Year of the Dog

by Henry Chang

  The pallbearers readying themselves to shoulder the load.

  Suddenly, the mother uttered a harrowing cry, then exploded from her seat and threw herself across the coffin, knocking over her son’s framed photograph. The father and relatives rushed over to console and to restrain her. The mother was screaming, “Aah Jai! Ah Jai!!” and beating her chest, trying to tear her heart out, clutching at her hair. She fell to the floor, kicking, pounding the polished stone with her fists.

  The relatives lifted her up, managed to slump her onto a seat, surrounding her from all sides supporting her, all of them wailing now, words useless in the whirlwind of grief.

  The father stood speechless, ready to collapse.

  The pallbearers lifted the casket, slowly beginning to walk toward the street. The band urged them on, the hearse standing at the curb with its tailgate open.

  Up and down the street, drivers waited patiently as the pallbearers stepped slowly through the frozen morning, loading the coffin into the vehicle. The mother collapsed again and they carried her into one of the Town Cars. The band played until the last car moved off around the bend to Bayard, en route to the New Chinatown, then to Brooklyn, and on to everlasting sorrow.

  Life Is Suffering

  Sai Go sat in the barber chair and watched Bo in the mirror wall of the New Canton. She caught his glance and raised the chair, pumping the lever with her foot to position him.

  “You look tanned,” she said with a smile. And tired, she thought. “Had a good time?”

  “Yes,” answered Sai Go as she draped the plastic sheet over him, discreetly returning the clinic card and prescription note. “You left them here last time,” she said, grabbing a spray bottle.

  Sai Go recognized the items immediately and nonchalantly pocketed them.

  “Thanks,” he said. “And I’ve got something for you, too.” He produced a souvenir key ring with the Disney World logo, pleased by the happiness it brought to her face when he handed it to her.

  “It’s got a light.” He smiled. “When you press the button.

  For the dark places.”

  “A wonderful gift.” She beamed, flashing the light. “Thank you much.” She remembered the talismans she had for him, but decided to wait until the end of the massage before showing them to him.

  She misted his hair.

  “The weather was good,” Sai Go said. “We went all over.”

  Bo worked the little electric clipper against the long black comb.

  “People swimming. People having fun,” he continued.

  She misted again, and he squinted at the comb whipping around, chased by the buzz of the blades, hard salt-and-pepper clippings spraying across the plastic sheet.

  “Everyone out in the sun,” he said, blinking.

  “Just like a postcard,” Bo said, focused on the top of his head.

  Sai Go felt himself floating, drifting behind his eyes. He scanned the overcast street in the mirrors, and felt detached, out of place. When he brought his focus back, he saw his quick trim, neat and tight. Bo was dusting his neck with powder, brushing him off. She loosened the plastic sheet.

  He closed his eyes as Bo’s strong fingers kneaded the knots where the cords ran from his neck into his shoulders. He took a slow deep breath, released it the same way. He thought he’d felt something catching in his chest as she massaged his shoulders.

  Inside his forehead he imagined palm trees and blue skies, the hot Florida sun on his face. Her thumbs dug into the base of his skull, rotated there, and then her forearms pressed and rubbed the sides of his neck.

  He imagined a pack of greyhounds sprinting around a track, chasing a mechanical rabbit, and remembered he’d fallen asleep during the last race, but still came out a winner, a grand fifty dollars on the day.

  Gum Sook’s herbal tea had made him feel good the first two days, then his energy faded and he became tired. He was sleepless the last days of the trip.

  “When you get back, go to Sister Kee the herbalist,” recommended Gum Sook. “Put together litchi and seaweed. Boil garlic and chives with duck eggs. Mix in red wine and royal jelly. Eat and drink like a thick soup. For two days. I’ll write it down so she’ll know what to do.”

  He’d appeared weak, and the two da jops, kitchen helpers, made sure he got home okay after they’d landed at LaGuardia. A see gay, radio car, returned them to Chinatown, and he’d slept most of the first day back. He woke up remembering his regular massage and haircut appointment, and the key ring.

  Bo felt Sai Go sagging, drifting, with his eyes shut, to another place. She was sad to see how drained he looked, sensing that he was slowly dying. She chanted a Buddhist prayer in her head that never showed on her face as she drove her elbows into the clenched muscle behind his lungs, pushing the cancers back.

  Sai Go opened his eyes as he started to nod off, jerking his head backward. Bo gave him a final squeeze and began drumming his back with her fists. When she was done, she presented him with the talisman Kwan Kung card and the jade gourd, slipping the red cord of the pendant over his head.

  Sai Go was touched, not only by her healing hands, but by her generous compassion, which he didn’t understand, and didn’t feel he had the time to figure out. Here was a woman, working hard and saving every dollar to pay off the snakeheads so they wouldn’t turn her into a whore, and yet she presented him with new talismans, trinkets he’d seen for sale on Chinatown streets that had probably set her back twenty dollars. Cheap enough, but it was the thought, he reminded himself.

  “Thank you,” he said meekly. “But you shouldn’t have,” aware of the precariousness of her financial situation. He gave her the usual tip, but when he tried to pass her an extra twenty, she became hock hee, indignant, about accepting payment from him.

  It was not Sai Go’s style to force it upon her.

  “It’s only a small gift,” she said firmly. “Why won’t you let me enjoy giving something to you?”

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “How about this,” he suggested. “I’ll bet the twenty on a horse for you. It’ll be like Lotto, okay?”

  Offered a chance to test her luck, she couldn’t refuse. A small smile broke through and she said, “If you like.”

  “Good then,” he said, relieved. “I’ll bring you the ticket.”

  At the OTB, Sai Go reviewed the list of entries and settled on the eighth horse in the eighth race, an eight-to-one underdog. Sai Go watched the odds changing across the board, the smart money running to the number five and number two horses, driving their odds down. The number eight horse looked even better to him then.

  The teller at the window was confused when he saw the resident bookie purchase a legitimate ticket. He noticed Sai Go’s sickly pallor and thought better of making a wisecrack.

  Sai Go paid quickly and avoided any players who were looking for action. On the street he bought a small silk jewelry purse. It cost a dollar and he chose a red one for luck, red with gold embroidery. He tucked the OTB ticket inside and zipped it up.

  He returned to the New Canton and gave it to Bo, saying, “Look for the race on the deen see, TV, or check the papers. You have the number eight horse, named American Freedom. I hope it’s lucky for you.”

  Bo ran her fingers over the red silk, holding the purse as if it was precious, and said, “Thank you,” so softly it seemed she was whispering to herself. She watched him go back out into the street, slowly crossing in the direction of Chatham Square, a tanned face against a dingy gray background of storefronts.

  At the far corner, he paused and glanced back, and for an instant she believed she saw a smile on his face.

  Space for Time

  The world below was a cloudy gray drift of mountain ranges and valleys with the occasional appearance of roads, a small city or village. He’d passed this way many times before, he remembered, flying west from Toronto, where he’d broken in the first credit-card crews, to Vancouver, where the Red Circle was a top player in spite of the authorities.
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  Now, seated comfortably on Air Canada Flight 688, Gee Sin was cruising at twenty thousand feet, descending toward Vancouver, for a two-night layover before the long flight back to Hong Kong. He saw the Canadian coastline below and took a deep breath, as if a weight had been removed. He was already out, out of the United States, out of American airspace, out of its legal jurisdiction. Out of sight and out of mind.

  He would not be present for any investigation into the shootings over the bus routes, or the bad blood between the Fukienese crews, or the feuding tongs. The Red Circle’s financial involvement would be on hold until the Fukienese side cleaned up its own house.

  The attention that the shootings brought was disappointing. Best to postpone for now.

  Credit-card operations in the numerous cities would proceed as scheduled.

  While descending, Sin considered the Chinatown murder of Uncle Four, and decided that the matter of the stolen gold pandas and diamonds would be given to Grass Sandal. He would be instructed to arrange a meeting with the Chinatown limousine driver whom the New York City police had in custody. The incarcerated driver could provide details and clues leading to the missing mistress.

  Best to do it from Hong Kong, he thought, where he had vastly more control of matters.

  One of the triad’s law firms could start the necessary legal machinery needed to obtain the interview from there.

  Otherwise, the holiday had been going well. A handful of shoppers had been arrested, as expected, but the majority were bringing in significant sums. Besides, shoppers could be recruited everywhere; they were expendable.

  The volume from the phone and mail-order houses surpassed even his expectations. Grass Sandal had had to close or vacate several receiving locations because they’d filled up with electronic swag after they had been used for a number of weeks. Millions of dollars worth of laptops, camcorders, game systems, cameras, computer software were consolidated for reshipment, then passed through the fences, stores they had arrangements with. The goods were converted to cash and became counterfeit Gucci and Prada bags in Hong Kong, hills of bak fun, white powder in Cambodia, then changed to currency again in Europe, Canada, America.

  Cheat the people all around.

  The strategy of the triad was paying off.

  Courage

  Inside the small Pell Street walk-up, Sai Go sat slumped on his sofa, considering Chat Choy’s suggestion that they embark on another gambling junket. Sai Go wasn’t hungry, and didn’t feel like visiting Choy at Tang’s Dynasty like he usually did, collecting bets from the waiters while he was there.

  The battery in the bathroom scale had died, but he knew he was still losing weight. The cancer was feeding on him from the inside.

  He powered on the TV, muting the sound to the Chinese cable program. The casino at Foxwoods was promoting a cabaret show with Taiwanese talent, Longshot Lee had announced, “sexy” singers and dancers in skimpy neo-mod outfits. The hom sup lo, horny bastard, coming out in him. Twenty-five dollars would cover the round-trip bus, a buffet meal at Woks to Go, and twenty dollars worth of betting coupons and store discounts. Gum Sook had countered with The Plaza in Atlantic City, also staging a Chinese floor show, featuring a troupe of beautiful Malaysian acrobats in holiday costumes. And the buffet was Chinese, not gwailo.

  They’d decided on Foxwoods.

  What the hell, Sai Go thought, why not go along with them? It’s only three hours up the highway. It was a gwailo holiday but he’d just as soon play a few hands of Chinese pai gow, poker, or some mini-thirteen.

  Many of the casinos offered a separate space for Chinese and Asian games of chance, featuring sik bo, pai gow, poker, or dominoes, and bak ka lo, baccarat. They kept blackjack and roulette action conveniently to one side just to keep the girlfriends of the players happy.

  He imagined it in his head. Drinks all around, brought out on trays by girls in gaily colored cheongsams. Asian high rollers having a hoot. Winning sometimes and playing it up, but losing, mostly.

  It was the last image he saw before passing out.

  Afterlife

  It was the bleating of the phone somewhere that awoke him. He wasn’t sure if it was one of his cell phones, or the apartment phone. He’d left the lamp and the TV on; some Taiwanese soap opera with subtitles was playing silently.

  Sai Go considered answering the phone but fatigue kept his limbs from responding. Then the answering machine came on. House phone, he heard his own hoarse tired voice on the recording.

  The caller was Gum Sook, asking if Sai Go had decided to go on the trip to Foxwoods, that he could brew up some tea. “Call Longshot,” he said, “if you want to go.”

  Following that, his cell phone rang, and though he turned, reaching, his legs wouldn’t respond. He grabbed for the edge of the bed with his hands and rolled his body over. The cell phone kept ringing.

  He was suddenly jolted by deep knifing pain in his legs, in his bones, knees, and ankles. He gritted his teeth, heaving breaths through his clenched jaw, until he could bear the pain no more and crashed into the blackness.

  Into the Light

  His view slowly settled on the clock radio as he regained con-ciousness. It was afternoon, a Monday, still December. Sai Go recalled the pain in his legs and gingerly moved them. Surprisingly, they carried him off the sofa as if nothing had happened. Relieved, he went to the bathroom sink, splashed water on his face. Painkillers, he was thinking, in case it comes back. They’d surely have something at the clinic.

  He thought of returning Gum Sook’s call. He resolved to jup sau may, tie up loose ends. He’d withdraw his twenty-five thousand and close his account at U.S. Asia. He’d like to collect his last debts at OTB, from Lum Kee the fish-ball vendor, and two waiters at Garden Palace.

  Send a card to the chun chik, relatives, in Honk Kong. Spread the word. He, Fong Sai Yook, has passed.

  Maybe place an ad in the Chinese obituaries.

  Return the packs of telephone calling cards to Big Chuck Chan.

  Visit Lo Fay, the all-purpose lawyer at the association’s Credit Union. He was good for immigration, divorces, and other loose ends.

  He’d ask Gum Sook to call and look in on him twice a week, to report the death when the time came. He’d arrange a cash incentive for Gum Sook.

  Sai Go gargled, coughed, and spat into the sink, rinsing from the faucet without looking for blood in the spittle.

  He put on his cheap down jacket and went down the stairs, exiting onto the street in the direction of the health clinic, and OTB.

  The Price of Freedom

  Inside the New Canton, KeeKee spread open the China Post and explained the racing results to Bo. She slid her French-tipped nail down the newsprint until she came to the eighth race.

  “Here,” she said, “American Freedom. Paid one hundred eighty-eight to show.”

  “My horse won?” Bo exclaimed.

  “No, but you won anyway. For coming in second.”

  “I won by coming in second?” Bo asked, incredulous.

  KeeKee laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cash it for you when I go for lunch.”

  Bo thought of Sai Go, wanting to thank him, to share the lucky winnings. She considered treating him to yum cha, dim sum, or a box of Fei Dong pastries, when he showed up for his next haircut.

  Dead Man Walking

  Doyers Street was an icy slope and Sai Go stepped carefully over the slick compressed snow. He followed the twisting street until he came to the narrow alley that split out behind the Bowery, the same alley used by Hip Ching hatchetmen in their bloody forays against tong rivals, sixty years before. Nowadays, the alley was commonly used as a shortcut from Doyers to Chatham Square, leading out to the Bowery.

  Less snow had accumulated in the alley. Sai Go exited from the gap between buildings next to OTB, a half block from the health clinic.

  OTB looked crowded and he decided to stop by on the way back from the clinic.

  The health clinic was closing, and Sai Go could only
explain his painful episode to the technician, who apologized that he was not authorized to dispense medications. The clinic doctor would return the following afternoon.

  Walking back, he saw that the vestibule of OTB had emptied.

  Inside, he found the two waiters and collected from them, waiting around afterward for the street vendors. He stood at the far end of the floor, scanning the crowd milling about for the next race. In the tubercular air, he resisted the urge to cough, afraid that his phlegm would show bloody red. His thoughts strayed dizzily to a commotion on the betting floor. A curse rang out and immediately became madda focker in six dialects. A group of market workers laughed, and a construction crew cheered.

  He didn’t see any street vendors and was heading toward the front of the parlor when Koo Jai, appearing frazzled, tramped through the doors.

  Koo Jai immediately spotted Sai Go and came toward him angrily. Looking around, he hissed, “You fuckin’ complain to the dailo, hah?” Noticing the eyes around them, stealing glances their way, Koo Jai leaned toward Sai Go and whispered, “You watch your fuckin’ back, old man.”

  Sai Go stood silent a moment watching pretty-boy Koo stomp out of OTB.

  He laughed quietly to himself. Ha, threatening a dead man, the irony of it. Still, he was insulted by the threat and resolved to get his gun out of the lock box and carry it in his coat pocket. He knew he was sure to die.

  But he sure wasn’t going to lose face.

  Gain , No Pain

  Sai Go put down the cup of guk fa, chrysanthemum tea, and opened the metal box, empty now except for his run money wad of hundreds, and the Vigilante revolver in its holster. He took the gun out of the holster, flipped the barrel out to confirm that six bullets were nesting there, then pressed the barrel back in with a click of his thumb.