The Silent Girl

streets were haunted by spirits. People wanted to believe in ghosts; that’s why so many of them were willing to pony up fifteen bucks apiece to stand shivering on the corner of Beach and Oxford and listen to Billy’s gory tales of murder. Tonight, an auspicious thirteen of them had signed up for the late-night Chinatown Ghost Tour, including a pair of bratty ten-year-old twins who should have been put to bed three hours ago. But when you need the money, you don’t turn away paying guests, even bratty little boys. Billy was a theater major with no job prospects on the horizon, and tonight’s haul was a cool $195, plus tips. Not a bad payday for two hours of telling tall tales, even if it came with the humiliation of wearing a satin mandarin robe and a fake pigtail.

Billy cleared his throat and held up his arms, drawing on skills he’d learned from six semesters of theater classes to get their attention. “The year is 1907! August second, a warm Friday evening.” His voice, deep and ominous, rose above the distracting sound of traffic. Like Death singling out his next victim, Billy pointed across the street. “There, in the square known as Oxford Place, beats the heart of Boston’s Chinese quarter. Walk with me now, as we step back into an era when these streets teemed with immigrants. When the steamy night smelled of sweating bodies and strange spices. Come back to a night when murder was in the air!” With a dramatic wave, he beckoned the group to follow him to Oxford Place, where they all moved in closer to listen. Gazing at their attentive faces, he thought: Now it’s time to enchant them, time to weave a spell as only a fine actor can. He spread his arms, and the sleeves of his mandarin robe flapped like satin wings as he took in a breath to speak.

“Mahhhh-mee!” one of the brats whined. “He’s kicking me!”

“Stop it, Michael,” the mother snapped. “You stop it right this minute.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You’re annoying your brother.”

“Well, he’s annoying me.”

“Do you boys want to go back to the hotel? Do you?”

Oh Lord, please go back to your hotel, thought Billy. But the two brothers just stood glowering at each other, arms crossed, refusing to be entertained.

“As I was saying,” continued Billy. But the interruption had ruined his concentration, and he could almost hear the pffft! of the dramatic tension leaking away like air from a balloon with a hole in it. Gritting his teeth, he continued.

“It was a steamy night in August. In this square, after a long day’s work in their laundries and grocery stores, a crowd of Chinamen sat resting.” He hated that word Chinamen, but forced himself to say it anyway, to evoke an era when newspapers regularly referred to furtive and sinister Orientals. When even Time magazine had seen fit to describe malice palely half-smiling from faces as yellow as telegraph blanks. An era when Billy Foo, a Chinese American, would have found no jobs open to him except as laundryman or cook or laborer.

“Here in this square, a battle is about to erupt,” said Billy. “A battle between two rival Chinese clans, the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. A battle that will leave this square awash in blood…

“Someone lights a firecracker. Suddenly the night explodes with gunfire! Scores of Chinamen flee in terror! But some do not run fast enough, and when the bullets fall silent, five men lie dead or dying. They are just the latest casualties in the bloody and infamous tong wars…”

“Mommy, can we go now?”

“Shhhh. Listen to the man’s story.”

“But he’s borrrring.”

Billy paused, hands twitching to grab the little brat around the throat. He shot the boy a poison glance. The unimpressed kid just shrugged.

“On foggy nights like this one,” Billy said through clenched teeth, “you can sometimes hear the distant sound of those firecrackers. You can see shadowy figures flit past in mortal terror, forever desperate to escape the bullets that flew that night!” Billy turned, waving an arm. “Now follow me across Beach Street. To another place where ghosts dwell.”

“Mommy. Mommy!”

Billy ignored the little turd and led the group across the street. Keep smiling, keep up the patter. It’s all about the tips. He had to maintain the energy for only another hour. First they’d head to Knapp Street for the next stop. Then it was on to Tyler Street and the gambling parlor where five men were massacred in ’91. In Chinatown, there were murder sites galore.

He led the group down Knapp Street. It was scarcely more than an alley, poorly lit and little traveled. As they left behind the lights and traffic of Beach Street, the temperature suddenly seemed to plummet. Shivering, Billy wrapped his mandarin robe tighter. He had noticed this disturbing phenomenon before, whenever he ventured down this section of Knapp. Even on warm summer nights, he always felt cold here, as if a chill had long ago settled into the alley, never to dissipate. His tour group seemed to notice it as well and he heard jackets zip up, saw gloves emerge from pockets. They fell silent, their footsteps echoing off the buildings that loomed on either side. Even the two brats were quiet, as if they sensed that the air was different. That something lingered here, something that devoured all laughter and joy.

Billy came to a halt outside the abandoned building, where a locked gate covered the door and steel bars secured the ground-floor windows. A rusting fire escape clambered up to the third and fourth floors, where every window was boarded up tight, as if to hold prisoner something that lurked inside. His group huddled closer together, seeking escape from the chill. Or was it something else they sensed in this alley, something that made them draw into a tight circle as if for protection?

“Welcome to the setting of one of Chinatown’s most grisly crimes,” said Billy. “The sign on the building is now gone, but nineteen years ago, behind these barred windows, was a little Chinese seafood restaurant called the Red Phoenix. It was a modest establishment, just eight tables inside, but known for its fresh shellfish. It was late on March thirtieth, a damp and cold night. A night like this one, when the normally bustling streets of Chinatown were strangely quiet. Inside the Red Phoenix, only two employees were at work: the waiter, Jimmy Fang. And the cook, an illegal immigrant from China named Wu Weimin. Three customers came to eat that night-a night that would be their last. Because in the kitchen, something was very wrong. We’ll never know what made the cook snap and go berserk. Maybe it was the long, hard hours he worked. Or the heartbreak of living as a stranger in a strange land.”

Billy paused. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “Or maybe it was some alien force that took hold of him, some evil that possessed him. An evil that made him pull out a gun. Made him storm into the dining room. An evil that still lingers here, on this dark street. All we know is that he pointed his gun and he…” Billy stopped.

“And he what?” someone prompted anxiously.

But Billy’s attention was fixed overhead, his gaze riveted to the roof, where he swore something had just moved. It was merely a flutter of black on black, like the wing of a giant bird flapping against the sky. He strained to catch another glimpse of it, but all he saw now was the skeletal outline of the fire escape hugging the wall.

“Then what happened?” one of the brats demanded.

Billy looked at the thirteen faces staring at him expectantly and tried to remember where he’d left off. But he was still rattled by whatever had flitted against the sky. All at once, he was desperate to get out of that dark alley and flee this building. So desperate that it took every ounce of willpower not to run back toward Beach Street. Toward the lights. He took a deep breath and blurted: “The cook shot them. He shot them all. And then he killed himself.”

With that, Billy turned and quickly waved them on, leading them away from that blighted building with its ghosts and its echoes of horror. Harrison Avenue was a block ahead, its lights and traffic beckoning warmly. A place for the living, not the dead. He was walking so quickly that his group fell behind, but he could not shake off the sense of menace that seemed to coil ever tighter around them. A sense that something was watching them. Watching him.

A woman’s loud shriek made him spin around, heart hammering. Then the group suddenly erupted in noisy laughter, and one of the men said, “Hey, nice prop! Do you use it on all your tours?”

“What?” said Billy.

“Scared the crap out of us! Looks pretty damn realistic.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Billy.