The Ninja's Blade

by Tori Eldridge

  “You, too, Mr. Wong. Hi, Lily.”

  “Daniel,” I said, with surprise. “What brings you to Arcadia?”

  “Your ah-gung invited me to lunch. Hope you don’t mind. You look lovely, by the way.”

  “Why would she mind?” Gung-Gung said, then glanced up the stairs. “Yu Ying, are you ready?”

  “Almost,” she called down, in Cantonese.

  Gung-Gung rolled his eyes. “Don’t rush. Be quick,” he said in English.

  Daniel and I chuckled. He’d probably heard this saying as many times as I had, which was to say, every time I had ever kept a Hongkonger waiting. People moved fast in that city and didn’t take kindly to those who got in the way or made them wait. Courtesy prevented them from telling you to hurry up, so instead, they spoke in polite code they expected you to understand.

  Po-Po, still agile at seventy-six, hurried down the stairs. She kept fit with tai-chi in the community garden every morning with her ladies’ club. I had accompanied her once as a child and saw her giggling with friends like a little girl—so unlike the grandmother and dutiful wife she presented herself to be. Did she giggle with Ma? I couldn’t imagine it.

  “Are you okay?” Daniel asked. “You look sad.”

  I forced a smile. “Just thinking of all I have to do today.”

  He nudged my arm. “There it is again.”

  “What?”

  “Sadness.”

  Gung-Gung saved me from response. “We’re ready now. Let’s go.”

  Daniel took out his Lexus key fob and grinned.

  I held out the fob for Ma’s Mercedes. “I thought I was driving.”

  Gung-Gung waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. Daniel has a beautiful car. Just like your father’s in Hong Kong, right Daniel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See? Besides, it’s unseemly for a woman to drive when a man has the means. And from what I understand, Daniel is doing very well for himself in Monterey Park.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Ngo lo lik gun.”

  Gung-Gung beamed at the humble response. “Of course you’re still working hard. And that’s why you will continue to do well. Isn’t that right, Lei Lei?”

  Daniel smiled at the endearment. I did not. In this context, Lei Lei felt patronizing, as if I were too immature to fully appreciate the nuance of adulthood or the courtesy of Chinese culture.

  I shrugged and pretended as if I didn’t want to ruin Gung-Gung’s perfect praise with my own unnecessary additions. “Why draw legs on a snake?” I said, quoting a traditional sing yu, a four-character idiom derived from ancient literature. Although they were still popular in modern Chinese culture, I didn’t know many of them—there were thousands! —but the idea of drawing legs on a snake had always amused me as a child.

  Gung-Gung burst out laughing and patted me on the back. “Why, indeed! Waat se tim chuk. Very good, Lily. Very good use of sing yu.”

  I smiled as Gung-Gung’s approval wash away the residue of Ma’s annoyance. Perhaps lunch was the perfect tonic for everyone.

  Daniel motioned for us precede him outside then hurried to his car to open the doors. Polite, humble, and perceptive—Daniel really was the perfect Chinese son. If only I weren’t such an imperfect Chinese daughter.

  I slipped into the backseat with Po-Po where I could consider this conundrum.

  “Are your boyfriends all nice like Daniel?” she whispered in Cantonese.

  “I don’t have any boyfriends, Po-Po.”

  “Oh?” With one lilting syllable, she conveyed surprise, interest, and satisfaction. “Good thing we do lunch.”

  Since the best restaurants in Arcadia were Asian or Asian fusion, Daniel took us to Houston’s in Pasadena for classic American cuisine. My grandparents were thrilled by the upscale chain restaurant. Once settled, our conversation turned to grilled artichokes, hickory burgers, barbecue ribs, and California-style sushi rolls—a welcome break from talking about me. As I dug into my rack of tender pork ribs, Po-Po and Gung-Gung exchanged bites from their plates and compared, in Cantonese, the culinary attributes of shoestring potatoes and onion rings.

  “Is it okay that I’m here?” Daniel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Because I’ve left messages.”

  He wasn’t the only one. Aleisha had already left three. I hadn’t answered her, either.

  “I know. Sorry about that. I’ve just been—”

  “Busy? Me, too. But not too busy for another date. I don’t know about you, but I had a really good time.”

  I hid my smile behind a rib. I’d enjoyed our date more than I cared to admit. And yet…

  “It’s been a crazy month,” I said, evading the issue as I had for the last month.

  “Crazy? Or difficult?”

  “Wow. Are you always this perceptive?”

  He shrugged. “Only when I care.”

  I sighed and put down the rib. Time to own up to my feelings or bury them for good. Except feelings didn’t stay buried. They rumbled in the earth and caused seismic disruptions that made it harder to think and act. With so much at stake, I couldn’t afford any more emotional instability. It might be smarter to admit the truth.

  “I’ve been going through some stuff that has nothing to do with our date, which was great, by the way. But it’s really not a good time.”

  “Is it ever?”

  I thought of Pete and Rose—love and death entwined on a single night—and shook my head. “Maybe not.”

  Daniel smiled. “Or maybe the time is always right for something worthwhile.”

  Sound quieted. There was only Daniel and me—no grandparents, no stressed-out mother, no at-risk girls in need of a big sister to protect them—just a handsome, thoughtful man and a lonely kunoichi.

  “What are you kids talking about?” Gung-Gung asked, picking his teeth with a toothpick.

  “Not your business, Shaozu,” Po-Po scolded. “Some talk private, right, Lily?”

  Daniel came to my rescue. “Would anyone care for dessert?”

  “Not for me,” I said. “In fact, I’ve got to dash. Daniel, since you drove, would you mind dropping Gung-Gung and Po-Po off at the house?”

  “Sure. But how will you get home?”

  “There’s a Metro station around the block.”

  I rose before my grandparents could object and gave them both a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Try not to get in any trouble.” I smiled at Daniel. “You coming to the party?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  The intensity of his gaze flushed my neck with heat. A look like that could have earned Daniel a fortune as a model in print or commercials, and yet here he was, directing that laser intensity at me.

  Did I want him to come to Ma’s party? I bit my lip and smiled.

  “Yeah. I really do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I leaned against the back wall of the railcar in the section reserved for strollers and bicycles. Unfortunately, I’d left my Merida at home today so as not to aggravate Ma by parking it in her driveway during lunch. If I’d had it, I would have gladly bypassed Metro and ridden the fourteen miles to South Los Angeles. Not only would the exercise have combatted my post-food lethargy, dodging cars would have occupied my mind.

  Josie. Emma. Ana Lucía. Sharelle.

  Now that I had a moment to myself, concern flooded into my mind. What horrible things might be happening to them while I rode the rails?

  My phone rang from my backpack, announcing a caller I would much rather have ignored. As I deliberated on whether or not to accept, the Alabama Shakes’ ringtone ended. A few seconds later, my phone chimed with a voice message notification.

  “Lily, it’s Aleisha. Do you have any leads on Emma? Call me.”

  When the doors swooshed open, I hurried off the train and found a lonely spot to sit. I didn’t like reporting to Aleisha when I had nothing new to say, especially when
the scope of my investigation was broadening farther from my target. Plus, if I told her about the other girls I was investigating—the ones from Paco’s Tacos in particular—she’d think I was still wallowing in my mistakes. The last thing I needed was another lecture on my emotional health and alleged trauma. So, instead of calling, I texted.

  Nothing new to report. Bad cell area. Call you later.

  I returned the phone to its pocket and slipped the cycling pack onto my shoulders without opening Aleisha’s response. Although I wanted to find Emma, I needed to check on Dolla and Sharelle.

  By the time I arrived at Jefferson High, the after-school exodus had ended. A few stragglers still wandered off campus or loitered on the lawn. I jogged through the neighborhood, following the same route Dolla had taken with Sharelle, and arrived at the faded blue house where they had stopped for sodas. Instead of Eddie, a woman resembling Dolla sat on the porch watching a toddler at her feet and three preschoolers in the yard. The boys kicked a ball between them while the younger girl slid down the orange plastic slide. She looked about three and had the same gorgeous skin and delicate features as Dolla. The other children bore no resemblance, which made me think Dolla’s mom looked after other kids while taking care of her own.

  I jogged past the church, bakery, and police station, then slowed as I approached Cut & Ink. I fanned the heat from my face and billowed the clinging fabric of my sundress away from my stomach. On a day as hot as this, everyone would be feeling the heat. I just didn’t want to draw undue attention by looking drowned in sweat. Fortunately, the dark violet color and loose armholes hid the worst.

  As it turned out, I didn’t even need to go inside. The door had been wedged open, giving me a clear view to the barber’s chair where RC held court.

  I turned my back on the shop and faced the street, as if waiting for a bus, put my camera on selfie mode, and held it up so I could spy on what was happening behind me. I zoomed in on RC.

  The barber looked flashier today, dressed all in black, from the watch cap on his head to the Jordan kicks on his feet. A gold rope encircled his thick neck. A diamond sparkled from one ear. If not for the barber combs he fanned in his hand like a deck of cards, I would have pegged him as a rapper in for a trim.

  The real surprise was the beauty who stood in front of him. If I hadn’t seen Sharelle the day before, I have sworn this girl was a plus-size model on her way to a photo shoot. She looked that different.

  Someone had ironed, highlighted, and styled Sharelle’s unruly hair into gentle curls around her shoulders. I zoomed in on her face. Makeup had smoothed the acne scars and given her dark skin a healthy glow. A skillful application of mascara, shadow, and rouge brought out the exotic quality of her small, deeply-set eyes, and the high cheekbones previously hidden on her plump face. All of this, combined with a draped magenta blouse and tight black pants made Sharelle appear both glamorous and youthful.

  “Sharelle, baby, turn that beautiful bootie around and show these old farts what they’re missing.” RC’s enthusiastic voice traveled to the sidewalk, loud and clear.

  Although I couldn’t hear Sharelle’s answer, I could tell from her bouncing shoulders and giggling expression she enjoyed the attention. She flexed her hands at her side and performed a slow model’s turn while the old farts—two black men older than RC but younger looking than Baba—appraised her with hungry eyes. When she turned her back, one of them reached out to touch.

  RC smacked his hand. “Don’t be doing none of that. Sharelle’s my girl. Ain’t that right, baby?” He grabbed Sharelle’s hand and pulled her toward his chair. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. Look at all them curves. Girl, you a goddess. Why, Dolla look like a skinny little thing next to you.”

  Where was Dolla? And why was Sharelle here, alone in the company of grown men?

  RC gave Sharelle a gentle push. “Go and get us some cola from the fridge then come back and do your homework, a’ight? Beauty ain’t enough in this world. Smart girl like you gotta get good grades.”

  Good grades? This didn’t sound like the Romeo approach Ms. Ruiz had described. And yet, the look RC exchanged with the men and the way they all watched Sharelle bend over to pull colas from the fridge made my skin crawl. Whatever his game, Sharelle was headed for bad times.

  “Thanks, baby,” RC said, as she handed him his cola. “You’re the best. I’m going to be so sad when you go off to college. Proud, but sad.”

  He pulled her in for a hug, which—since he was still sitting in the barber’s chair—buried his face in her breasts. Then he released her as if nothing odd had happened.

  “Them college boys gonna fall all over you.”

  Sharelle shook her head, making her new tresses jiggle.

  “Nah. Don’t deny it.” He took her hand and gave it a kiss. “I just want you to remember who polished off the dust.”

  She frowned. He had called her his girl, and now he was talking about homework and college boys. The mixed messages seemed to confuse her.

  This time, she initiated the hug.

  “I don’t care about no college boys,” she said, her voice loud with conviction. “I only care about you.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and turned toward the first barber’s station, where her school bag sat on the counter, and squealed with delight when RC smacked her behind.

  “Cheesy bitch,” he said, playfully. “You better open them books quick or I give you something better to do.”

  Sharelle didn’t comment, but the smile on her face as she walked toward her books, said it all: RC had worked his magic, and Sharelle had fallen hard.

  I lowered my phone. I hadn’t seen any signs of prostitution. I had seen enough to recognize a minor in a compromising situation.

  But what could I do?

  Sharelle had no reason to trust me and would never believe RC meant her harm, not after he’d facilitated such an astounding transformation. He’d probably done more for her self-image in one day than her parents had managed to do in her lifetime. How could I compete with that? And how could I keep her out of trouble without destroying her spirit?

  I craned my neck, as if checking down the street for a ride, then moved in that direction. When I was out of sight of Cut & Ink, I called Forsaken Children: City of Angels. If anyone could solve this conundrum, it would be Ms. Ruiz.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  Ten minutes later, a rideshare driver picked me up for a meeting with Lieutenant Francis Payns, the officer in charge of the Los Angeles Human Trafficking Task Force. Ms. Ruiz had assured me of his discretion and told me to drop her name when I called. I had. Now we were meeting on neutral ground in a greasy spoon diner in South Los Angeles.

  Normally, I avoided face-to-face meets with law enforcement, but this time, it felt necessary. I didn’t have enough evidence to state the case over the phone. I needed to watch the man’s expressions as I laid out my winding tale of shady characters and dubious behavior. This way, I could tailor my explanation to the points he deemed most important and explain the parts he doubted.

  I also needed to take measure of the man. If I didn’t feel comfortable, I’d find a way to handle the situation myself. If things went okay, this would be the first time I had ever partnered with a cop. Regardless of the outcome, I had set the ground rules: No body cams. No reports. Nothing that would enter my name or face in the system. Lieutenant Payns had agreed.

  I found him at a back corner table, facing the door. He had a square face, graying hair, and a short-cropped beard that wouldn’t have been allowed on a uniformed cop. He spotted me immediately.

  “Lieutenant Payns?”

  “Payns is fine. Have a seat. Want a coffee or something?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He took a long sip of his own. “So. What’s this about?”

  “Commercial sex trafficking of youths.”

  “And?”

  “I think I’ve found a brothel and a potential victim.”


  “Where?”

  “A barber/tattoo shop near Thomas Jefferson High School.”

  “Cut & Ink?”

  “You know it?”

  He shrugged. “What did you see?”

  “It started three days ago when I spotted an unlikely pair of girls at a local taco shop. The older girl ran the show and seemed worldlier than the younger. When they were done eating, the older one convinced the younger to get in a muscle car with an older Latino man—I’m guessing in his late twenties.”

  “Were the girls Hispanic?”

  “The younger girl was Guatemalan. The older girl was black.”

  He pondered that for a moment. “Continue.”

  “It bothered me. So, two days later I went to their high school to look for them.”

  “Jefferson?”

  I nodded.

  “Big school. You a P.I.?”

  “No. I work for a women’s shelter.”

  “And that takes you to high schools?”

  “Not usually.”

  He considered this over another sip of coffee then nodded. “Continue.”

  “It took a while, but I found the older girl befriending another underclassman. This girl was black, overweight, and—from the look of her hair and clothes—poor. I followed them to Cut & Ink, where the older girl introduced the younger to a barber named RC. He showered the new girl with flattery, telling her how pretty she was and how gorgeous she could be if she just had nice hair and clothes. He even offered up his hairstylist to give her a new look.”

  “She accepted?”

  “She did. And, today, she looks like a plus-size fashion model. I think she’s fallen for him.”

  “Yeah. She probably has. But that’s not a crime—unless you have evidence of sexual activity between them.”

  I thought of RC pressing Sharelle’s breasts against his face. “Not exactly. Just a lot of inappropriate contact.”

  “Not enough. Any signs of sexual commerce on the premises?”

  “Older men come and leave without having their hair cut and hang around ogling the girls. Today, one of them reached out to touch Sharelle, and RC told him to lay off. Said she was his girl. Then he told Sharelle to go study and he went on about how much he’d miss her when she graduated high school and started dating college boys.”