by Lillian Li
“Saved you some of the family meal.” Ronny jutted his chin at the plate of cold pasta on the counter. He’d also gotten Jimmy a glass of iced tea, with a thick wedge of lemon bobbing in the center. Parched, Jimmy took a big gulp. He nearly choked. The iced tea was almost all vodka. For a second, he held the glass to his mouth, watching the man in front of him. Then he swallowed half the glass down.
“Guess you’re coming out with us tonight,” Ronny said.
Ronny had Jimmy drive him and a few of the other cooks to a Korean restaurant right outside Chinatown. A jittery neon sign read, OPEN LATE. They ordered a round of Kirin before they’d even sat down. The beer came out with a cluster of small plates, holding kimchi, pickled radish, potato salad, and tiny sardines. Ronny, who knew the owner, had him bring out a mystery dish, which turned out to be raw blue crab smothered in Korean chili paste and green onions.
“It’s a fucking delicacy!” Ronny shouted, bullying the more squeamish cooks, but Jimmy needed no pushing. He was the first to suck the sweet, slippery flesh straight out of the crab. By the time the bowl was emptied, he had a tingling ring of red around his mouth, cracking up everybody around him. They dubbed him “Hot Lips,” then “Crabs,” before settling on “Suckee Long Time.” Jimmy left the sauce on for so long that when he finally wiped the ring off with a napkin, the skin underneath was puffy and inflamed. At half past two, the cooks started settling their checks, throwing crumpled bills on the table, which was littered with empty beer bottles, stained napkins, and crab shells. Ronny dug through his pockets and cursed. He’d left his wallet back at Koi.
“I can cover you,” Jimmy said. Since Uncle Pang had taken pity on him and given him a side job, his wallet had become too fat to close. He’d worked a house party last night and made two thousand dollars. He took a couple of twenties out to add to the pile.
Ronny eyed the money for a long moment. Then he lumbered up to lead the group out of the narrow little restaurant. “We’re making a few more stops,” he said, over his shoulder. “Hoover’s paying!”
The cooks around Jimmy cheered. Lew squeezed his shoulder and Key whooped right into his ear. Warmth sloshed around Jimmy’s chest. If he’d been sober, he might have been embarrassed by his own delight. He pumped his fist into the air.
“Let’s get fucked up!” he shouted, waving his key over his head. The cooks piled into his parents’ old Lexus, scuffing the leather seats with their dirty clogs, pushing and jabbing for space. Jimmy adjusted his rearview mirror. The cooks were arguing over who would have to crouch in the trunk. In the passenger seat, Ronny leaned over and shoved a dirty key under Jimmy’s nose. It smelled brassy and chemical. A small white mound perched on the central groove.
“You’re first,” Ronny said.
Jimmy pinched one nostril down, then sniffed hard and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes and listened to Lew hefting his heavy body over the back of the second row. There was laughter. Lew shouting, “Let go of my pants, fucker!” Someone else yelling as Lew’s clog clipped him on the side of his head.
Jimmy knew then that he would pick up every check these cooks could think to make. Anything to be part of this exclusive club of outsiders and freaks. To be able to nod at each of them in the kitchen the next morning, meet their bloodshot eyes with his and say, “Crazy fucking night.” To know he had paid for it to be possible. They, in turn, would teach him how to cook, to eat, to party, to hustle. How to carve an eel to shreds and burn his hand into an unfeeling piece of meat. How to fill a room with terrible snarling music and hear no shit from anyone. He would finally learn what it felt like to be untouchable. He would pay any cost.
10
Annie honked her horn, waited five seconds, then honked twice more. She fiddled with the air-conditioning until she saw Pat emerge from the bushes on the side of his house. The clock read half past twelve, but Annie was wide awake. It might as well have been the afternoon. The radio played a discordant mix of techno. A flurry of bats swept down from a nearby tree.
Pat climbed into her car wearing a backpack, which jangled when he shifted it onto his lap. She tried to ignore how childish he looked holding on to the pack. At least he’d changed into a tight white shirt.
“Hey there.” When she turned her head, she let her hair fall over one eye.
He leaned in, grabbed her behind the neck, and kissed her. The kiss ended sooner than she expected. He tapped her steering wheel. “Let’s go.”
“Bossy.” The throbbing between her legs was distracting. “Where?”
“The Duck House,” he said.
“You’re kidding.”
“I have something I want to show you.” He played with the zipper on his pack.
“You’re sure you can’t show me in the backseat?” She shifted her car into neutral and let the wheels glide on their own momentum.
He reached over and pushed the gear back into drive.
“Trust me.”
“What do you have in the backpack?” She tapped her foot on the brake.
“Fireworks.” He gave her a big, wet kiss on the cheek, laughing when she wiped at the spot. His energy filled the car and lapped at her body. Her left leg danced up and down.
“It better wow me.”
“Just drive.” Pat’s tone was teasing but impatient.
Annie wanted to pinch his cheek until it bled. Show him that a high schooler couldn’t bully her. She pressed hard on the gas instead. The car shot forward, wheels whirring. Pat’s backpack hit his chest with a clank.
*
Pat directed her from the Duck House to the sprawling apartment complex behind the back lot, where he had her park. Running out of the car, he opened her door for her. His apology. She accepted it, and his hand; his thumb lingered on her skin. She knew she had the softest skin of anyone. He kissed the back of her hand before letting go.
“Come on.” He slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Over here.”
They approached the apartment complex, which held seven buildings, each at least four stories tall. The outsides of the structures were clean and well maintained. She spotted a small playground between two of them.
“This is where the amigos live?” She’d pictured someplace grimmer.
Pat gave her a look. Maybe she wasn’t allowed to use the term outside the restaurant. Her neck and cheeks heated up, which made her dig her heels in harder.
“They look so poor and dirty.” She walked up a set of white concrete steps. In the yellow lamplight, chalk drawings appeared. “I thought they lived in tents.”
To her surprise, Pat grabbed her and lifted her up in the air.
“You’re so fucking evil.” He set her back down and tugged on a lock of her hair.
“I can say whatever I want.” Her ribs ached where his arms had been.
“Sure.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Come on, fireworks.”
She followed him to a low chain-link fence that cut the apartment complex in two. Pat scooped her up in his arms and carried her bridal style over a sagging drop in the fence.
“Here we are.” He set her down on top of a large stump. Wood dust sprinkled the surrounding grass.
“You are so full of shit,” she said. “Where’re my fireworks?”
“We have to build them first.” He unzipped his pack and pulled out a bottle of baijiu and a fifth of rum. He opened the rum and tipped the liquor out onto the grass.
“What the hell are you doing?” She grabbed the bottle and held it away from him.
“I need them half full.” He held out his hand. As if she’d give it back to him now.
“Fuck that.” She took a big swig, her lips burning where the alcohol touched. “Every time you spill a drink, an angel loses its wings.”
“We can’t drink all that.” He scratched at the corner of the baijiu label. “You won’t be able to drive.”
“Whatever, we’ll call a cab.”
He made another grab for the rum, but she held it over her head and skipped out o
f reach.
“We can’t do that,” he said. He was working hard to keep something off his face. He was nervous.
“What’s wrong with you?” She handed the bottle back to him and felt for the keys in her skirt pocket. “I’m going home.”
“Hey, no, come on.” He fumbled with his backpack. The distant sound of a baby crying came from an apartment building. Annie was trying to find which one when Pat took out a wad of something she couldn’t quite make out. She leaned in closer. The smell hit her first. For a moment, Annie was a child again, playing with her grandmother’s hands while she counted out the restaurant register.
“Why do you have that?”
“I got a part-time job.” He pointed to the lot. “Setting that dumpster on fire.”
Annie had to laugh, one loud syllable cracking out of her chest. Who was this kid? She’d had boys take her out to five-star restaurants, sneak her into clubs, and, once, fill a room with rose petals, but nothing like this.
“What am I?” she asked. “Your getaway car?”
Pat put the money away. “I was going to ask what you wanted.” He held up the baijiu.
She grabbed the bottle. How had Pat known that she wouldn’t storm off as soon as he revealed his plan? That instead she would feel an urge to rise to his unstated challenge? Most times, his intuition flattered her, but there were moments, like now, when he anticipated her thoughts before they’d crossed her mind. She wanted to throw her arms up in front of her face to block his view.
She focused on opening the bottle and taking another swig. The pungent liquor flooded down her throat. She felt warm and brave. The night opened up around her.
“If you want my help,” she said, almost believing the confidence in her voice, “then we do things my way.”
Slowly, Pat lifted his bottle up to his lips. He waited for her cue.
“Gan bei,” she said.
They drank until their throats could no longer muscle the liquor down. They lowered their bottles, gasping and making faces at each other. She checked the liquid left. They drank again.
*
A light sleeper—more so with every passing year—Ah-Jack stirred at the screeching of tires outside Nan’s house. He woke up completely when the lock slid open. By the time Pat crept past the living room, Ah-Jack was sitting up on the foldout couch.
“Late night?” He cleared the phlegm from his throat.
Pat jumped and bit back a yell. Ah-Jack forgot that his presence was a surprise.
“Why are you here?” Pat asked. He was coughing from inhaling too sharply.
“Locked myself out of my house,” Ah-Jack joked.
Pat started to walk down the hallway, his steps no longer so careful.
“You should be happy you have such a nice home to come back to.” Ah-Jack made his voice stern. “You really worried your mother.”
“I’ll get better at sneaking out, then,” Pat said. He had a nervous edge to his words, which pricked Ah-Jack’s ears. His godson, in his blackest moods, had always been polite with him.
“Are you okay?” He struggled off the couch and walked over to the boy, who backed up into the kitchen.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.” Ah-Jack flipped on the kitchen lights. Pat covered his eyes with his hand. His shirt was torn. The remaining fabric rippled over his trembling body. “What happened?”
“You mean, what did I do?” Pat’s voice cracked at the end.
“You stink,” Ah-Jack said. “I don’t … It’s only … why do you smell like smoke?”
“Maybe I was smoking.” Pat moved away from him again, putting the kitchen table between them.
The boy needed a tranquilizer, and Ah-Jack, who’d started drinking when he was much younger than seventeen, knew what might calm him. He went to the liquor cabinet to grab the whiskey Nan had confiscated earlier, but Pat was already at the freezer, his arm poking around inside. He unearthed a small pint of off-brand bourbon, half empty, and shook the frost off his hand. Pat grabbed an extra tumbler for Ah-Jack, filling both glasses. His politeness had reappeared.
Ah-Jack grabbed his glass from Pat’s side of the table. “Cheers,” he said.
Pat sat down and knocked back his glass in two thirsty gulps. Ah-Jack hadn’t even wet his lips.
“My God, it’s whiskey, not water!” Ah-Jack teased. He refilled Pat’s glass.
“You can go back to sleep,” Pat said.
“I’ve got the day off tomorrow. I can get a little wild tonight.” Ah-Jack looked over to see if Pat had cracked a smile, but the boy had sunk his head into his arms.
“I thought you could handle your drink better,” Ah-Jack said. He shuffled over to Pat’s side. His godson was fighting back tears. “What’s wrong?”
“Leave me alone,” Pat managed through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”
“Your problems are my problems.” Ah-Jack gripped him by the shoulders.
“I barely know you.” Pat lifted his red face.
“That’s nonsense! Do you want me to get your mother?”
“Don’t!” Pat started up from the table, nearly knocking over his chair. “Don’t tell her anything.”
“I’m sure she’s awake,” Ah-Jack said. “Waiting up for you.”
Pat laughed and grabbed for his bottle. He planted his sneering mouth right on the lip and drank. “She never stays up anymore.”
“Let’s go and find out, then.”
Faster than Ah-Jack could blink, Pat was in front of him, his hands out as if ready to shove Ah-Jack back if he tried anything. The boy had forgotten to take off his sneakers; they squeaked against the tiled floor.
“Stay out of our business,” Pat said.
“Why are you acting this way?” Ah-Jack tried to reason with the boy. “Let me out. Your mother doesn’t need this.”
“How do you know what she needs?” Pat puffed up his body, filling the space in the doorway.
The boy wasn’t quite big enough, and riding the wave of an impulse, Ah-Jack pretended to slide through. He’d barely gotten his hand across the threshold when Pat grabbed him by the arms and threw him across the room.
The force of the throw sent Ah-Jack falling back. Unprepared, he went much farther than either of them expected. Tripping backward, watching the room shift around him while his body plummeted, Ah-Jack sensed before the thought could enter his frozen mind that a fall this big might break him for good. When he hit the kitchen table instead of the floor, the impact knocked the air out of him and left him breathless with relief. Pain crackled along his back and he rolled off the table, which had tipped over from his weight. The floor greeted him kindly. He heard, retroactively, the incredible racket his body had caused.
Pat ran over to help. He was apologizing, whispering too quickly. Ah-Jack couldn’t parse the English. Disoriented, he kept pushing Pat’s hands away, not because he wanted to help himself up but because he was scared, for the first time, of this boy, and he was not yet calm enough to hide his fear. Nan’s footsteps padded down the stairs.
“What the hell is happening down here?” Her voice reached the kitchen before she did. She let out a little shriek when she saw him on the ground, furniture and broken glass scattered around him. Pat leapt out of the way, and Nan knelt down beside Ah-Jack. He finally got his bearings when her face became all he had to see. Her hair was matted on one side and her left cheek was wrinkled from sleep.
“A small fall,” he said, which Nan dismissed immediately. She whirled around to look at Pat.
“Are you drunk or are you crazy?” she said. She stalked over to him.
“It was an accident.” Pat was getting upset. “I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry? You nearly killed him!” Nan was making Pat angrier by exaggerating, and Ah-Jack reached up to stop her.
“Please.” He eyed Pat in case he lashed out again. “It’s late; he’s sorry. We should all just go to sleep.”
“This is what sorry is supposed to look like?” Nan poi
nted at Pat’s face, which was clenched so tightly that Ah-Jack worried he’d bite through his own teeth. “I don’t know who you are anymore!”
“He got in the way,” Pat snapped.
Nan took a few stuttering steps back from her son. She raked her hands through her hair. “You’re drunk,” she said. Pat opened his mouth, but Nan cut him off. “I don’t want to look at you anymore. Go to your room. We’ll talk in the morning.” Then, as if seeing him for the first time, her voice softened. “Oh, Pat, what did you do to your shirt?”
“Nothing.” Pat left the room with heavy footsteps, which resounded up the stairs. He slammed his door.
Ah-Jack pulled himself up using the fallen table. The throbbing in his back had deepened; his skin had taken on its own pulse. He couldn’t help grunting. Quick like a dog, Nan returned to his side.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She led Ah-Jack back to the living room. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ah-Jack said. “You’re doing the best you can.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Nan snorted. She covered her mouth, as if surprised by the rude noise.
Ah-Jack settled himself onto the pullout mattress. He grimaced, more out of habit than actual pain. When was the last time he hadn’t grimaced while sitting down, or standing up, or moving at all for that matter?
But Nan said, “You’ll sleep in my bed.” She was already pulling him back up. “I’ll sleep down here.”
“I won’t allow it.” He moved his butt from the mattress to the arm of the couch. “You’re the lady of the house. I’m fine. It’s just a bump.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She had the crook of his elbow in her hand. “We can share. It’s a big bed.” She made the suggestion ironically, to highlight how stubborn he was being, but by the end, the suggestion had turned serious and, in its quiet way, urgent.
Ah-Jack was drawn to the idea. To accept would be improper, but if Michelle had already stepped out of their marriage, shouldn’t he be allowed to do the same? He hadn’t shared a bed in months.
Nan was chewing on her bottom lip, creating those little ridges of skin that Ah-Jack only saw when she drank red wine. He could stop that chewing, with a word. His body sent out the memory of another person’s heat against his back. Would this bed smell like Nan? Did he want it to?