She didn’t have to pay me or try to persuade me. Paul had been a friend, a friend I was very fond of, and I was going to find out who killed him.
I also told her I didn’t think Lydia did it. Above the counter at the back of the restaurant something called Enlightened Mistress TV played a loop of the Enlightened Mistress speaking to crowds around the world. She had bleached hair and wore a suit that looked like it was from Macy’s. The sound was turned off and subtitles in a dozen languages streamed across the bottom of the screen:
The truth is yours for the taking. Life is happiness and happiness is service.
“You know how when a kid dies?” I said. “Maybe he fell in a swimming pool or whatever? And then the next day they pass all this legislation banning swimming pools or requiring gates or lifeguards or whatever? And no one’s really safer after all? You see what I’m saying?”
Emily looked at me, her eyes swollen from holding back tears.
“I think Lydia killed Paul,” she said. “I think Lydia killed my brother for his money, and I—”
She started to cry, and couldn’t talk anymore. I went back to eating and didn’t think about Paul and didn’t think about why Emily was crying. My mind shut its doors and wouldn’t let it in.
Finally Emily left, still crying. I watched her through the window, crying on Stockton Street, confused and broken, no one stopping to help. San Francisco wasn’t so big, but people liked to pretend they were in a big city here, with no time for sympathy. Both of Emily and Paul’s parents were long gone. Paul was the only family she’d had left.
I looked back at my fake chicken and ate it with a good imitation of appetite.
After lunch I ate my fortune cookie and read my fortune.
You are at the start of a great adventure
, the fortune said.
The road will be hard, but the world is on your side.
Never give up.
8
T HAT EVENING I WENT by Nick Chang’s office for a checkup. He’d been nagging me, like when the dentist sends you those little cards reminding you of a visit. Except I lived around the corner from Nick, so every time I walked by his office a random young apprentice or assistant or whatever the next pay grade was would come out and say in broken English, “Dr. Chang want to see you now! Today!” Like a human version of the dentist’s cards.
Old Man Chang had been Constance’s doctor since they met in Los Angeles years before I was born. He taught Nick and now Nick treated me. The Chang family practiced traditional Chinese acupuncture and herbalism, among other things—some of which they told me about and some of which they didn’t.
The Changs owned a tenement building like the one I lived in. Theirs was on Waverly Place, a kind of alley/street hybrid that ran for one block, sunny and bright on a good day. They lived upstairs, each generation in their own apartment, and practiced on the bottom floor. Their shop looked like any other in Chinatown: big wooden chest of herbs; dusty shelves of patent medicines; always at least a few people waiting around for prescriptions or to see the doctor or just hanging out smelling the good smell of Chinese medicine.
I went in and one of the apprentices was at the counter. I knew this one. Mei. She’d been with Nick a long time and I figured they’d get married someday. She was a good girl, smart and kind and capable. Nick was close to fifty now, just about ten years older than I was. He was reaching that age even men like Nick seem to reach eventually—men who love women and love sex and don’t want to stop falling in love—when settling down with one woman started to look good. There’d been one woman who was different. Carrie. I’d met her a few times. She was Chinese American but her family had been in San Francisco since forever. They wouldn’t set foot in Chinatown. Carrie thought North Beach was slumming it. They had a kid together but it had never worked out, and soon Carrie married a rich businessman
I also told her I didn’t think Lydia did it. Above the counter at the back of the restaurant something called Enlightened Mistress TV played a loop of the Enlightened Mistress speaking to crowds around the world. She had bleached hair and wore a suit that looked like it was from Macy’s. The sound was turned off and subtitles in a dozen languages streamed across the bottom of the screen:
The truth is yours for the taking. Life is happiness and happiness is service.
“You know how when a kid dies?” I said. “Maybe he fell in a swimming pool or whatever? And then the next day they pass all this legislation banning swimming pools or requiring gates or lifeguards or whatever? And no one’s really safer after all? You see what I’m saying?”
Emily looked at me, her eyes swollen from holding back tears.
“I think Lydia killed Paul,” she said. “I think Lydia killed my brother for his money, and I—”
She started to cry, and couldn’t talk anymore. I went back to eating and didn’t think about Paul and didn’t think about why Emily was crying. My mind shut its doors and wouldn’t let it in.
Finally Emily left, still crying. I watched her through the window, crying on Stockton Street, confused and broken, no one stopping to help. San Francisco wasn’t so big, but people liked to pretend they were in a big city here, with no time for sympathy. Both of Emily and Paul’s parents were long gone. Paul was the only family she’d had left.
I looked back at my fake chicken and ate it with a good imitation of appetite.
After lunch I ate my fortune cookie and read my fortune.
You are at the start of a great adventure
, the fortune said.
The road will be hard, but the world is on your side.
Never give up.
8
T HAT EVENING I WENT by Nick Chang’s office for a checkup. He’d been nagging me, like when the dentist sends you those little cards reminding you of a visit. Except I lived around the corner from Nick, so every time I walked by his office a random young apprentice or assistant or whatever the next pay grade was would come out and say in broken English, “Dr. Chang want to see you now! Today!” Like a human version of the dentist’s cards.
Old Man Chang had been Constance’s doctor since they met in Los Angeles years before I was born. He taught Nick and now Nick treated me. The Chang family practiced traditional Chinese acupuncture and herbalism, among other things—some of which they told me about and some of which they didn’t.
The Changs owned a tenement building like the one I lived in. Theirs was on Waverly Place, a kind of alley/street hybrid that ran for one block, sunny and bright on a good day. They lived upstairs, each generation in their own apartment, and practiced on the bottom floor. Their shop looked like any other in Chinatown: big wooden chest of herbs; dusty shelves of patent medicines; always at least a few people waiting around for prescriptions or to see the doctor or just hanging out smelling the good smell of Chinese medicine.
I went in and one of the apprentices was at the counter. I knew this one. Mei. She’d been with Nick a long time and I figured they’d get married someday. She was a good girl, smart and kind and capable. Nick was close to fifty now, just about ten years older than I was. He was reaching that age even men like Nick seem to reach eventually—men who love women and love sex and don’t want to stop falling in love—when settling down with one woman started to look good. There’d been one woman who was different. Carrie. I’d met her a few times. She was Chinese American but her family had been in San Francisco since forever. They wouldn’t set foot in Chinatown. Carrie thought North Beach was slumming it. They had a kid together but it had never worked out, and soon Carrie married a rich businessman
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