The Girl with Ghost Eyes (22 page)

Men were shouting all around us. They were cheering. A fierce joy surged through me, an elation. I wasn’t even sure what my opponent looked like, but it didn’t matter to me. I was free and swift, and fighting, and I wanted to pound somebody.

I began another series of sharp kicks to his midsection. He brought his elbow down on my ankle. It connected. Pain shot up my leg. I took a few steps back and he advanced toward me. There was an opening: his stance was slightly too wide; his left knee was defenseless. I roundhoused the knee, striking it with the heel of my left foot. He bent over to clutch it and I brought an elbow down at the base of his skull.

Crying out in pain, he stepped forward and grabbed hold of my robe. Grappling isn’t a strength of mine. If he got me down to the floor, he’d beat me.

But he’d already had me on the floor. His foot in my face. I aimed a stomp-kick at the same knee. My kick landed with a clapping sound, and I pushed off, out of the man’s grasp.

I didn’t waste any time. I came back hitting. A blizzard of fists and kicks. He held up his arms in front of his body for protection and I hit him some more. He backed away and I pursued, continuing to hit him. He backed up against the wall. Eventually he stopped holding his arms up, and I kept on pounding away at his chest.

I became aware of voices. “You can stop,” the voices were saying, “you won.”

I landed punch after punch on the chest of the man who had put his foot in my face. Men grabbed at me and I blocked, dodged, weaved to the side and continued to pummel this man. I wasn’t going to let anyone treat me like that. I was tired of it, tired of the cuts in my stomach, the feet in my face.

They managed to pull the unconscious man away from me but I wasn’t ready to stop fighting. I turned and attacked the gangsters with a flurry of strikes. I was a blur of violence. Men grabbed chairs and held them up as weapons. Or maybe to protect themselves. I kicked a chair and it slammed into the man holding it, knocking him over backward. I advanced to the next man. Hardly more than a boy, he held a chair up in front of him. He looked frightened. I yanked the chair and he held onto it, stupidly, and tipped forward. I landed a fist on his throat. He made a gurgling noise and dropped to the floor.

The men circled me, wielding chairs and knives. I didn’t care. Rage drove my pulses, rage and a kind of predatory ecstasy.

A little girl’s voice came from the side of the room. “What’s happening, Papa?” she said. At the sound of her voice, all the men in the room dropped their chairs and took casual poses.

It was bizarre enough to snap me out of my blood-rage. What was going on? I stood in a haze, like a waking dream. I felt the anger begin to drain from my body, and my own behavior bewildered me.

At the other end of the room, Bok Choy squatted on his haunches, facing a little girl. She was about five years old. “There’s nothing to worry about, little one,” he said. “A new friend is showing us some of her kung fu skills.”

The girl clapped her hands together and jumped up and down. “I want to see! I want to see!”

Bok Choy reached out his arms and drew her into a hug. He lifted her up in his arms and twirled around. He was grinning. His gold tooth glinted in his smile, a genuine smile. Bok Choy seemed delighted to have this little girl in his arms. It was as strange as seeing the gangsters sitting nervously in the chairs they’d been holding moments earlier to defend themselves against my onslaught.

Still holding the girl tight, Bok Choy turned to me. “My daughter wants to see you do some kung fu maneuvers,” he said. “Will you give her a demonstration?”

The world had gone mad. My pulses were still pounding from the pummeling I gave that man, everyone in the room was pretending to be relaxed, at ease, while the gang leader was doting on a little girl. I had never seen a man show such affection toward a daughter.

“A demonstration for my daughter,” he repeated. “You cost me two dollars tonight. A little show is the least you could do.”

The girl’s eyes met mine. She seemed so innocent, so full of hope, so happy in her father’s arms. She was what I was here for. She was naïve and open-hearted, in need of protection. I could remember it, almost, the innocence. For someone like her I would fight men and monsters. For someone like her I would hop around like a trained monkey.

In that madhouse, I decided to show off my martial arts skills. I pushed two chairs together. From a standing position I jumped over the chairs, kicked out with both feet, and executed a three-point landing. I retrieved my rope dart and spun it around, showing the girl how I can wrap the line around my calf to speed it up, and disengage it to shoot it out. I put the rope dart back in my pocket and ran to the wall; when I reached the wall, I ran two steps up and pushed myself off in a backflip. I went through the first third of the rounded motions of taiji, the twelve animal forms of xing yi, the stepping pattern of bagua.

The girl clapped and squealed with delight. “Teach me!” she shouted. “I want to learn.”

Bok Choy, the madman, the killer, tickled her under the chin and said, “Hua, our guest just put on a show for you. Isn’t there something you should say?”

The girl turned to face me. I had to wonder if my eyes had ever looked so bright and eager. Her name was Hua, Flower. Of course it was. “Thank you!” she said.

Bok Choy was teaching his daughter American customs, not Chinese. Everything here was unpredictable, bizarre. Deciding to offer both worlds of manners, I bowed and said, “You’re welcome.”

Bok Choy looked at me, sizing me up with his quick eyes. “Was that bagua you were doing at the end?”

I nodded.

“That’s bodyguard training,” he said to Hua. Bok Choy kissed his daughter’s forehead and said, “Papa will tuck you in soon. Ask Mama to tell you a story, and remember to say thank-you when she’s done. I need to have a grown-up talk with these people.”

He let her stand on her own feet and shooed her off through a door. Before she left, she turned and said, “I love you, Papa!”

“I love you too, Hua! Tell your Mama I love her more than diamonds.”

As soon as the girl was gone, Bok Choy said, “Get Chicken to the infirmary.” He turned to face me. “If you didn’t come here to kill me, what do you want?”

*

Sitting at a table like civilized people, I told him what was happening. Finishing, I said, “Every merchant who pays you instead of the Ansheng tong is going to die. Every building you own is going to be destroyed. This will happen tonight, in just a few hours. I can’t stop it alone.”

Bok Choy mulled it all over. His eyes flicked back and forth, up and down, like a gambler calculating the odds. Moments passed that felt like hours. Finally he looked at me again and said, “I’m not a Daoist, Li-lin.”

It felt like I suddenly deflated. So that was that, then. He thought everything I was telling him was bunk and nonsense, superstitions left behind in the old country. I let out a tired breath. I had endured so much here tonight, for nothing.

“The only gods I believe in are the gods of gambling,” he said, his gold tooth shining in his smile. “So. Thirty men.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I told him.

“Thirty men. They will come armed with knives and hatchets.”

I watched him, waiting to hear the catch. He couldn’t just be offering them to me.

“Thirty men is an army in Chinatown. Thirty men means tong war,” Bok Choy said. “Thirty men means the Xie Liang tong is committed to making war against the Anshengs.”

I started to smile. I had no idea the Xie Liang tong had grown so powerful. The well-established Ansheng tong could rouse at most forty fighting men.

“I am willing to commit a force of thirty men,” Bok Choy continued, “and all you have to do is beat me in a game of pai jiu. We leave the decision in the hands of the gods of gambling.”

My arms dropped to my sides in mute surprise.

“Hundreds of people will die if you don’t do something,” I insisted. “Hundreds of
your
people.”

Bok Choy shook his head. “I don’t know if I believe you. Even if I do believe you, I don’t know if I’m willing to start fighting the tong wars again. This is why I’m going to let the gods of gambling make my decision.”

I took a breath. “And what will happen if I lose?”

“Well then you’ll work for me,” he said. His smile gleamed like a knife. “On a three-year contract.”

I stared at Bok Choy. I imagined my life as a contract girl. A sick sensation coursed through me.

My husband and I made love, frequently. We shared such an intense bond. We were passionate in our hunger for each other. I couldn’t imagine putting that kind of intimacy on sale. Two bits to see me, four bits to touch me, six bits to …

I stared at the grinning man who wanted to turn me into a whore. His gold tooth gleamed. A feeling of horror moved from my gut out to the rest of my body. If I accepted this challenge, if I played his game and lost, I would be committed to years of misery and degradation.

But I had spent years watching my father play pai jiu with Dr. Wei. Both were brilliant men. I knew all the strategies. Bok Choy was certain to underestimate me. Half of Chinatown needed to be protected, and I needed to avenge myself on Liu Qiang. I couldn’t imagine how bad things would be if Liu Qiang managed to raise a Kulou-Yuanling. A whole town would be screaming.

And I’d heard a whole town scream once before.

“Let’s play pai jiu,” I said to Bok Choy, and my guts turned upside down.

21

The tiles clinked on the table. He had played
za jiu
, a mismatched pair of dominoes with nine pips each. It was a good play, worth nine points, but I was still a point ahead. Just barely, I was winning.

Holding my cigar between two fingers, I studied my tiles. I needed to win. The consequences of losing were beyond belief.

Bok Choy sat across from me, twitchy and hyperkinetic. Puffing on his cigar, he grinned his gilded teeth at me. “Might as well start calling me Boss, Li-lin,” he said.

Sparring had taught me enough to know when an opponent was trying to make me lose composure. The crowd pressed closer, watching us play. I didn’t want to let them see how nervous I was.

Bok Choy smirked at me. He was trying to make me lose composure. It was working. I was so tense I was nearly hallucinating. Staring at the pips on the pai jiu tiles, my vision blurred till I thought I saw a contract. I remembered Mr. Wong’s contract girl, facing the wall in silence, the apparition of a cane over her. I remembered the grunts and moans behind the closed doors. I knew they spent years like that, in those fetid, dingy rooms, paying off a contract.

My breathing grew shallow and quick. I shouldn’t have taken the bet. What was I thinking? I’d been thinking of the men on the southwest side of Chinatown, decent men who labored twelve hours every day and slept three men to a bed so they could send money to their families in China. I had been thinking of my father, who sacrificed one of his eyes to save me.

“You can still forfeit,” said Bok Choy, his smile wild and golden. “Forfeit now and there’s no contract. I’ll let you start leaving me red envelopes, but you won’t have to come work for me if you forfeit.”

I opened my mouth. I wanted to say yes, I forfeit. Yes, I’ve had enough of this game. I was terrified of what would happen if I lost. It shook me to my core.

And yet forfeiting the game would mean I’d lose a chance at getting his support. With thirty armed men I might be able to stop them from raising a Kulou-Yuanling. With thirty armed men at my side I could descend on Liu Qiang and his allies as an army.

I took a deep breath and placed the next pair of tiles. I played
meihua, mei pai
, a matching pair of dominoes, with ten pips each. It was a strong hand, worth ten points. I began to feel a little more confident. I was eleven points ahead. Hands worth eleven or twelve points are very rare.

Bok Choy began to giggle. He stood up, nearly knocking his chair over. With a flourish he placed one domino down. Twelve pips. I felt the contents of my stomach begin to come up as the gangster grinned his gold-pocked smile, and placed his other domino. Also twelve pips.

Tian pai.
The License of the Sky. The rarest, most valuable hand.

The only hand worth twelve points.

Vaguely I was aware of cheering all around me, but I had entered a deep silence, like the silence of opium dreamers or drowned men.

Bok Choy leaned over the pai jiu table. A gold smile gloated at me. “You work for me now,” he said.

The world came to a stop. If I refused to honor my bet, then the Xie Liang tong would be coming after me. I wouldn’t live long. No one would trust my word ever again.

The room was still cheering. I hated these people, cheering Bok Choy’s victory. Cheering my defeat, my degradation.

“Do you know English?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said, and then the implication hit me. Some contract girls work in bathhouses catering to white San Franciscans. The men who came there were often opium addicts, or workers who resent the Chinese competition. They were rough with Chinese women. How long would I be able to last before I was broken?

Someone brought a sheet of paper over to my side of the pai jiu table. A contract. My eyes were wet with tears, but I would not weep.

The men in the room were lining up to congratulate Bok Choy. The man dressed as a whore congratulated him. Even the waitress, his wife, who had helped me, came up to congratulate him on his victory. My eyes glazed over. I was ruined.

“Sign the contract, Li-lin,” Bok Choy said with a smirk. I had already begun to hate his smirk.

I met his eyes. Once I signed the contract, I was his. They’re called three-year contracts, but it’s a lie, to trick gullible girls into signing them. It costs money to live—rent and food. For three years, a contract girl works on her back, but she develops a debt. When the three years are over, the contract girl thinks she’s free to go, but she now has to work to pay off all the money she owes. Usually, the only way a girl can get out of a contract is when another man buys it.