Vicki sat up and leaned forward for a closer look. “Good fortune? Could they be any less clear?”
Jerry looked back at his wife. “Don’t worry; we’ll figure it out. We can talk it through over dinner if you want. But for now, let’s enjoy the fact that we completed three Attractions.” He stood up and pulled his wife off the bed. “We’re on a roll.”
He danced with her, spinning her around before dipping her back, her towel falling off her head and her robe opening, leaving her naughty bits in plain view.
Vicki smiled as he brought her back to a standing position. She planted kisses all over his face before pulling away. “You were so right about this trip. I’m glad we did it.”
“Yeah, me, too. I’m having a killer time.”
Chapter 2
Dim Sum Sunday.
That’s what Ryan and Lucy had come to call it. I had fallen into the habit of taking the family out for brunch every Sunday. We all enjoyed the outing, especially my mother-in-law, Po Po. She had made friends with a few of the shopkeepers in Chinatown and used that time to talk, most of it gossip. She felt the need to converse in her native language. I didn’t crave it like she did, but I could understand. The language was a part of her and needed to be expressed. Plus, sometimes a story is funnier in Chinese.
I spoke English most of the time, and so did the kids. But they were learning Cantonese — not Mandarin, the official language of China — because Po Po was determined that they were to learn the language we spoke in Hong Kong. When I wasn’t home, she would only communicate with them in Chinese. English wasn’t allowed. She was firm on that issue, and I agreed. Being bilingual would give Ryan and Lucy an advantage someday. They didn’t seem to mind. Both took it in stride as something normal.
We all loved Chinatown for different reasons. For Po Po and me, it gave us a taste of some of the things we missed: the up-and-down tones of Chinese spoken on the street, the smell of dried everything and anything wafting out of the pharmacies, and the plethora of Chinese restaurants serving up our favorite foods, to name a few. For the kids, it was the usuaclass="underline" toys and sweets.
Lucy, my youngest, was six and a half and had come to develop a mind of her own. Instead of shadowing me like she had in the past, she found other ways to entertain herself. Everything Hello Kitty was her obsession. Whenever we passed by the store that sold those stickers, she would pull me inside, hoping I’d pull out my wallet.
At age nine, Ryan continued to mature and seek his independence. More and more, he spent time with friends and in numerous after-school activities, ranging from Judo to soccer and even taking cultural lessons at the Chinese Youth Center. His Chinatown guilty pleasure was the little boxes of snappers. He would beg and promise me he wouldn’t throw them at his sister. The last time I bought him a box, he threw the very first snapper at Lucy’s head. I threw the rest into the trash.
I remember telling him, “I told you not to throw them at people.”
“But, Abby, you didn’t say you would throw them away.”
“I expect you to listen to me whether you know the consequences or not.” I may not be his biological mother, but I am still his mother, and I make the rules.
Ever since then, he would ask, and I would say no. However, that day, my mood was positive, and I felt lenient. He had been punished long enough, so I bought him a box and reminded him of the rule.
We’d finished brunch a half hour earlier and were enjoying a stroll along Grant Avenue when Po Po stopped us in front of the Eastern Bakery. “I go buy rice cake for later.”
That was another treat that had become customary.
She disappeared inside while the three of us remained on the sidewalk, hovering on the edge of the Sunday foot traffic. No sooner had I looked away from the kids than I heard a yelp, and Lucy ran behind me.
I looked at Ryan. “Did you just throw a snapper at your sister?”
“She said I could,” he said calmly as if he had an airtight defense.
“What did I tell you earlier?”
He raised his shoulders and held his arms out. “But she said it would be okay.”
He started to huff and stomp his feet; he knew what was coming.
I held out my hand. He handed over the box, and into the trashcan it went. I looked down at Lucy, who had a devious smile on her face. I reached down and took the package of stickers from her hand.
“Hey, those are mine.”
“Not anymore.” Into the trash they went. “Next time, don’t taunt your brother.”
Po Po returned to find two kids moping — frowning at the sidewalk when they weren’t glaring at me or each other. Before she could ask what had happened, a loud cracking sound caught my attention. I drew a sharp breath. A gunshot! I quickly ushered the kids and Po Po back into the bakery. “Stay here.”
Back outside, my eyes scanned the area. To my left, about fifty yards away, I noticed a commotion. I stepped off the sidewalk and took two steps into the street for a better look. That’s when I saw him: a male teen pushing his way through the crowd. Behind him, in pursuit, I saw a tall man in a suit. Elderly people were pushed into one another as the teen bumped off them like a pinball. He soon left the sidewalk for the open road. That’s when I spotted the gun in his right hand.
I couldn’t tell why he was being chased, but as he approached me, I saw that his shirt was torn, and tattoos covered his chest. I’m not saying that made him a criminal, but I was in Chinatown, and I knew the neighborhood had Triads, a Chinese gang.
No sooner had I noticed his ink than he fired another shot at the suit following him. This kid is nuts. The sidewalks were packed with people, mostly families. If he kept shooting, the odds were that some innocent bystander would get hit.
I was off duty, but I still had my weapon on me. However, I didn’t want to encourage him to fire his gun by pulling out mine. I figured at his speed, I could trip him up. He wasn’t tall, but neither was I. A tackle was out of the question. I looked around for something to take his legs out but saw nothing. I worried whether my legs were long enough to tangle with his and if I could keep my balance. He was closing in. Fast. I had to decide.
Right as he was about to pass by, I stepped back into the street and swung my arm up as hard as I could. My forearm and fist caught him at the top of his chest, right below his Adam’s apple. The force stopped him and kicked his feet up in front of him, causing him to land flat on his back, hard. He groaned as the gun fell out of his hand, and I kicked it away. The clothesline method triumphed again.
A few seconds later, the man in the suit arrived and flipped the kid over. He wheezed pretty hard as he tried to speak. “I’m a detective. Back away.” He put a knee into the kid’s back and handcuffed him.
“You shouldn’t have interfered. It’s dangerous,” he said, still working on finding his breath.
My head jerked back, and my brow crinkled. I was expecting a thank you of some sort. “From the looks of it, you needed the help.”
“I was catching up,” he said between breaths.
He squatted, resting his hands on his thighs for a moment before standing fully upright. That’s when I really noticed his height — unusual for an Asian. He had to have been at least six two, though a little on the skinny side. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and seeped into his collar. I watched him loosen his tie.
“You okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
He squinted at me. “I’ll have you know I chased this guy up California before turning down Grant. You know how steep California is?”
“Mm-huh,” I said as I clucked my tongue.