He slipped between the ropes and came over to me. “Need some help?”
“No thanks. Just waiting for Eddie.”
He chuckled. “Give him a few. He’s not in the best of moods.”
As the trainer headed for the locker room I snagged a set of wraps out of a lost and found box. They stank of old sweat, but at least they were dry. I slipped the loop over my thumb, wrapped the cloth, several times, around my wrist and knuckles, then between my fingers and thumb. When I had secured both hands, I grabbed the smaller of two boxing gloves in the box and sauntered over to the ring.
“You’re a trainer, right? Give me a lesson?”
Eddie nodded toward the man vanishing into the locker room. “Why didn’t you ask him?”
“I did. He said to ask you.”
Eddie puffed up with importance. “Oh yeah? Then climb in. I could teach you a thing or two.”
I ignored the leering condescension and climbed into the ring. According to Eddie’s trainer, Eddie was on the cusp between super featherweight and lightweight, which put him at about one hundred thirty-five pounds. I weighed in at one hundred ten. Eddie had twenty-five pounds of muscle and about four inches of height over me—a notable difference but not insurmountable. With the training I’d had and the strategies and body mechanics I’d learned from Ninjutsu, I could hold my own without getting pummeled. I might even score a winning shot.
“Have you boxed before?” he asked, as I pulled on my gloves.
“A little. But I could use a refresher.”
“Okay. Let’s see what you got.” He squared off and raised his gloves. “Give me a jab, cross, hook, nice and light, all to the face.” As I threw my punches, he checked each shot with his gloves—left, right, right. “Good. Now, roll, slip, roll,” he said, as he countered with his own hook, cross, hook. “That’s one set. We alternate. Got it?”
“Yep.”
The boxing gym near me offered pay-as-you-go classes. I popped in a couple times a month to maintain my technique and blow off some steam. Although I had never competed, I knew enough to feel relaxed and competent in this situation.
Eddie and I exchanged punches, check, counters, and rolls, alternating attacks in an easy rhythm. When one set ended, another began. Back and forth until I hardly needed to think about what came next. When Eddie disrupted the rhythm of his attacks, I did the same, and our relaxed warmup drill escalated into a lively engagement. We still followed the set routine, but the timing of when we attacked was up for grabs. Then Eddie broke from the drill. And just like that, we were sparring.
A lot could be learned about a person from how they fought. Even in a ring. Even just for fun. Eddie divulged more secrets than most. Although he had everything in his favor—authority, home-court advantage, superior size and strength—he lacked emotional stability and confidence.
Our lesson had begun with Eddie as the all-knowing instructor and me as the humble student begging to learn. Once I demonstrated a modicum of skill, his confidence faltered and his attitude shifted from respectful to competitive. His attacks intensified beyond a level suitable for keeping a student alert or testing her abilities. Eddie wanted to score. And when I wouldn’t allow it, he wanted to hurt.
Eddie was a bully.
As long as he felt superior, he demonstrated restraint and courtesy. When threatened, he reverted to power and deceptiveness. Deprived of a suitable response from me, Eddie became dangerous.
After rolling under a haymaker that could have knocked me unconscious, I stomp-kicked him to the other side of the ring.
“Hey,” he said. “What the fuck was that?”
I glared back at him. “I signed up for a lesson, not a beating.”
He threw out his chest and arms. “Maybe I’m giving you what you need.”
“Oh yeah?”
I stayed ready and relaxed as Eddie swaggered across the ring. If he attacked again, I’d put him down with a kick to the knee. Was that a cool thing to do in a boxing ring? Hell no. But when it came to bully’s, sportsmen’s rules didn’t apply.
“Is that what you did to Brianna?” I asked. “Gave her what she needed?”
Eddie’s eyes turned cold. “You best think twice about that question.”
“Already did. Once for Brianna and again for Angel.”
He yanked off his gloves. “Lesson’s done. Time for you to go.”
I took mine off as well, freeing my hands for a fight. If things got ugly, I wanted the full use of my thumbs, fingers, and knuckles.
“Here’s the thing, Eddie. Your crime is easy to prove. You hear about that father in Fresno? The one who raped his teenage daughter? The judge sentenced him to fifteen hundred years in prison. You hear that, Eddie—one thousand, five hundred years. A Montana man only got sixty days. But you don’t live in Montana. Do you, Eddie?”
“Brianna ain’t my daughter.”
“And you think that makes raping her okay?”
“You keep your voice down. I never raped nobody.”
“California law says different.”
Gloves thumped and chains rattled from the boxing class on the other side of the gym. No one noticed an angry man and a tough woman poised like dogs before a fight.
“What do you want?” he said.
“For you to do the right thing, get out of that house.”
Eddie scoffed. “I ain’t leaving my house.”
“Then I’ll call the cops.”
“Brianna won’t say nothing.”
“You sure about that? Not that it matters because blood tests don’t lie.”
He turned his back and headed for the ropes.
“I’ll report you to Child Protective Services. I hear they get mighty testy about domestic sexual abuse.” I punched the last three words to make sure that Eddie and anyone else who might be listening could hear it loud and clear.
He shoved off the ropes, madder than hell, and turned with a haymaker to my head. Instead of responding with one of the many ninja techniques Sensei had drilled into me, I went with the same technique Eddie’s trainer had done to him: I rolled under his hook and drove a shovel punch into his liver.
Eddie’s knees buckled, and his proud body curled up like a potato bug.
Without my glove to deaden the impact, all of my force had been delivered through one bony fist. Eddie wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.
I squatted beside him as he groaned. “So here’s the deal. I’m going to report you to CPS and the LAPD. Not only will you lose access to your wife and kids, you’ll get a cozy home at the state pen with a whole new set of friends. Or…you can move out of that house, nice and quiet, and never see Brianna or Angel again. And if you even think about taking this out on Brianna, I’ll come back for you myself.”
If not for Manolo’s threat to kidnap Angel, I would have already reported Eddie. Since I couldn’t, I hoped my promise to report him would coerce him to leave on his own. As for waiting it out? Emma didn’t have the time. I needed Brianna’s help now, and she wouldn’t take me to Manolo unless her daughter was safe.
“I’ll give you three hours, Eddie. If you’re not out by then, I make my calls.”
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
The bike ride from South Park Boxing to my parents’ place in Arcadia wound through the congested streets of Downtown and Chinatown before opening up to the fast track of North Mission Road. I ducked low on my handlebars and kicked up the speed past Lincoln Park and Ascot Hills to Huntington Drive. On wide, flat roads like these, I could maintain twenty-six miles per hour and, if I didn’t hit a light, could race ahead like a horse on an open field.
A little girl in her Sunday best watched me through the window of a Mercedes sedan. I hurried to keep pace. She opened her mouth in delight and pressed her hands against the glass before the driver of the Mercedes accelerated and left me behind. I caught up with her again when we hit the commercial sections of Baird Park. Her look
of surprise made me laugh.
Had I converted another potential driver into a future road cycling commuter?
If her mother was anything like mine, she wouldn’t be pleased.
Traffic lights turned in my favor. When they didn’t, I swerved around them and did the same through the stop signs on Roses Road and Logden Drive. By the time I reached Camino Real in Arcadia, I’d shaved twenty minutes off my expected cycling time and achieved a personal best. Needless to say, I arrived at my parents’ home a hot, dripping mess.
I let myself in with a key and snuck into the powder room near the entry so I could clean up and change before Ma knew I had arrived. She would think more kindly of my backpack if she realized the extent of transformation it provided—a Ziploc for stinky clothes, body wipes, fresh outfit, hairbrush, scented hand cream, and tinted lip balm—sufficient armor for the battle ahead.
I stashed my backpack in a closet and headed for the mahjong table in the family room.
“Lily’s here,” Po-Po said, as she overturned a tray of plastic tiles onto the game table and began flipping them over with the green side up. Despite the felt surface, the tiles clattered.
Ma called from the kitchen. “Water or tea?”
“Water, please.”
Gung-Gung entered from the patio. “You missed lunch.”
“Hi, Gung-Gung.”
“Have you eaten?”
I opened my mouth for the obligatory response then realized that I hadn’t. Between my rush to train with Sensei, biking all over town, and the anger churned up by arguing over the phone with Aleisha and confronting Dolla and her parents, I hadn’t eaten a thing.
The mahjong tiles clacked and swooshed in a pleasing sound known as the twittering of sparrows as Po-Po swirled them around and righted the flipped-over tiles.
Ma brought in a tray with tiered platters of finger sandwiches, mini scones, and tarts. She set it on the family room table and arranged the platters beside the fine bone china dessert plates from her Historic Royal Palaces collection. Apparently, we were having a proper afternoon tea.
“Help yourself,” Ma said, as she carried the tray to the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with a matching teapot, cups, saucers, and one tall glass of water. She set down the tray and passed the glass to me. “Here you go, Lily. You must be thirsty from all that cycling.” How had she guessed? Although she wore a pleasant expression, I sensed landmines in her tone.
“Thanks, Ma,” I said, cautiously. “The tea looks delicious.”
Ma gestured toward the food. “Have as much as you want. There’s more in the kitchen.”
“Oh, thank God. I haven’t eaten all day.”
Po-Po paused in her tile swirling. “That’s not healthy, Lily,” she said in Cantonese. “I can see from here how dry you are. Look at your hair and chapped lips. Are your bowels moving properly? With all this heat and sweating, you need to eat damp foods to balance your system.” She flicked her fingers at Ma. “Get your daughter some cheese and leftover pork to go with those egg tarts. Lily needs damp and neutral foods to compensate for her ill health.”
“Ill health?” I asked, switching to English in the hopes of slowing down her critique. “I biked eighteen miles in eighty minutes. I think I’m pretty healthy.”
Po-Po dismissed my argument with a shake of her hand and continued in Cantonese. “Too much exercise and not enough food is not healthy.” Then she switched to English. “You. Need. Balance.”
Gung-Gung placed his refreshments on the tray table next to his chair then sat and began building his wall. Ma brought me a plate of cheese and steamed pork to which I added generous portion of cucumber sandwiches, scones, and egg tarts.
I took my seat across from hers and gobbled a tart.
The last time we had played together my sister was alive, but too young to follow the game. My father had stood behind me, coaching me as best he could, while everyone else chimed in with warnings and advice. It had been a fun and noisy game with laughter and shouts of pung, seong, and gung.
I set my plate on the tray table I shared with Po-Po and began constructing my side of the wall. I pulled five tiles in front of me to form a line, added three more to either side, and pulled the line flush against the wooden lip on my end of the table. Then I collected three more tiles with each hand and added them to the ends to form a line of seventeen. I repeated the same five-six-six maneuver to make a second row, pushed both rows away from the table’s lip, and pulled the first row back towards me a few inches. Then I spread my fingers and clasped the tiles tight together and lifted the entire row on top of the other to create a double-decker wall.
Po-Po nodded with approval.
She took a dim view of players who counted every tile and stacked them individually the way children did with blocks. She especially frowned upon American-style players who used racks to hold their hand like Scrabble tiles and pushed their walls forward with plastic levers. A proper wall was assembled with dexterity and speed. Every player did their part to construct the pinwheel fortress from which we would all draw our tiles. This was the Hong Kong way, and—as far as Po-Po was concerned—the only proper way to play mahjong.
I stuffed my face with pork and cheese as Gung-Gung, the East player on my right, rolled the dice and broke the wall. I wiped my fingers and drew my tiles, four at a time, until we all had twelve. After Gung-Gung jumped the wall and took his final two tiles, the rest of us drew our last. Once again, I did as I had been taught. I straightened my tiles face down in a row, squeezed them together with my spread fingers, and flipped up the entire row to stand on its end so I could see my hand.
“See how nicely she plays,” Po-Po said to Gung-Gung.
“We haven’t even begun.”
“Since when does that matter?”
Ma smirked with satisfaction as she arranged her tiles. She had told me much the same thing when I was learning. Begin the game as you intend to finish—with efficiency and skill.
I grouped my hand into potential pungs, soengs, and honors. “Is this a three-fan game?” I asked.
“Yes,” Po-Po answered. “No chicken hands allowed.”
Since that was the case, I assessed my bamboo, characters, and dots and chose the suit with the most potential. Without the option of a zero-point mahjong, I needed more than random straights to win.
Gung-Gung discarded, beginning a fast-paced round. As the game progressed, I struggled to re-form my hand according to draws and discards, but I hadn’t played in a while, so I slowed them down.
“Gung,” Ma said, as she took Po-Po’s discarded South Wind and laid it face up in front of her tiles along with three more of her own. As a South player, a four of a kind in her own wind doubled her score. It was a valuable play, and grabbing the tile out of turn from Po-Po stole the turns from Gung-Gung and me.
“Seung,” Po-Po said, taking Ma’s discarded number four character and laid it down with the five and six.
When she discarded a number one dot, I nearly shouted in my excitement, “Pong.” I scooped up the dot and laid it down for a three of a kind. A pung in ones or nines were worth four points on the table. Now, I could win with junk if I needed to.
“You’re ganging up on me,” Gung-Gung complained, having lost two turns in a row. But the smile on his face told me he had a ready hand.
I dumped a two dot and stuffed the crust-less sandwich into my mouth. The game was moving too fast for me to eat.
“Sik wu,” Po-Po announced as she took my two dot and laid down her winning hand.
Sik wu meant I am eating, which prompted me to gobble the rest of my food while I had the chance. Meanwhile my family calculated their scores, exchanged counter sticks, and began washing the tiles for another hand.
“How are things in Hong Kong?” I asked.
Gung-Gung grunted. “Not the same. Too much disruption. Too many emotions.”
“I don’t like to go out alone,” Po-Po said.
&
nbsp; I touched her hand. “I’m sorry, Po-Po. Hong Kong has always been one of the safest cities in the world.”
She shrugged. “Well, I do not feel safe anymore. Everyone is so angry.”
“Do you still practice tai chi in the community garden?”
“I do. But I am with the other ladies. Besides, no one would protest on The Peak.”
Po-Po had point. The Peak was an isolated area at the top of Hong Kong Island. There were no government buildings, major police departments, or MTR stations to disrupt on those narrow, winding roads. But there were protests in the commercial areas near the bay. Over 1.7 million people, according to the organizers—or 128,000 if you believed the police—had marched from Victoria Park to the HKSAR Government Headquarters in Admiralty two days before my grandparents had left. That march had gone peacefully. Previous marches to the Central District, where Gung-Gung’s offices were located, had erupted in violence. I could understand Po-Po’s concern.
I gave her an encouraging smile. “Well, I’m glad to hear it’s peaceful where you are.”
“Nowhere is peaceful with those radicals,” Gung-Gung said. “They’re disrupting the operation of our city and hurting our economy. And why? For some idealistic dream? We need the power of China at our backs.”
“Ba, please,” Ma said.
“What? These kids don’t know what it means to be truly progressive. This isn’t about feelings: It’s about results. What they want isn’t attainable.”
Ma flipped the upturned tiles and smacked them, face down, on the table. “Let’s just play and have fun. Okay?”
Gung-Gung scoffed. “And their method? Attacking the police, destroying property, burning flags? This is no way to behave.”
“Seriously?” I said. “What about the police brutality and misconduct?”
Ma shot me a look. “That’s enough, Lily.”
Gung-Gung shook his head. “Retaliation, of course.”
“I thought the protesters were the ones retaliating.”
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