Year of the Dog

by Henry Chang

  On This Holy Night

  The windy blasts from the East River had pummeled Jack every breath of the four long and dark blocks through the Alphabets—Avenues A, B, C, D—the frigid gusts shrieking and driving the flurries sideways.

  Avenue A was deserted except for a few lonely neon lights in scattered storefronts.

  He went past open lots, and areas set off by wire fences, filled with debris, car parts, garbage, all partly frosted by the snow.

  Avenue B began with derelict buildings. A bus pulled away in the distance, too much of a sprint for him even in good weather. He crossed over, walking along the tracks of the bus tires, until he was able to cut across the park at Tompkins Square.

  Walking from Avenue C to D, the wind tore at him with icy claws. His fingers got numb, and when he touched his Colt, he felt the frozen metal burn. He took quick breaths and blew on his hands. Almost to the corner, he could see the Riis Houses stretching outward above him. Some bunker-shaped buildings were only six stories tall, others beyond looked like fifteen flights or more. From what he remembered of his precinct review, the Riis consisted of nineteen red-brick towers lining Avenue D, built after World War Two, in part, to provide jobs and homes for returning war veterans.

  The Riis Projects were once the most infamous of low-rent communities. Thirteen thousand apartments, currently still a significant source of the crimes that challenged the 0-Nine, still one of the meanest neighborhoods in the country.

  He tapped the number on the delivery receipt into his cell phone. It went to voicemail again and he hung up. Miller, Das . . .

  The building numbers ran down, south along the avenue. He was in the thousands and he figured another five blocks, somewhere around East Fifth then, leading him back toward the stationhouse.

  The lighting was unnatural, especially where the yellow of the street lamps arcing overhead ran up against the black night sky. Nothing was clear, everything appeared in a flat monochrome, and his imagination created things that weren’t there. The streets ahead were all shadows and the skeletal overhang of trees. To his left, he saw the backboards of basketball courts, and in the middle view beyond, the overpasses of the FDR Drive pointing to Brooklyn far in the distance. To his right, a run of bodegas, fried-chicken joints, a deli—all closed now behind the blinding veil of snow, and everywhere, covering everything, the dim yellow wash of the chromium light.

  He didn’t want to take it lightly, missing persons being what it was, but he also wanted to keep an open mind. Until proven otherwise. Trying to be objective, to keep his emotions out of it. It was mostly the mother’s fears that drove the situation, but he felt the father wasn’t sure. Scared, but unsure. It wouldn’t be the first time a high-school kid, a teenager, did something he shouldn’t have.

  He marched forward, following the building numbers down.

  Somewhere around Fourth Street, the last building, the address came up. He went toward the courtyard, wondering if P.O. Wong had found anything. Probably the kid’s back at the takeout already . . .

  Twenty yards in, he could make out the shape of a bicycle next to a railing, and getting closer, the building, Number 444. He decided to check the bike before trying the phone again. In the yellow light he saw where the heavy chain had obliterated the manufacturer’s logo, a beat-down bike, cheap, its skin a scarred generic black. Some sort of modified carrier over the back tire. The bike leaned against the railing, held there by a big lock. When he brushed the snow off and rubbed away the tarnish, he could see that the clunky lock bore a Chinese character sing, for star.

  He quickly scanned the courtyard grounds but saw not a soul. Fresh falling snow covered all tracks. He dialed the Miller number again, got voice mail again, and hung up. Still, could be anybody’s bike, he told himself as he went toward the building.

  Inside the lobby it was warm. He was glad to be out of the snow and wind. He stopped to catch his breath, but the air was foul. He heard Nat King Cole crooning a Christmas song through the PA system, and he tapped the elevator button, hoping the smell in there wouldn’t be worse. The door scraped open. The smell was more garbage than human waste, and he tapped the button for Fourteen, measuring his breath through his mouth, Nat King Cole fading below him. He unzipped his jacket. Thinning his breaths past six, nine, to fourteen.

  The door screeched open. A loud raucous hip-hop beat filled the long corridor, some rapper he didn’t know, angry and cussin’ about nigga dis, an nigga dat. . . . Fourteen D was left? Right? He followed the beat, a,b,c,d, into the corner, the strong smell of reefer bringing him around the bend.

  The smell concentrated around 14D, though he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t seeping from one of the adjacent apartments, or if someone had puffed some quick hits in the dead end. He knocked on the door firmly, three times. When he heard the hip-hop turn down a notch he said, “Police, need to ask about . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Police. You had a food delivery recently . . .”

  “Delivery? Nah, man, dat was uh hour ago.”

  “Could you open up, please?” Jack brushed his jacket back, cleared the draw to his holster.

  “Yo!” the voice barked. “Chop suey, we busy up in here! STEP THE FUCK OFF!” The hip-hop beat boomed back up.

  That did it for Jack. “Open the door!” he yelled. “Police!” He pounded on it, pulled out his Colt, and brought it up as the door opened.

  “Don’t understand English, muthafucka?” The man’s jaw dropped when he saw Jack’s gun. “Yo, chill,” he said with red ganja eyes. “Yo, chill, chill, yo, chill, yo.” His friend in the red do-rag brought his hands up above his head as Jack backed him into the dark apartment, the rap beat booming out into the corridor’s dead end.

  Jack couldn’t see a wall switch. He yelled, “Turn the lights on!” a split second before he saw a brown flash, a pit bull lunging into the air at him. He twisted his body, folding himself down. A praying mantis.

  The man in the red do-rag grabbed a baseball bat and swung as Jack dropped, pegging a shot even as he felt the dog’s jaws clamp down on his left forearm, the frenzied pit bull’s jerking, snarling head drooling blood and spittle.

  Screaming, Jack jammed the Colt’s barrel into the mad dog’s ear and fired, splattering brain matter and blood as the animal suddenly went slack, its eyes still open. Jack rolled, his chest heaving, his heart hammering. He heard things smashing, then saw the bat come around a second time, splintering the wood table. He squeezed off two rounds, one of the bullets going through the bottom of the table. The man was falling backward. There was a big crash and then the screaming hip-hop stopped.

  Jack shoved the dead dog’s body away. With his left arm hanging, mangled and dripping blood, he started to push himself up, edging against the wall in a crouch. Suddenly, another shape, firing wildly, like firecrackers on Chinese New Year, ran toward the open door.

  Shooting from the hip Jack answered with shots of his own, saw the blur of a black face under a white do-rag flinch before continuing out of the apartment. Following the sound of footsteps retreating, Jack heard his Colt’s hammer snapping down on spent shell casings, his trigger finger jerking reflexively.

  He flipped the barrel open and shook out the spent shells, tried for his reloader clip but his left arm only trembled. He tucked the barrel of the Colt under his left armpit and used his right hand to get the reloader from his jacket pocket. His left side shook uncontrollably as he reloaded, meanwhile thinking, Pull the cell phone, turn the lights on, call for help.

  Footsteps and noise from the outside corridor.

  The man in the white do-rag reappeared in the doorway as Jack slipped his finger over the Colt’s blood-slicked trigger, ready to pull.

  Then he heard the police radio, and suddenly the lights were switched on as P.O. Wong stepped out from behind the gangsta. Jack could see that the man was cuffed, and bleeding from the left leg. The wail of sirens came from the streets below, response to P.O Wong’s 10-13, officer down , crackling over the radi
o.

  “Caught him limping away from the building,” Wong said. “Had this little shit gun on him. Called it in.”

  In the stark light Jack saw traces of blood everywhere. The first man had a sucking chest wound, bloody fingers caressing a big fake diamond cross on a chain, his eyes with a faraway look. A baseball bat lay near the dead pit bull who was staring at them with open jaws. And more blood, smaller scattered splatters, led toward the inside rooms. Blood that Jack didn’t think was his, or theirs.

  “Officer-involved shooting,” Wong was barking into his radio. Then more sirens, distant, sounded below them.

  Further inside stood a roach-infested kitchen table bearing empty containers of Chinese food, spilled cleanser, and plastic bottles of Windex, and Clorox, next to a thin roll of paper towels. Someone’s messy attempt to clean up.

  Jack stagger-stepped over to the take-out containers, saw a crumpled receipt. He unfolded it, and matched it to the copy he had in his pocket.

  “Where’s the kid? Where’s the kid?” Jack yelled, feeling a sudden pinching pain in the left side of his chest.

  “Don’t know nuthin ’bout no kid!”

  Jack took in a slow tai chi breath, exhaled, and said, “You’re going down hard for this, punkass. You know that.”

  “Fuck you, man. I ain’t done shit.”

  “Not yet. But you’re going to do life , sucka—”

  “Fuck you.”

  Keeping his eyes lowered, Jack fought the spasm of pain and the urge to pistol-whip the scumbag.

  “Fuck you,” again, as P.O. Wong pulled Jack away. “Fuck both yo chinky asses.”

  Jack propped himself against the wall. He was becoming lightheaded, his chi—energy—bleeding out of him.

  The EMS rushed in. The techs took him, the cop, first, cutting up his left sleeve, pulling out loaded spikes for tetanus, painkiller. Combat meds and swabs.

  “Fuck, ma leg’s bleeding, too!”

  “They’ll get to you,” Wong said, sitting him down opposite the man with the chest wound.

  “Whoa,” one of the techs said. “He’s got a chest wound, too.” They spread open Jack’s jacket, cut open his shirt, found the wound. They checked his back, applied a compress.

  “Surface,” said one of the techs, as they patched him, laying him on a gurney, injecting him with another spike as they rolled him toward Wong, who was saying into the radio, “Major Case advised, en route. Request assistance to search for missing person.”

  Other uniforms rushed in now.

  “Find the kid,” Jack said, grabbing Wong’s arm. “Call the parents.”

  Then he was bumping into the stinking elevator as another EMS team arrived. Sliding through the courtyard, the cold fresh air rushing around him, into the ambulance under the yellow glow and blur of street lamps.

  Then the night colors were flying by.

  “Cabrini . . . Emergency,” the EMS barked over the radio.

  Just as the painkiller took hold he imagined a ringtone somewhere, familiar but distant. By the time he realized it was his cell phone, in his jacket somewhere, the gurney was rocking and swirling. He wondered if it was Alex calling, or Wong, or the parents of Hong, at the takeout, but then the medication swept over him, blotting out the light in his head, and tossing him into blackness.

  Break

  Down

  Shorty pissed out the beer into the stained bowl of the closet bathroom, listening to Koo Jai angrily pacing the length of the long flat, grumbling as he went, tossing magazines, beer cans, and leftover takeout into the big plastic bag he dragged behind him. Shorty flushed the toilet, then swung open the small vent window. He could see that the street was dead quiet. For an instant, he recalled squeezing in through that opening, back when the flat served as the Stars hangout, and they had locked themselves out. He sure was the hero that day.

  “You fucked up,” bitched Koo Jai.

  Emerging from the bathroom, Shorty wagged his middle finger at Koo Jai’s back, saying “What the fuck . . .” almost to himself. He noticed the section of floorboard askew beneath the mirror, where Koo Jai hadn’t kicked it back into place properly. The Stars used to store weapons there, and now, he figured Koo Jai was stashing swag as well. The watches maybe, or some cash. He thought of his last Movado, having sold the others and the Rolex as well. The Stars had used another stash spot, by the front window.

  “You fucked up,” Koo Jai repeated. “You jerked me off.”

  Shorty, tired of his complaining, said, “What the fuck didja want me to do? Tell the dailo no? He snatches me off the street, tells me to bring him up here. He’s got that big gorilla with him, and I’m gonna argue?”

  “You coulda called me first, jerk-off.” Koo Jai steamed. “You coulda told him you could get hold of me by phone. You coulda gave me a heads-up.”

  “The boss said, ‘Take me up there.’”

  “Call. At least I wouldn’t be standing there in my fuckin’ underwear.”

  “The man said, ‘Take me up.’ So fuck you—”

  “And fuck you, too,” Koo Jai spat out. “Bitch.”

  “—And your fuckin’ underwear.” Shorty ran out, slamming the door.

  “You fuckin’ idiot!” screamed Koo Jai. Curses followed Shorty down the stairs.

  “Asshole,” fumed Shorty. I’m the one opening the doors, and I can’t get no respect? Fuck his pretty-boy faggot ass. Payback is a mean bitch.

  Back in the flat, Koo Jai tossed the full plastic bag at the door, anger boiling over, more unsettled now by the flow of events. Dailo comes out here, gives us smokes and pills, tells us to watch the buses? He mentions the rip-offs. Are we being included, finally, with the inside crews? Or is somebody playing us along?

  Ghost Face

  Lucky’s thoughts shifted back to Koo Jai, and the twenty gees the wayward little dog would need to come up with.

  His dragon’s anger vented, Lucky’s cool-down demeanor was restored. He saw the situation with new objectivity. He knew he could hide the hatred he still held inside, knew he could run his concerned-big-brother routine. He’d demand his take, insinuating there would be deadly consequences for failing to produce the cash out. But he’d go easy, give him some time to put it together. Wait until the cash got squared, until after the holidays, when things quieted down, before chaat sai keuih, erasing, the whole crew.

  And he’d blame it on the Fuks.

  That would put the old men on the spot. Then he’d lay back and see which dogs ran to which side.

  He caught up with Koo Jai at the One-Six-Eight, sitting alone at the far end of the bar, chugging down a Tsingtao. Koo Jai was engrossed in some action flick playing on the television above the cash register and never noticed Lucky until he was behind him, the dailo grinning at him in the bar mirror. Koo Jai started to turn but Lucky put a hand on his shoulder, saying with a steely smile, “Just listen up.”

  Koo Jai noticed how the dailo ’s gun hand never left his jacket pocket, which he held lifted slightly off his hip, a hard angle protruding. Again the steely grin. He knew Lucky could nail him before he’d make it off the bar stool.

  “You got hoots pa,” Lucky said, “Know what that means?”

  Koo Jai shook his head uncertainly.

  “It’s Jewish,” Lucky smirked. “Means you got balls.”

  The hand on his shoulder felt more reassuring now to Koo Jai.

  “And that’s a good thing,” Lucky continued. “Smart, too, the way you’ve pulled it off.”

  Koo Jai smiled, dumbfounded.

  Lucky’s voice softened, saying, “We could use more guys with smarts and balls.” Playing him. “But here’s the problem. You still gotta square it up, what’s due the senior crew, is due. Know what I’m saying?”

  Koo Jai nodded his head like a bobble-head doll, mouth open, suddenly short of breath.

  “Then everything would be even,”offered Lucky. “Brothers all around, hah?” He paused. “ Otherwise, too many people lose face.” Another pause. “And you k
now, lose face and you lose lives.”

  Koo Jai felt like a fish, caught in a shrinking net.

  “So, however you do it, I don’t care. Call your crew together,” Lucky instructed. “Dump the shit, whatever. Bring me twenty gees cash. I don’t want any fuckin’ watches, jewelry, no fuckin’ bird’s-nests. Nothing but cash. Twenty large, dollars.” He could feel the wheels revving up in Koo Jai’s head. “Look,” the Big Brother said almost amicably, “ I know it’s Christmastime, and it ain’t easy to cough it all up. I’ll give you a coupla weeks, until the end of the year. How’s that, huh?”

  “Good,” Koo Jai said meekly.

  “Good. Because it’s all about face. And the watches should be easy to move, with the holidays and gifts and all, right?”

  Koo Jai smiled and nodded. Lucky patted him on the back, saying through an artifical smile, “And by the way, that twenty includes the gee I paid your bookie at the OTB.” He watched Koo Jai’s eyes go distant, then leaned closer, saying softly, “So merry fuckin’ Christmas, brother .”

  And then he left him twisting on the stool at the run-down bar.

  Fade In

  Jack awoke to a bullet-gray sky pressed against the recovery-room window. He was unsure of where he was, and when he tried to change his position he felt tethered, tubes pulling at his arm, an IV drip above him, a blood packet hanging down. And then Alexandra’s clenched face breaking into a gentle smile.

  “Easy, tough guy,” she said.

  “Where . . . ?” he began to ask.

  “Cabrini Emergency.” Alex brought her face closer. “It’s nine-thirty AM.”

  “How long. . . ?” He coughed, trying to shake off the medication.

  “I didn’t see you at Midnight Mass so I figured something had come up. I called the precinct and found out you were here.”

  “What happened with the kid?” He rubbed his temple with his free hand.

  “There was an Officer Wong at the nurse’s station. He said he was following up.”