Excerpt
Chapter One
The Don
1
Times had changed for Xiao Win-t’o, who was once the Don of Chinatown and, although he considered himself the power at hand still, most others regarded him as a respectable bookmark in San Francisco’s past, much like Chinatown itself — a shadow beneath Meridian One’s glass tower. Although the tourist district had succumbed to quaint hints of the old country, Chinatown was overrun by the glitz of GlimmerGlass and techno-marketing flash. The days of Chop Suey Louie and Dim Sum Sam were over. A few restaurants, antique shops, a bakery or two and here and there a red lantern for the tourists were the only imprints from the heyday of a once teeming ethnic neighborhood.
Still, the old community board – The Chinatown Chamber of Commerce, ruled whatever business decisions were made here, whether legitimate commerce or illegal traffic. Those decisions were once the domain of the Don of Chinatown, Xiao Win-t’o. But the boss softened after the affair with the Jade Owl becoming more symbol than warlord. He was often sighted riding in his family’s black limousine or strolling in his three piece gray suit, fedora squarely set, and his silver walking stick tapping the angled pavement of Grant Avenue. His style never flagged, still influencing former constituents who remembered him as more ruthless than toothless.
In his own mind, at the ripe age of seventy-nine, Xiao Win-t’o could still appraise Chinese bric-a-brac and turn a buck. He could still wave to old lady Chang and get a free almond cookie. And he was welcomed in every Chinatown establishment, whether he owned it or not. But there was a good chance that he did have a stake in most thresholds he crossed. Xiao Win-t’o was a fading significance as the old neighborhood melted into the suburbs. He, however, did not.
“They are all fools,” Win-t’o grumbled to no one in particular as he emerged from a hole in the ground — the subterranean haunt for the Chinatown Chamber of Commerce.
It was nighttime on Grant Avenue, but the GlimmerGlass ads kept the pavement dancing, especially since it was raining, the slick making a fine reflector. Win-t’o pushed up the stairs, his right hand on the walking stick, his left grasping the wrought iron railing.
“Fools, I say. Fools.”
Suddenly, a large black umbrella covered him. It was held by Louie Chang Jr., one of Win-t’o’s bodyguards.
“Get out of the rain, boss,” Louie said, helping him manage the last step.
“Fools.”
“Not all of them, boss?”
“Yes, all of them. Even your father, sad to say.”
Louie laughed under his breath. He had learned not to contradict the boss when he was in a mood.
“Whatever you say,” he conceded. “Get in out the rain.”
A black limousine, a famous vehicle for those who knew Win-t’o or his deceased Aunt, the old Grandmother, was parked curbside. This car was a moving fortress and as identifiable in Chinatown as surely as Win-t’o’s face.
The driver stood at attention holding open the door. Another bodyguard, Danny Su leaned on the hood, an umbrella sheltering him from the chilly downpour. Win-t’o headed toward the door, but suddenly stopped.
“Fools,” he moaned again. “I’m in no mood to cramp myself into that old bucket of bolts. I need air.”
He turned away, pivoting on his walking stick, and then marching up Grant Avenue as well as any seventy-nine year old could.
“Boss,” Louie shouted. “You’ll be drenched.” He turned to Danny. “He’s in a mood.”
“What else is new?”
“He’ll wind up a drowned rat and we’ll get hell for it.”
“Better that than when he’d shoot you in the head for farting out of turn.”
Danny closed the umbrella and hopped into the limo, the driver following suit, taking his place at the wheel.
“Follow us,” Louie said, and then ran to catch up with the boss.
If it was raining, which it was and had been for two days now, Xiao Win-t’o could not tell. He was a wheeler dealer, not a weatherman. He marched along the street ignoring the advertisements flashing on the gaudy windows of the Ging Gang Club inviting him to pop in and have a Shanghai Big Sip on the house. He was even oblivious to Han Ch’i-wang’s Antiques, a place he owned and would not pass normally without stopping in to check up on the gay couple who ran the shop for him. However, Win-t’o was too preoccupied with the Fools of the Chinatown Chamber of Commerce to be conscious of passing Han Ch’i-wang’s. He barely noticed Louie Chang Jr. coming beside him with the umbrella.
“I’m here,” Louie said.
‘So what do you want me to do, Louie? Do one of my famous somersaults or the Flying Monkey? Can’t you see my mind’s on other things?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well, notice.” Win-t’o stopped short. “All the years — No. All the decades that I’ve dealt with those fools — all the impressive deals and decisions I’ve made, you would think they’d let me dispose of my own business as I see fit without making waves. I’m too old for waves and too important to be told what I can and cannot do.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about fools. Haven’t you been listening? Ach!”
He abruptly crossed the street in front of an approaching vehicle, which screeched to a halt. It was his own limousine. Louie pounded on the hood, but Win-t’o continued his march.
“Watch where you’re going,” Louise shouted to the driver.
Danny popped his head out, shaking it. Louie ran after the boss trying to get him under the umbrella, but it was a losing battle. Once Win-t’o reached the other side of the street, he turned again to Louie.
“I don’t need a nursemaid,” he snapped.
“But you need to stay dry, which you haven’t. You should get into the limo and go home where it’s warm. You can call the Chamber of Commerce whatever names you want over a beer and bag of chips in the comfort of your own home.”
“I’m not going home. I’m going to the ke-ting.”
“But . . .”
“It’s closer. I need something there. I can’t be bothered with beer and chips now.”
They had reached a side street — Dinky Lane, where the Xiao family kept their headquarters called the ke-ting — a small, traditional house now tucked between a laundry and a juice bar. Once prominent, it had been swallowed by time’s edifice. Still, it stood as the symbolic center for all that was the Xiao. It had been the magnet for the neighborhood when the old Grandmother ruled the roost. It contained the family treasures. Win-t’o no longer lived here, but, when convenient, he could flop in the traditional cabinet bed and sleep off whatever ailed him.
“I’ll tell the driver to drive around the block and park on Dinky,” Louie said.
“No need, Louie. I’ll be fine. Take the umbrella and shove it somewhere inconvenient. Hop in the limo and go home yourself.”
“Like hell,” Louie said. “You pay me to guard you and that’s what I’ll do.”
“As you please,” Win-t’o grunted, and then began his soggy journey down Dinky Lane.
2
Something was in the air. Despite Xiao Win-t’o’s preoccupation, Dinky Street felt fouler to him than usual. The laundry belched steam and the juice bar proved noisy, but the rain sang a ghostly song; and there were many ghosts in this alley. Win-t’o could tell. Half way to the ke-ting, he halted, looking up at a flickering neon lamppost, which was nearly shot, in need of a tube changing. The rain kissed his face, the drops runneling over his cheeks’ arroyos. He blinked, and then resumed his march.
“Fools.”
The ke-ting’s once bright red door now splintered pink with age. Win-t’o grumbled, reached into his coat and withdrew an old key. He had never bothered to convert the lock to the new fangled SwitherGaps that were securer, employing an easy swipe card entry. No. Win-t’o held true to an old Yale key chiseled to fit in an old Yale lock. He squinted in the dim light, poking the key in the hole, but . . .
“What the . . .”
The door was ajar. An easy push opened it, allowing stale incense to escape from inside. Win-t’o no longer thought about fools or the ghosts of Dinky Street. His natural caution — the kind that served a Don of Chinatown well, kicked in. He no longer toted a gun, having bodyguards for that, but they hadn’t shown up despite Louie’s promise. Win-t’o looked both ways along the alley expecting to be blinded by the limo’s headlights. Perhaps Louie took the boss’ advice and went home.
“Fools.”
Win-t’o’s hand grasped his walking stick, holding it defensively as he entered the ke-ting.
The place was dark. Win-t’o reached for the light switch, but it failed to engage. He had never upgraded the place to flickeroos, which would have had the place blazing with light by now. But he knew his way in the ke-ting’s dark. He knew where the high threshold raised and the hall table with the bonsai stood. He didn’t need to count the steps to the entrance to the sitting room —the ke-ting’s heart. There was a lantern on a side table near the parlor door, so Win-t’o cautiously tapped his way toward it. He thought to shout who’s there? or I’m here now with my bad-ass dog, but he decided best to keep silent; to keep vigilant. Perhaps no one was there. Perhaps he forgot to lock the door the last time he visited. Unlikely, but he had forgotten more important things lately. Then he halted.
“Fools,” he whispered. “I bet someone’s looking for it.”
He groped into the sitting room, finding the lantern — an old-style Chinese silk lamp, but battery operated and . . .
Click
Win-t’o had light — dim, to be sure, but something he could raise and take a look about. In the lantern’s sweep, he saw the gaudy old wall hangings, never changed since his aunt’s demise or his step-sister’s brief reign over the place. A platform once used for shadow plays now marshaled a line of tables, while center room stood a throne-like chair, which he occasionally mounted as a reminder of times past — times when the old Grandmother commanded the room, her crow-colored robes draped over her shoulders, while she sat, grasping the handle of her cane — Old Friend Cane, as she called it. Even in this dim light, the specter of that woman and her cane lingered.
Win-t’o’s aunt had sponsored him to America and, in the beginning, they were highly respectful toward one another. But once he settled into his lucrative enterprises and casual ways, the old Grandmother adopted a bias against him. She endorsed lucrative investments and ruled over the Xiao wealth, but she could never abide shadier deals and extortionist methods, which Win-to used to maintain his hold over the Tong. All that was before the affair with the Jade Owl. After that — after Win-t’o returned to this ke-ting a broken man on the mend with the aid of his half brother; only after that did the old Grandmother — Xiao Ao-ling soften toward Win-t’o.
Xiao Win-t’o shuddered as the throne’s shadow passed his eyes. He continued with the lantern light’s sweep until it shone on an alcove at the room’s far end.
“Yes, that’s it,” he grumbled, moving toward it.
A curtain enclosed the space — an off kilter curtain, the top jammed along its guide rod. As Win-t’o approached the alcove, he pushed the curtain aside with his walking stick. A tall lacquered cabinet stood inside, its drawers and doors decorated with scenes from the old country. One door was open, revealing a dark compartment. Carefully, Win-t’o set the lantern on the floor, and then brushed his hand inside the dark space. Empty. Upon realizing this, Win-t’o crabbed his fingers frantically confirming the truth. It was missing. It had been taken.
“Shit,” he stammered, and then turned. He heard a sound — well, not so much heard, but sensed. He stepped out of the alcove, raising the lantern again.
“Who’s here?” he asked. “Show yourself. Don’t think you can come into my house and steal my things. Don’t think it for a moment. Don’t . . .”
He listened intently. Perhaps Louie Jr. had come to check on the boss.
“Louie?” he asked.
No reply, but now came a rustling sound from the curtain behind him. In his rush to check out the cabinet, Win-t’o hadn’t considered that the thief was still inside the alcove. He turned, but was stunned. Something hit him and hit him hard. He felt the blow to his temple and dropped the lantern. He caressed his walking stick, trying to stay on his feet, but the crack to his noggin compromised him. He saw the lantern approach him as he fell toward it on the floor, landing hard — first to his knees, and then on his side. He tasted blood rushing from . . . from where? Was it from his head or his nose? His throat was closing.
Win-t’o tried to push up to regain his footing, but it was useless. Then he spied a shoe near the lantern. Looking up quickly, he glimpsed his assailant.
“You,” he murmured, and then: “Why?”
A useless question. If the shoe’s owner ever answered, Xiao Win-t’o would never know. The Don of Chinatown was lost in a head’s spin, the old Grandmother’s realm growing dim as he slipped the light’s bond and entered into a darkness, which precluded comprehension.
Chapter Two
The Knack
1
The night rain continued to pound the cobblestones and the gutter spouts throughout the city, including the high windows at 456 Ashbury Street, a Victorian house among San Francisco’s so-called Painted Ladies — glamorous buildings in their day, but now tributes to faded glory. 456 was the residence for three men and an occasional woman, all four delving into an unprofitable hobby, which tickled their spleens, but not their bank accounts. Even if their door hadn’t sported a sign reading Firestone & Gray, Detective Agency P.a.t.t., their business cards did, although an additional name was associated with the venture — Wiggins. That individual had assumed the name Gray, but since the disintegration of the United States into the ACS, the American Cooperative States, after the 2020 election, same-sex marriage was allowed only under a grandfather clause for preexisting unions, the remaining candidates relegated to a strict quota system. Still, Mr. Dade O’Higgins married Mr. John Gray under the provisions of the Local Amnesty Act of 2021, which allowed a ten-year renewable marriage, upon review by the National Purity Commission. Yes, the rain continued to pound the cobblestones and the gutter spouts.
Firestone & Gray Detective Agency only had one Firestone — Nicholas Firestone, and two Grays, the aforementioned John Gray and his sister Amy, both the children of Curator-General Rowden Gray of the East Asian Art and Antiquities Museum. Nick Firestone would have liked to reduce the number of Grays in the business by one and add another Firestone, converting Amy to that name by the usual connubial means. But Amy Gray was fiercely independent — ambivalent to marriage. Often she told Nick, Fly, you shouldn’t be so keen on marriage. We have a good arrangement and a firm friendship. That should hold us, at least for now. Nick would grumble and pout, tucking away the always-ready engagement ring into his eSuit pocket. He remained faithful to her, she in his bed five nights out of seven, and, as far as he knew, she was faithful to him, the off nights being spent on the town with girlfriends. But she would flaunt an occasional beefcake image beneath his nose, inflaming Nick’s good will. Amy worked for Cyber Data Sources A.r.c.t., a well established data mining trust with access to government contracts, both nationally approved and locally clandestine. She had a wizard’s knack, her data access skills a strong contributing factor to the detective agency success.
John Gray was a super agent – in insurance that is, working independently for several regulated health and life services companies on a bid by bid basis. But since the Chairman unilaterally ended expanded coverage on a state by state basis, John picked up auctioned portfolios for important clients, mostly from a pool of former national insurance companies that were wrecked in the political schism of 2021. It kept John in business and in pocket change. He was also a master at organization and planning, having the knack for getting things done, a mighty asset to Firestone & Gray.
As for Dade O’Higgins, he was a fly on the wall. He could manage to be anywhere and everywhere gathering information without anyone noticing him; and what a knack that was. As for income, he performed pick-up jobs around the Castro, from deliveries to washing dishes. But he wandered every night back to his (conditionally approved) husband at 456 Ashbury Street.
But of assessed knacks, Nick Firestone took the crown. Although he worked with his conservator father, Sydney, at the East Asian Art and Antiquities Museum, he had an independent income, as did all those souls involved with the Jade Owl adventure — the Chinese government paying him hush money in the form of a trust fund. Nick, the youngest of the so-called China Hands, had been only five years old when he took up his destined role in western China. Now, between the trust fund and the job, he could afford the rent at this Painted Lady and do whatever a twenty-two year old buck could do. But Nick had the knack — the sinological knack — the one that observed details in old Chinese bric-a-brac and deduce their historical significance, placing them on a timeline. As such, he could solve reliquarian mysteries which he demonstrated with that knotty entanglement known as the Sapphire Astonishment, a brooch proving to be the key to a nineteenth century footnote — minutia to be sure, but what glorious minutia.
After Nick solved one mystery, others followed. He found plenty to unravel daily in the museum, but those were more in the line of cataloguing the seemingly uncatalogable. He also helped Amy and John’s uncle, Xiao Win-t’o, to assess genuine relics from the phony at Han Ch’i-wang’s Antiques. Soon clients hired Nick to trace family heirlooms back to their China roots. Nick couldn’t travel to China (a condition of his trust settlement and the A.C.S.’s proscription against children of immigrants from traveling abroad, Nick’s mother having been born in Bei-jing). As proud as Nick, John and Amy were to be Eurasian, they lived under suspicion’s cloud as long as the Chairman’s rule blocked Congressional due process. Fortunately for East Asians, local governments circumvented a nation divided at its head and thus perpetrated municipal versions of the law and, in San Francisco, only anti-Islamic interdicts were imposed. Still, Nick Firestone undertook complicated sinological mysteries, Amy helping through her cyberspace resources, John managing plans of attack and Wiggins hanging his eyes and ears wherever and whenever needed. Thus came into being the agency, Firestone & Gray, Pending approval as a temporary trust (P.a.t.t.).
During the first year, Firestone & Gray had solved a dozen reliquarian mysteries, from the revelation that Mrs. Gao En-lai’s wedding ring once belonged to Madame Chiang Kai-shek to the recovery of Lord Po Po’s porcelain tea-pot from a wine cellar in S.O.M.A. None were as engrossing as the Sapphire Astonishment, but each paid for a fancy dinner and dancing at the Ging Gong Club or The Painted Lips. For Amy, John and Wiggins, it was a lark and nothing to quit their day jobs over (although Wiggins could hardly define his day job). But for Nick it defined him and was an extension of his work at the museum. When in the throes of either a day mystery or a night one, Nick Firestone ignored the changing world around him — the advances in eShirts and GlimmerGlass; the post-earthquake changes in infrastructure and the complete dissolution of a constitutional government. He had had enough of politics at five years old when he addressed the Chinese politburo. He could care less about cracks in the pavement after his experiences in the Ghostlands and at the Battle of Mount Li. His great joy was solving mysteries for the footnotes. His great hope was . . . Amy Gray.
2
The night rain continued to pound the cobblestones and the gutter spouts throughout the city, including the high windows at 456 Ashbury Street. Nick Firestone gazed out those windows anticipating his girlfriend’s arrival. He had expected her an hour ago and was anxious to show her a mystery — a surprise he had withheld for many years. But Amy was late, and when she was late it could easily develop into a no show. He would have called her, but had forgotten to charge his eShirt, the power drained to a sputter; GlimmerText a mere flicker. He had pressed the eStart on his shoulder twice, managing to flip a dim screen on the rain splattered window, but it faded each time.
“Fuck,” he mumbled. “I bet she’s hanging out with the cyber hags.”
Nick drew in a deep breath, and then snorting it out. He heard Wiggins stirring in John’s bedroom — well, their bedroom, John being out late also. That was unusual, but that was Wiggins’ problem, not Nick’s. Nick had his own frustrations with his better half. At least Wiggins’ better half was a legally documented better half, despite the expiration date. Nick couldn’t get Amy to recognize the benefits of getting hitched. Sometimes he acquiesced, agreeing that marriage might end the independence they both enjoyed. But it also led to shadows in their relationship, shadows that he would not fathom, fearing that, in the dark recesses, he might discover that sex was their only bond — that, and the need to banter, keeping them under the same roof five out of seven nights. As long as Amy maintained her own apartment, Nick was insecure. Sometimes he felt Amy wanted him that way, leverage for her own insecurities — birds of a feather keeping separate shelters just in case . . .
Nick went to his desk, one of three in the room — one for each partner, Wiggins abstaining from research in general. In this paperless world there were still heaps on Nick’s desk, while John’s had two neat stacks and Amy’s a single pad, a HoloPrinter and a Goochie Doll pen with a long feathery plume. Nick’s desk had the remnants of their last case, one solved, but not fully delivered. Across the paper heap flopped a silver chain with a medallion firmly attached. Nick picked it up, and then giggled.
“What a hoot,” he said, shaking his head.
It had been a hoot. The client was Mrs. Hu Kai-tso, better known as Fanny Hu, who owned a Painted Lady near Alamo Park. Fanny was the widow of Hu Ga-erh, a wealthy jeweler, who also had been prone to playing Pai Gow at the Bottisini Casino in North Beach. He had been good at it, sometimes, but mostly, he lost. By the time Hu Ga-erh met with his destined stroke, most of his fortune had been donated to the Italian mob. He left his widow the house and a small stash of traditional jewelry. However, few pieces were more prized by Fanny Hu than the Silver Moonstone, a necklace passed down through the family from Ho-fei to Shang-hai to San Francisco. As Nick appraised it, as it now dangled from his hand, this necklace was rare and older than its Ho-fei origins. The chain was a threaded design common to central China during the mid Ch’ing Dynasty and, although genuine, would be hard to place. But the stone, set in the Cloisonné manner, only in silver instead of copper, was a fine emerald — a common setting for Ming jewelry of the Jing-tai Reign Period. So Nick had a rare find here, indeed — an amalgamation of a valuable stone setting on a worthy, although fairly common, silver chain.
“What a hoot,” he said again.
Fanny Hu contacted him because the piece had gone missing. She had been cleaning it by an open window and noticed an overturned chair in her courtyard garden. She went downstairs to right the chair and, upon returning, the necklace was gone. By the time she came to Firestone & Gray, she was in hysterics.
“Ch’en Ch’i-shou,” she moaned, using Nick’s Chinese name. “The piece is irreplaceable. I am careful when I wear it or clean it. I bet the Italians were watching me — Bragado and the Pirandelli brothers. I bet they turned over the chair to distract me and, when I went down to attend to it, they came through the front door and stole my precious gem.” She was greatly distressed. “You know I cannot go to the police. They are in Bragado’s coat pocket. There is no justice any more.”
If ever there was justice.
Nick calmed her, taking the case; but now he held the precious Silver Moonstone, ready to return it to its owner. It had been a funny case and not hard to solve, or so he thought. Amy delved into the Morganshire database, where hot jewelry surfaced for sale online. Her search was thorough, but no evidence of fencing turned up through the usual channels. John searched insurance records to assure that the piece wasn’t being tapped for cash, but Hu Ga-erh never had it insured, odd as it might seem. So Fanny Hu wasn’t playing the agency and collecting a premium. Faked hysterics was ruled out. Nick visited three prominent Chinatown families — the Wei, the Lin-tao and Amy’s uncle Xiao Win-t’o, to verify the piece through drawings. Surely they had seen it before because Fanny was a community social butterfly. They all recognized the necklace and expressed dismay at its theft. But it was Wiggins who solved the case. He inspected the courtyard, just in case the necklace had fallen out the open window. It was then he witnessed the thief himself, or rather itself. In the crook of the tree was the crook of the hour — a Magpie holed up in a knothole. Wiggins saw the bird return with some aluminum foil it its beak and deduced it was collecting shiny things, including a rarity out for cleaning easily plucked through an open window. Case solved. Loot retrieved, along with a cache of watches, coins and bits of roof shine.
“What a hoot,” Nick said again, starring at the prize.
Then he thought of another prize, the one he meant to show Amy after years of hemming and hawing. He squinted, set the Moon Stone on the paper stack, and then opened a side drawer. He withdrew a small red-velvet jewelry case, the latch and snap kind, secure enough to hold its contents from prying eyes, yet small enough to be carried in a pocket. This was Nick Firestone’s treasure, acquired when he was five years old in a place still haunting his nightmares. Carefully he unlatched the box, snapping it open.
“What’s that?”
Nick almost dropped the box, startled by Wiggins, who could come into a room unnoticed.
“Shit, man. You fucking scared me.”
“Sorry,” Wiggins said.
Wiggins was far from scary — thin and wiry, generally soft spoken. But he could enter a room as silently as a panther stalking prey. Nick retrieved the box.
“If you must know,” he said, “it’s a pendant.”
“Is that the Dragon pendant that Johnny told me about?”
“It is,” Nick said, exasperated. “John shouldn’t have told you about it. It’s between . . .”
“We keep no secrets,” Wiggins said. “I know all about that pendant. That’s the one you had when you went into the spook lands of China.”
“The Ghostlands and the Land of the Mountains and Seas. Do you believe I went there?”
“Why shouldn’t I, Nick?”
Wiggins reached for the pendant, but Nick pulled it back.
“It can be dangerous. I’ve kept it in a safety deposit box and have never shown it to anyone.”
“Not even Amy?”
“Not even Amy. Although this was a surprise for her tonight.” He looked toward the rain streaked window. “That is if she ever gets here.”
Nick gazed at the pendant — two oblong, rough pearls dangling from a golden dragon pin. The pearls were actually dragon teeth, if the tale was to be believed. Nick didn’t doubt it. He had pilfered this relic at age five, inside a cave in western China. Because he had this pendent, he was destined to lead Rowden Gray through unworldly realms — realms kept secret because no one but the China Hands would believe him, and because the Chinese government paid him to keep such secrets from the unwashed billions.
“You’re never to tell anyone, Wiggins,” Nick cautioned. “I’m under contract to zip my lips. I only told Amy and John because . . .”
“You don’t need to explain. I’ll never repeat what I hear. I believe it, but I’d be locked up as a crazy if I told anyone.”
“That’s right.” He looked Wiggins squarely in the eye. “You know, Marco Polo was locked up for telling stories about China. They called his travels, the Book of a Million Lies.”
“I promise not to write a book.”
Nick laughed, and then let Wiggins take a closer look.
“It belonged to an Empress Dowager during the Sung Dynasty, and then to the Emperor Xuan-tsung. It then passed to an old servant named Ku K’o-ling, and then to Professor Rowdy, and finally to me.” Wiggins studied the pendant. “It wasn’t a clean passage. I mean, Professor Rowdy traveled back to the Sung to get it, and I met the servant in my travels. And . . . it’s complicated, like everything attached to the Jade Owl business.”
Suddenly, Wiggins’ eSuit buzzed. He jumped up, tapped his shoulder, and then swiped the incoming message to the nearest glass surface, in this case a mirror near the door.
“Johnny,” Wiggins said. “Where are you?’
“At the hospital,” John Gray replied, his image flickering in the mirror.
“Hospital? What’s happened?”
Nick returned the pendant to its case, pocketed it, and then joined Wiggins at the mirror.
“John,” Nick said. “Are you sick? Has there been an accident?”
Then, Amy’s image appeared beside her brother.
“Fly,” she said, chastisement in her voice. “I’ve been trying to glimmer you, but you haven’t tapped.”
“My eSuit has. . .”
“Don’t tell me you forgot the charge it again?”
“I won’t tell you then,” he snapped. “I’ve been trying to raise you, but there’s not enough juice. But never mind that. Tell me what the fuck’s going on? Why are you in the hospital?”
Suddenly, Amy broke down.
“It’s terrible. Just terrible.”
“What’s terrible?”
“Johnny,” Wiggins said. “Where’s Johnny?”
“I’m still here,” John replied coming behind his sister, holding her shoulders. “You both should come. We’re at St. Francis’. Tangy Win’s had an accident.”
“He’s unconscious, Fly. He may be in a coma.”
“What happened?” Nick asked. “And how did he get into St. Francis?”
“I got connections,” John replied. “They were taking him the Chinese Hospital, but I pulled strings and got him here. I don’t know whether the law will intervene and transfer him, but for now, he’s here.”
Amy went to pieces, John consoling her.
“What’s the prognosis?” Nick said.
“He’s critical,” John replied. “Just get here. Room 786. I’ll fill you in then.”
The mirror flickered, and then the image dissipated.
“Wait, Johnny,” Wiggins said. “Do you need anything?”
“We’d better go,” Nick grunted. “We’re not that far from St. Francis’. We can hoof it.”
“But I wonder if Johnny’s had his dinner yet. Maybe we should bring something up.”
“No time to think about that,” Nick replied. “Grab the Big-Ass Brolly. It should cover us both.”
Wiggins shuffled to the closet and snapped out a huge rainbow striped umbrella, one used for more than storm gear in recent days. He opened it, but then realized it was too big to fit through the door. He wrestled it closed, fumbling until Nick took charge. He grabbed it, folded it, and then mustered forward — two anxious men on a road to doubt.

Chapter Three
The Flock
1
St. Francis Hospital shone black in the storm, a flat tower with one-hundred and fifty three square windows like a giant waffle, standing on end with a short stack administration building at the fore. The facility employed the area’s best doctors, most efficient nurses and the latest technological advances, including a Miraculus Screening Device, one of only six in the country, for early cancer detection; and the patented procedures for Novalung implants. Impressive. The hospital specialized in infectious diseases and head traumas, so it was fortuitous that Xiao Win-t’o was brought here instead of the Chinese Hospital where he may have been fed herbals, the so-called Hard Knocks solutions and an acupuncture regimen and hemispheric taping. But John had pulled strings, which Nick later learned was Dr. Gifford Wellesley, Chief Administrator of both St. Francis’ (the local and remote one). John reminded the administrator that, despite Tangy Win’s Chinese ethnicity, he had contributed mightily to St. Francis’ over the decades, something Dr. Wellesley could neither deny nor ignore. So the ambulance was redirected to St. Francis’ door.
By the time Nick and Wiggins arrived, Xiao Win-t’o had been diagnosed with head trauma and had been scanned every-which-way possible. No clear diagnosis was made except the man had slipped into a coma, and then into a private room — intubated and under care of the best neurologist available, Dr. Joseph Rizzo, who had been at the nurse’s station when Nick and Wiggins emerged from the elevator and into the ward.
Nick, disoriented, looked for help.
“It’s Room 786,” Wiggins said, who after saying this twice, went directly to the nurse, who sat beside the doctor, he scanning a chart book, she perusing her Glimmerglass monitor. “Room 786 please,” Wiggins stammered.
The nurse looked up, frowned, and then shuffled eCards about her station. Upon noticing Nick, she sneered.
“What is this, a Chinese convention?” she snapped.
“Excuse me?” Nick asked.
“It’s like an invasion.” She turned to her glass and mumbled. “You let one of them in and the rest will follow.”
“Do I have a problem here?” Nick asked. “We’re here to see Xiao Win-t’o.”
“I know who you’re here to see. They’re all here to see him. Next thing we’ll be up to our asses in Egg Foo Young and red lanterns.”
“What’s crawled up your ass?” Nick snapped.
“I think she’s got a problem with us,” Wiggins said.
“No she doesn’t,” the doctor said, looking up. He scowled at the nurse. “She’s just had a bad day, so let’s give her that.” He stood. “I’m Mr. Xiao’s physician, Dr. Rizzo. And you are?”
“A close friend of the family.”
“I am family,” Wiggins said, “My husband’s Mr. Xiao’s nephew.”
The nurse scowled again.
“I see,” said the doctor, extending his hand, first to Nick, and then to Wiggins. “I’ll take you down to the room and . . .” He glanced at the nurse. “And if any more visitors arrive for Mr. Xiao, I expect you to silently point them in the right direction.”
“I understand, doctor.”
The nurse clenched her teeth.
“Good.”
Nick calmed down. The woman had nerve to hold him in contempt. She was a fat slob, with a piggy face and squinty eyes — a meatball in white with a silly lace cap. Nick didn’t deride her. He didn’t say what’s in your craw, Miss Piggy? He didn’t call her a gun totin’, abortion squashing, lily-white red neck. Nor would he think to do so. Everyone was equal in his eye, despite prevailing bad laws and rife mob psychology. So, he sucked it in and tried to erase Nurse Ratchet from his mind.
“How’s he doing, doctor?” he asked as they strolled through the antiseptic white corridor passing door after door and med carts and gurneys.
“He’s alive,” Rizzo replied. “He’s suffered a severe head trauma, lost a bucket of blood and is out like a light.”
“Unconscious?” Wiggins asked.
“More like comatose.” The doctor halted. “Sorry. I believe in the direct approach. It’s hard to access the damage’s extent, but if he came out of it now, he might be a Brussels sprout.”
“Really?” Nick said. “There’s no hope?”
“Hope’s always at hand. I’ve seen real astonishing things happen in my time. But at Mr. Xiao’s age and with the impact sustained, I wouldn’t hold out for it.”
“Fly,” came a cry.
Amy rushed into Nick’s arms, while Wiggins corralled his husband, who followed behind his sister.
“This is awful,” Nick said, kissing Amy’s forehead, then her cheek, and then her lips.
“I can’t believe Tangy Win’s dying,” she moaned. “It can’t be.”
“Who said he’s dying?” Nick said. “The doctor said he’s alive.”
“But in this state he might as well be . . .” She wept into Nick’s eSuit. “Just hold me tight, Fly. Never let me go.”
Nick wept too.
“Johnny,” Wiggins said. “Did you eat??
“I had a sandwich. There’s a scuttlecupper at the end of the ward — in the visitor’s cove. How about you?”
“No.”
John hugged him.
“How’s your eCash? Do you need some? The machine’s just around the corner.”
Wiggins went into his pocket, pulling out his card.
“Could use some.”
John sighed, retrieved his eCash Card and transferred a sandwich or two’s worth into his husband’s electronic wallet. Nick embraced Amy, and then turned toward the room. The doctor was bedside already with the on-duty nurse attending Xiao Win-t’o.
“John, tell me exactly what happened?” Nick asked. “Don’t leave anything out.”
But before John could tell what he knew, someone intervened.
“It’s an easy case,” boomed a froggy voice.
Nick turned to see two familiar people — Detective Jimmy Chang and his brother Louie Jr. It was Detective Chang who spoke.
2
“It’s an easy case,” Detective Chang repeated. “No case at all, actually?”
“What are you doing here?” Nick snapped. “I thought it was an accident.”
“Why?” the Detective replied. “Just because I’m in homicide doesn’t make it any different, Hot Shot. Louie found the old man and who else would he call next after ringing 911 but his elder cop brother? If I didn’t get there in a flash, you might be standing at an inquest instead of at a hospital bed.”
Nick shrugged. He had jumped the gun, but Jimmy Chang was oil to his water. The Detective had belittled Firestone & Gray’s skills at case work calling them The Chinese Miss Marple Crew and the Lucky Pokers. It didn’t sit well with Nick. He nodded to Jimmy Chang in lieu of an apology, and then turned to Louie for answers.
“The boss was in a foul mood,” Louie said. “He had a disagreement with the Chamber of Commerce, and was blowing off steam all over the place.”
“What kind of disagreement?” Nick asked.
“What does it matter?” Jimmy said, wading in. “You know that crew never sees eye to eye, especially under my father’s fiery hand. What does it matter?”
“It was silliness, really,” Louie replied. “Something to do with a secret deal the boss made with the Meridian One people.”
“What deal?” John asked. “I know my uncle’s business pretty well and I never heard of a deal.”
“Tangy Win never liked those Meridian One clowns,” Amy added. “Especially that rich jerk, Lorimar Tronk. It’s because of him The Vermilion Phoenix was torn down.”
“Well,” Louie continued, “it had something to do with the land the restaurant stood on; where Meridian One stands now.”
“He said as much?” Nick asked.
“No,” Louie said, annoyed now. “Our Dad’s the head of the Chamber of Commerce. Remember? He filled us in later.”
“It was a contributing factor to Xiao Win-t’o’s mood,” Jimmy said, his voice pretentious now, as if to bring an air of official inquiry into the conversation — cop stuff. “What’s the point of even mentioning it?”
The nurse emerged from the room.
“If you gentlemen are going to have a shouting contest,” she announced, “I need to ask you to take it to the lobby.”
“Sorry,” Amy said, giving the detective a dirty look, although the nurse had included her among the gentlemen. “We’ll contain it.”
The nurse returned to the room, where Doctor Rizzo stood over his patient reading a chart.
“What a fuss,” Jimmy whispered. “He’s in a coma. You couldn’t wake him with a gong.”
“So, Xiao Win-t’o was in a mood?” Nick asked.
“Yes,” Louie continued. “He wanted to go to the Dinky Lane place. It was close, and he could vent there more privately. He walked in the rain, refusing the limo and sent me and Danny packing. But once I dropped Danny off, I felt uneasy leaving the boss alone, so I hoofed it back to Dinky Lane, where I found him.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Pretty damn dark in there. The fuse was blown, but when I threw the breaker, I saw he’d fallen, hitting his head on the old lady’s big chair. Lots of blood.” He shook his head. “Lots and lots of blood. I called 911, and then my brother and then you,” he said to John.
“That’s when I called Wellesley to make sure Tangy Win was brought here,” John said. “There’s nothing wrong with Chinese medicine, but with Tangy Win’s contributions to this joint, he deserves the latest and greatest.”
Amy looked woefully through the room glass.
“They didn’t do much here,” she sniffed, and then pulled Nick through the door into the room.
Tangy Win was a mess — pale with the exception of a black eye and cheek. His head was swathed in bandages; his arms, festooned with pikes and tubing, intravenous bottles hung on three racks — two on the left, one on the right. Monitors surrounded him like Darleks; and he was intubated, the double hose wedged in his mouth like a steam vacuum cleaning his innards.
Nick approached, and then touched Win-t’o’s hand, hesitating. It was cold as if death was already knocking at the door.
“This isn’t good,” he mumbled.
“It could be worse,” Doctor Rizzo said. “He’s alive and most likely can hear you, so don’t say anything nasty about him or else, when he’s better, he’ll kick your ass.” The Doctor hovered over his patient. “Did you hear me, Mr. Xiao? You’ll be soon dining on filet mignon and drinking mai-tai’s by the fistful.” He laughed, and then pulled Nick aside, Amy with him. “It’s best to keep a good face around a coma patient,” he said in a low voice, then shook his head. “It’s likely he’ll never come out of it. It’s cold to say it, but I’d rather you be prepared for the worst.”
“A vegetable?” Wiggins asked, having returned to the group quite silently, a half-bitten tuna fish sandwich in his hand and the Big-Ass Brolly tucked under his armpit.
“No,” Amy snapped. “Don’t say that.”
“Not a vegetable,” the Doctor replied, although he probably forgot he had likened his patient’s state to a Brussels sprout not ten minutes ago. “But the mind’s a funny thing. It can be as spry as a cat and never let you know it. I think he senses your presence, but don’t expect him to acknowledge you or even bat an eye.”
“A vegetable,” Jimmy Chang said, drawing Nick’s ire.
“Who asked you?” Nick snapped.
“Well, as I said, it’s not an inquest.”
“He’s correct there,” the doctor added.
Then a low drone could be heard from down the hall. The doctor rolled his eyes.
“Nurse Phyllis has had a really bad day.”
“So you said,” Nick mumbled.
“Let me go rescue whoever it is.”
“I know that voice,” Nick replied. “It’s Nurse Phyllis who’ll need the rescuing.”
3
Nurse Phyllis tangled with a very anxious, very superior drag queen, who would neither lose the battle nor the war. Simone DeFluerry, with husband Nick Battle on her arm and Rowden Gray at her side, took umbrage to a remark that tactless Nurse Phyllis leveled at the fourth member of their party — Meng Ka-bao, Nick Battle and Xiao Win-t’o’s half brother. The nurse had blurted out something about another Chink in the hospital ward, and then something regarding we built that wall on the wrong border. With that, Simone DeFluerry banged her saddlebag purse on the counter, balled her fist and said Who died and put you in the lily White White House, bitch, to which the nurse threatened to throw your faggoty ass back to the Castro. Doctor Rizzo broke it up just in time.
Nick Firestone glanced down the corridor in time to see Simone DeFluerry marching behind the good doctor, who led this new contingent out of the jaws of immaculate conservatism toward a calmer, but sadder destination.
“Someone ought to fire that one,” Amy said to Nick.
“Unfortunately, the world’s infested with them,” Nick replied.
“And it ain’t getting any better,” Wiggins added, almost devoured tuna sandwich in one hand, the Big-Ass Brolly dripping in the other.
Rowden Gray won the race down the corridor, reaching the room just ahead of the others.
“Is he awake?” he asked.
“In a coma, Daddy,” Amy said, rushing into his arms.
“But he’s alive,” John remarked to his father.
Rowden nodded to Nick, who was his employee whenever the Big Cheese decided to show up for work. Then Rowden saw Jimmy Chang.
“Detective?” he queried.
“Professor. Sorry state of affairs, but . . .”
He shrugged.
“My lambs,” Simone said, brushing Rowden away and hugging first John, and then Amy. “How are you bearing up?”
Simone was blanketed in raingear, but fashionably so, her hat wider than the rings of Saturn. Nick Battle, demure in his button down sweater, acknowledged everyone with both hands fluttering. Meng Ka-bao bowed to them all, but remained customarily silent. He entered the room first and went directly bedside. The others followed.
“He’s a mess, Daddy,” Amy said, pouting, and then heaving out a great sigh.
“He is,” Rowden agreed. “But I remember . . .”
“Yes, Rowdy,” Nick B said. “I remember too.”
“What do you remember, Nicky,” Simone asked.
“In Gui-lin at the Xiao Homestead,” Nick continued. “Xiao Win-t’o was near death then, burned almost beyond redemption.”
“He handled the . . . well . . . the you-know-what, with his bare hands,” Rowden said absently.
“That damned bird,” Simone spluttered. “No wonder.”
“It was the beginning of his transformation,” Nick B said, “from tough Tong leader to the man we’ve all come to love.”
“Tangy Win,” John said.
Doctor Rizzo listened intently as if he wanted more data about this damned bird and what exactly burned beyond redemption meant and . . . what was the cure. For that he would need to go to the Chinese Hospital.
Rowden touched Win-t’o’s hand.
“Why’s he so cold, doctor?”
“Everything slows down in a coma,” Rizzo replied. “The body cools as a preservation measure.”
“Good to know,” Nick B said.
Nick Firestone studied Win-t’o laying there in bed. He tried to imagine a man burnt to a crisp coming back to life. It was hard to embrace, but then Jimmy Chang, in an unusually tender mood, piped in.
“My brother wasn’t so lucky.”
“Brother?” Nick asked, looking to Louie.
“Not him,” Jimmy said. “We had an older brother. Sam.”
“Sam Chang,” Rowden said. “I’d forgotten.”
“Nice of you to cast his memory to the wolves, Professor,” Jimmy said.
“I didn’t mean to,” Rowden mumbled. “Sam Chang was quite memorable — Win-t’o’s right hand man. But he also handled the relic and paid the price.”
“He paid the price,” Jimmy said. “Win-t’o didn’t say anything, because he survived. But my brother paid for it.”
“We can’t be too sharp on this point,” Louie said. “I mean, if you’re involved in shit, you get shit.”
Jimmy turned on his brother.
“What are talking about? You work for the devil yourself.”
“The boss is hardly a devil.”
“Now, he isn’t.”
“Please,” the nurse said, the nice nurse, who had been adjusting the drip.
“Yes,” Rizzo said. “Remember, he can hear you.”
“Please, Detective Chang,” Amy remarked. “My uncle can’t escape your comments or even sit up and defend himself. It’s not fair.”
Jimmy Chang puckered, but fell silent, like a prune sucking a lemon.
“In fact,” said the doctor, “I think you should all clear out. Go home. There’s nothing you can really do here.”
“I shall stay,” Meng Ka-bao announced, breaking his silence. “I shall pray.”
“That’s a good thing,” Rizzo remarked.
Rowdy cocked his head, but it was Nick Battle who squinted at his Buddhist brother.
“You want to take a walk through his mind,” he said. “Can you even do that in his state?”
“I do not know, brother. I have never tried it. We shall see.”
Doctor Rizzo clasped the chart to his chest, indicating the session was over. The nurse pulled the curtains partly around the patient.
“Can we take his things home?” Amy asked.
“Of course,” Rizzo said.
The nurse went to a drawer retrieving a manila envelope. She then went to the chair where Win-t’o’s street clothes were draped, along with his walking stick.
“His watch and jewelry,” the nurse said, handing the envelope to Amy. “He didn’t have a cell phone.”
“He doesn’t believe in them,” she said. “But I’m glad someone had the presence of mind to grab his stick.”
Then Amy gathered the clothing, folding them neatly. John took the walking stick with its silver dragon’s head handle and tapped the floor, putting it to fashionable use, no doubt.
Everything seemed too final to Nick Firestone. What had started out as a night with a surprise for Amy was ending as a night filled with surprises. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, even with Amy wrapped in his arms. He mind raced, his lungs filled with antiseptic aromas. He needed fresh air.
“Let’s stop at the scene before going home,” he suddenly announced.
“The scene?” Detective Chang asked. “I told you there’s no crime scene. There’s no crime.”
“I didn’t say crime scene. I meant the scene of the accident.”
“Why not just say you want to go to the Xiao family ke-ting?”
Nick stared daggers at Jimmy Chang. This abrasive, know-it-all jerk was getting on his nerves. But this wasn’t the time for a fist fight, especially with a cop. On some level Nick needed Detective Chang’s cooperation on other cases that might float his way, so, although he would have liked to grab the Big-Ass Brolly away from Wiggins and beat the crap out of Detective Chang, Nick swallowed his anger and turned to Amy.
“Are you up for a walk?”
“I don’t really care how wet I get, Fly. The air will be good.” She turned and kissed her father, then pivoted down the corridor. “Coming, Johnny?”
“Nothing like a walk in the rain.”
“We got the Brolly,” Wiggins said.
“Then let’s go now,” Nick said. “Now, before I . . . well, let’s just go.”
Nick Firestone left, before Detective Chang could trespass their brittle mood again. He hurried down the corridor and passed the nurse’s station to the elevator. He ignored Nurse Phyllis’ parting glare and venom, although Wiggins flipped her the bird as the elevator doors shut, just before he dropped the crusts of his tuna fish sandwich.