Jennifer Lynne Conti Dermody
4/7/76–4/7/02
I’d been gone for years. Dead and gone, the whisper-stream said. But that stream always carries more than one current.
Just past midnight, I slipped back over the border, moving downwind out of the darkness. Because Hollywood’s got one part right—the dirty, scheming, heartless bitch never
Especially now.
The alley behind Mama’s restaurant was as immune to time as the chamber of a pharaoh’s vault. A pair of dull-orange oil drums stood sentinel. I nosed the Subaru’s dechromed black snout carefully into the opening between them, over to an empty patch of oil-stained asphalt. On the filthy wall above it, a square of pure-white paint. Inside the square, Chinese characters, in perfect, fluted-edge calligraphy. It was signed with the chop of Max the Silent, the Chinatown equivalent of a skull-and-crossbones on an unmarked bottle.
I slid the Subaru against the wall, not bothering to lock it. Directly across from my spot was a rust-colored steel door with no handle. I slapped my hand against it three times, hard, and stepped back, slitting my eyes against what I knew was coming.
The door opened outwards. A sudden spray of grimy yellow kilowatts framed me in place. A man’s shape, backlit, blocked my way. I slowly moved my hands away from my body, keeping them down.
The man said something in Cantonese. I didn’t move, letting him study me. The door closed in my face.
I heard them moving in behind me, but I didn’t change position. Felt their hands going over me. Didn’t react. The door opened again; no lights, this time.
As I stepped inside, I saw a man in a white restaurant apron standing to my left. He had a meat cleaver in his right hand, his left hand locked over the wrist. On the other side of the kitchen, two more men. One of them sighted down the barrel of a pistol, as if I were a piece of land he was surveying. The other flexed his hands to show me he wouldn’t need anything else.
I heard the door shut behind me.
The men watching me were professionals, about as nervous as a yoga class on Xanax. More waiting. Not a problem for me; it’s what I do best.
“You come home?” I heard her voice before I saw her.
“Yeah, Mama.”
“Good!” she snapped, stepping out of the darkness. “You eat now, okay?”
My booth was the last one toward the back, closest to the bank of pay phones. It had the same look as my parking spot. Like it had been waiting for me to show.
I slid in. Mama stood with her arms folded. I hadn’t heard her yell anything out to the kitchen, but I knew what she was waiting for.
The guy who hadn’t needed weapons came to the booth, carrying a heavy white tureen in one hand—thumb on top, no napkin between him and the heat. He lowered the tureen gently to the table, underscoring the message he’d given me earlier.
Mama sat and took the top off in the same smooth motion, releasing a cloud of steam. No tea ceremony for her; she ladled out a small bowl of the hot-and-sour soup as quick as they ever had on the chow line back in prison. I took a sip, knowing better than to wait for her.
My sinuses unblocked as I felt the familiar taste slam home.
“Perfect,” I told her.
“Everything same,” Mama said, finally helping herself to a bowl.
I was on my fourth bowl—three is the house minimum—when Max materialized.
He stood there, looking down at me. Measuring.
“I’m all right,” I signed to him.
He cocked his head.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said aloud.
He bowed slightly, folding one scarred, horn-ridged hand over the fist he made of the other.
Mama gestured her order for him to sit and have soup. Max moved in next to her, never taking his eyes off me. He used two hands to show a tree springing up from the ground, then pointed where the roots would be, his straight-line eyebrows raised in a question.
I nodded, slowly. Yeah. This wasn’t a visit. I was back to stay.
It was too late to reach out for the rest of my family. Not because they’d be asleep; the middle of the night was when they worked.
I gave the Subaru’s keys to Mama. One of the gunmen had brought my duffel bag inside. Max shouldered it, and we hit the alleys.
The faint wash from the streetlights didn’t penetrate much past the alley’s mouth.
There were three of them. Too murky to pick out details, but they stanced young. I saw a glint of metal.
Max slipped the shoulder strap of the duffel and handed it to me. I pulled a hammerless .38 from its side pocket. A use-it-and-lose-it piece Mama had added to my take-out order. Dull blued steel, the butt wrapped in black electrical tape.
The three figures separated. Max moved to his left, I went to my right.
It was so quiet I could hear a rat doing what rats do.
We kept coming.
When we got close enough for them to see Max, they stopped liking the odds.
It was only a few more blocks to the building where Max lived. We went in the side door, climbed one flight up to his temple.
His wife, Immaculata, was waiting at the top. She held a finger to her lips, meant for me.
“Flower is asleep,” she said softly.
“Okay,” I whispered back.
“Oh, Burke,” she said. “We never knew if you were—”
“I’m fine, Mac.”
“My husband wanted to go and be there with you. But Mama said you were—”
“It wouldn’t have been the play. And it doesn’t matter now, girl. It’s done.”
“You are back for good?” she asked, echoing Max.
“Yeah. I don’t know if this is the place for me, Mac. But I found out for sure there isn’t any other one.”
“Can you manage all right down here? Just for tonight? As soon as we tell Flower, you can—”
She stopped in response to Max’s thumb touching the back of her hand. Max can’t hear, but he reads vibrations like forty-point type.
“I already know, Mom!” Flower said, bursting into the room and running to me. I started to bend to scoop her up, but the little baby I had known from her first days on earth was a teenager now. She wrapped her arms around me, burying her head in my chest. “Burke, Burke...” she cried, hanging on to me like I was going to run out on
