog shook his head and gestured wildly. “You just show up, want to collect, don’t give any notice. Come on, Luca, you can’t do that to me.”
“Hog,” I said. “It’s been two weeks. Don’t act like this is a surprise. I know you’re good for it.”
Hog dropped his hands, spotted Clair. “The girl with you?”
“The girl’s with me,” I said, staring at him. “That’s fine, right?”
“Of course,” he said, looking offended. “Any friend of yours is a friend of Hog’s. Come on, get in here, you bastard.”
I grinned at him and then gestured for Clair to follow. Hog disappeared into his restaurant and I stepped inside. Clair moved in past me, and I pulled the door shut, rolling the gate down again.
Hog’s place was fastidiously clean. The sitting area was cramped and small, but swept and polished. The booths were kept immaculate, the vinyl oiled and kept in pristine condition, the carpet deep cleaned at least once every year. The walls had the same old paintings in cliché Chinese styles, probably to make the visiting tourists happy, but they were brightly colored and vivid. Part of me thought he got them repainted every few months, but that would be extravagant, even for Hog.
He stomped through the dining area toward the back and I followed. Clair came close, giving me these weird, confused looks, and I just shook my head and grinned at her. I took her hand and held it, just to make sure she didn’t lose her nerve, as Hog took us into his kitchen.
It was a mess of activity. Men and women, some I recognized and some I didn’t, worked at the various stations chopping vegetables, prepping meats, putting together sauces. Each station was impeccable, and Hog glared around at everyone as he stomped through. I could have sworn every person in there stood a little straighter and chopped a little faster as Hog moved through his domain, the stainless steel gleaming, the knives bright and sharp.
He led us into the very back of the kitchen and behind a small half-wall. There, hanging in neat rows, their skin perfectly browned, their necks turned to the side like they’d been hanged for treason, were beautiful Peking ducks.
Hog gestured at them. “Here,” he said. “Your damn ducks.”
I grinned at the beautiful, delicious little birdies and stepped toward them. “How many?” I asked.
“Just two,” he snapped. “And you know it.”
“Two whole ducks,” I said, my voice a whisper, a feeling of giddy excitement in my stomach. “Hog, I could kiss you.”
“Save it for the girl,” he said dryly. “Here, I’ll package them. Don’t ever say old Hog’s a sore loser.”
I stepped aside and returned to Clair as Hog went to work taking the two ducks down and packaging them up in in a white waxed box and a large paper bag.
“Why is he giving you ducks?” Clair asked, her voice a whisper.
“I beat him in cards,” I said. “He ran out of money, so I let him wager ducks.”
“Wow,” she said and laughed. “Really?”
“Really. These ducks are like a hundred bucks each.”
Her eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
“They’re the best in the city by far. Hog’s a no-joke chef, he has a Michelin Star.”
“Wow,” she said, looking around with newfound appreciation. “I honestly had no clue.”
“He keeps a low profile these days, but we’re in a mutual card game. He’s not a bad player, just had some poor luck that night.”
She laughed a little, shaking her head. “Lucky for me then.”
“You think you’re getting some of my ducks?”
“I better,” she said. “Or else I’m running away again.”
I laughed and put my arm over her shoulder. “All right, little Clair. You stick with me and I’ll ply you with delicious duck, as much as you want.”
“Deal,” she said.
Hog finished dressing and packing the birds. He carried them over trussed up and rolled in white wax paper and tucked into a big brown paper bag.
“Thanks, Hog,” I said, accepting the bag.
“You know how to cook them?” he asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to ruin these.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Promise. I’ll find a good tutorial on YouTube.”
He sighed and rubbed his face then shook his head. “Do whatever you want. Your ducks now.”
I laughed at him and grinned at Clair. She rolled her eyes like I was the most embarrassing thing in the world.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go have a drink and seal this deal.”
“Fine, fine,” Hog said, grumbling. “Always the drinking with you. This is how I ended up losing money in the first place.”
He led us back through the kitchen and out into the main dining room. I sat down on a stool in front of the bar with Clair right next to me, our thighs touching briefly before she looked at me, bit her lip in this incredibly distracting way, and turned her body.
Hog got behind the bar, found three shot glasses, and filled them with his best whiskey. I held my glass up.
“To Hog and his delicious duck,” I said.
“To my bad luck,” Hog said.
We clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey felt good and smooth in my mouth and warm in my belly. Hog poured another round, though Clair declined hers. He leaned back against the far counter and held his glass, staring into it pensively. I picked mine up and sipped it a little, savoring the taste.
“I was thinking about you this morning,” Hog said, still staring into the liquor.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “You have a nice dream about me?”
He gave me a flat stare. “You wish. No, I heard some rumors, and I thought of you.”
I felt myself tense but tried not to show it. Hog was one of the best connected men in the whole city, and if he heard a rumor he thought would be interesting, I knew I’d better listen.
“What’s that, then?” I asked.
“The Jalisco are looking for a girl,” he said, pointedly not looking at Clair. “A girl that just came into some money, allegedly. And your family’s been protecting her.”
“I’m not sure who you mean,” I said, talking slow.
“Of course you don’t,” he said. “I mean, you’re just a lieutenant.” He sipped his whiskey, swirled it, spilled it down his fingers, cursed, drank it all back. He grabbed a rag and began wiping his hand off with it.
“Where did you hear this?” I asked as he bent forward to clean the whiskey off the floor.
“Oh, you know me,” he said. “Always talking. Lots of talkers come through here.”
“Why do the Jalisco think this girl is important?”
“Mafia money,” he said, wiping the floor, not looking up. “An
d apparently she’s some outsider. I heard they’re desperate, you know, looking for something to keep them going. I heard you’ve pushed them almost to breaking.”
I smirked a little as Hog looked up at me, his eyes shining. I could feel Clair staring at me, but I didn’t look back, just held Hog’s gaze.
“They think this girl’s money can keep funding their losing war.”
“That’s pretty much it,” he said and got to his feet with a grunt. “Now, whoever this girl is, I think she’s in a lot of danger. I hope she’s got plenty of protection around her.”
“I’m sure she’s safe.”
Hog shrugged, took the glasses off the bar, and put them away for cleaning. He leaned forward and stared down at me, his eyes gleaming, and I couldn’t quite read his expression.
“Okay then,” he said. “I think our deal’s all finished.”
“I’ll let you get back to work,” I said, pushing back from the bar and standing. Clair followed, getting to her feet, and I could see the concern in her eyes.
“Come back any time,” Hog said. “Card game this weekend, Saturday night.”
“I might have to skip it,” I said.
“Bring the girl, if you want.” He beamed at me. “Safest place in the world.”
I laughed and put an arm around Clair’s shoulder. She bristled a little, but didn’t push me away.
“That’s true, but I’m afraid of your corrupting influence.” I steered her to the door and Hog followed us. I got it opened and stepped outside, and Hog lingered on the threshold.
His face got serious for a moment as I dropped my arm from Clair’s shoulder and turned back to him.
“They’re getting desperate,” he said, his voice low. “And desperate people do stupid things.”
I nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for the warning.”
He let out a breath and shook his head. “Don’t ruin the duck,” he said, stepped back inside, and slammed the door shut.
I gripped the bag tight then turned back to Clair. “Well, that was fun,” I said.
“How does he know about me?” she asked, her voice soft. I almost couldn’t hear it over the commotion all around us.
“Hog’s an interesting guy,” I said.
“He must be, if he knows about me.”
“You’re a little famous in this city right now,” I said. “At least in certain circles.”
“And he frequents those circles?”
I sighed, rubbed my face. “Hog used to run a gang,” I said. “This Chinese group called the Ghosts. They were pretty serious back in the day, but disbanded a while back. I’m not really sure why. I think he came up against Don Leone and instead of getting himself killed, he decided to leave the game behind.”
“Oh,” she said, looking surprised. “So he’s Chinese mafia?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Something like that. I don’t think he was ever a real Triad, just, you know, an independent guy.”
“Sure,” she said. “Totally, just an upstart gangster. You know, pulling himself up by his bootstraps, killing and selling drugs, that sort of thing.”
I laughed, unable to help myself. “Your idea of what we do is pretty limited.”
“But I’m right, though,” she said. “You kill and you sell drugs.”
“True enough,” I said, tucking the duck bag under my arm. “Come on, let’s get off the street and head back. I’m making dinner again tonight.”
A glimmer of a smile appeared on her face. “You’re making me some of that, right?” She nodded at the bag.
“Promise,” I said. “It’ll blow you away. And maybe I’ll tell you what it’s like to be in the mafia for real.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her smile disappeared and she looked away, down at the ground. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not too scary. I think you can handle it.”
She looked back at me, her eyes hard and hot with anger. “Of course I can.”
I laughed and shook my head. I started walking, and she hurried to catch up.
She was too easy. I knew that would piss her off and make her want to show me up. But I could tell she also had a strange idea of what it meant to be in the mafia, and I wanted to set her straight.
I wasn’t sure why I cared what she thought of me. In a lot of ways, she was right, I was a killer, I helped sell drugs, I shook down assholes for protection money, I ran illegal gambling, I did all sorts of shit that made money but was morally questionable.
In the eyes of most average people, I was a monster.
But for some reason, I wanted her to see more than that.
10
Clair
Crickets chirped and a few fireflies blinked as they floated past like tiny fat black zeppelins. I reached out and caught one, held it in my palm, watched its butt light up, then tossed it in the air and watched it float off again.
I sat on the back patio, a small stone slab that ended a few feet from the fence line. There was a small garden at the very back, though it was mostly growing weeds and a few flowers. The fence was tall and worn, blocking my view of the neighbors, providing plenty of privacy. It was cool out and comfortable, and I stretched my legs, smiling a little to myself.
The back door opened and Luca came out, holding a large platter in his hands. “Okay, you hungry?”
“Damn right,” I said.
He wore a white apron over his white button-down dress shirt and dark jeans. I leaned forward on the metal patio chair and put my elbows on the table, rattling the glass of white wine set in front of me.
“You’ve been talking up that stupid duck all day,” I said. “So it better be good.”
“Calm yourself,” he said. “You’re in for a treat.”
He placed a platter down in the center of the table. Two breasts were sliced into thin strips, along with a few other portions I didn’t recognize. It was crispy golden brown and smelled like heaven. He went back inside and came out again with a big bowl of fluffy white rice and a bowl of what looked like pickled vegetables.
“Okay,” he said, putting down the bowls. “I think Peking duck is normally served on these fluffy tortilla-type things, like giant fluffy dumpling rolls, but I don’t have those. So we’re getting white rice.”
“Fine by me.” I reached forward, served myself some rice and some duck meat, and lingered over the vegetables. “What’s this?”
“Just a little rice vinegar, sugar, a couple garlic cloves, and some vegetables. Made it yesterday so it’s pretty good now.”
I frowned, hesitated, then took some.
He served himself next, and for the next ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
I don’t think I ever ate something so delicious in my entire life. Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but the duck was crispy and slightly sweet and absolutely savory delicious, the rice was fluffy and perfect with a little soy sauce tossed on top, and the pickled vegetables were surprisingly tart and crispy. I helped myself to a second portion, finished my glass of wine and leaned back in my chair.
“Holy shit,” I said.
He leaned back and sighed, sipping his wine. “I know, right?”
“That was amazing.”
“Hog did all the work,” he said. “I just heated the duck up, more or less.”
“Seriously, Luca. That was, like, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“He takes days to make that stuff,” he said. “Better be good.”
“How did a chef like that end up in the mafia?” I asked.
He swirled his wine glass. “Same way most of us do,” he said. “Not many choices.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “I mean, everyone has choices.”
He gave me a half shrug. “Imagine if you grew up in a neighborhood that didn’t care whether you lived or died, and the only guys with any money, any strength, any respect were the mobsters. The idea of being a doctor, or a lawyer, it never even occurred to you, because tha
t sort of shit was for someone else.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
He stared down at the table. “Something like that.”
“But you didn’t need to go down this path,” I said. “My mom always told me that the mafia ate its young and killed its old. Anyone left in the end was too hollow and broken to be a useful, healthy person.”
“Might be true,” he said. “Can’t really deny that the old guard are all fucked up beyond recognition.”
“So why would anyone want that?”
He sipped his wine and chewed on his lip. I watched the fireflies buzz around him, flashing and floating. He was so handsome and I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth, at the hint of teeth he showed, at the stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“My parents died when I was young,” he said. “Really young, like before I was old enough to even know them. I was in and out of the system after that, you know, no other family, nobody gave a shit about me. I went from foster family to foster family, and never got adopted, never had an adult look at me with anything more than annoyance and disdain.”
I narrowed my eyes and shifted in my seat. “That must’ve been hard.”
“It was, but it was also all I ever knew,” he said. “You gotta understand, I never had an adult give a shit about me. Not a single adult in my life cared about my existence, not even a little bit. I was always a nuisance, and so I acted out, got into trouble, fucked around. I met some rough guys and hung around them for a while, did some petty crime, ended up in juvie for a while.”
“How did you end up in the Leone family?” I asked.
“I met Steven after my second stint in juvie, when I was sixteen. I knew that if I kept getting caught, eventually I’d go to prison for real. So one day, I was out trying to make a buck, and I met some guys in the Leone family, just some low-level soldiers. They gave me a job, just a courier job, you know, carry some shit from here to here. But the guy I dropped off to was Steven.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “From then on, you felt like you had a family, right?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”