Free Year of the Dog by Henry Chang

however obscure, proved to be on target.
    This time, he needed consolation, clarity, more than a clue. Her words might exorcise the bad kharma clinging to him now.
    “Ah Por,” Jack repeated, handing her the United National, splayed open at the dead Kung family’s photos. He pressed a folded five-dollar bill, folded square, into her ancient palm, gave her a smile, and a small bow of his head.
    She ran a gnarled finger over the newsprint photos, closed her eyes. Slowly dropping her head to one side, as if straining to hear something, she said, “Fire.” She paused, then softly, “It is a sign of sacrifice.”
    Her fingernails played over the text of the newspaper.
    “Wind,” she said, “blows away fear.” Jack leaned in at the softness of her words.
    “A cleansing is needed. Wash out the regrets. Sometimes it is necessary, to start anew.” Her palm passed over the school-posed pictures of the children.
    “There is no fault in this.” Ah Por caught her breath, looked at Jack the way a grandmother looks at a schoolboy. “To be firm in punishment brings good in the end.” She put out her hand and whispered, “Go to the temple, say a prayer, and make a donation. Eight dollars.”
    Jack palmed her another five-dollar bill, along with Jeff Lee’s business card.
    She rubbed up the card between her fingers, a look of annoyance crossing her face before she closed her eyes.
    She said “Malo.” Jack bent closer. “Bad,” she said. Bad, in Spanish? He was confused momentarily, until she opened her eyes, said it again. “Ma lo,” softening the Toishanese accent, meaning monkey.
    “A monkey?” Jack asked. “You see a monkey?”
    “A picture,” Ah Por answered, suddenly flashing him a puzzled look. “You’ve been shot,” she said matter-of-factly.
    Jack was surprised that she knew. “Yes . . .” he started to answer, when she patted his left side under the jacket, where the ribs wrap around the heart.
    “It was my arm,” Jack continued.
    “No,” she said quietly. “Something else.”
    She’s confused now, Jack thought. Could be dementia there.
    “It was a while ago,” he heard himself explaining.
    “No,” Ah Por repeated. “Not when . . .” Suddenly she started stirring the congee again, spooning up some, taking a slurp.
    Jack knew the session was over. He thanked her, patted her gently across the shoulders. She seemed to shiver, and he backed away, leaving her to eat in peace.
    She never looked up to see him leave the cafeteria of his childhood, more burdened now with answers he didn’t understand.
    Outside, he puzzled over Ah Por’s words as he walked, the smell of Big Wang’s jook and yow jow gwai, fried cruller, in the back of his mind.
    Turning left on Bayard, he passed a string of tong basements that doubled as after-hours gambling dens. During the Uncle Four investigation, Jack’s presence down in the dens had compromised several federal probes. His appearance had been duly recorded by DEA, and ATF, but he’d found out a female shooter could have been involved.
    Someone, from one of the tongs, Jack figured, had also dropped a call to Internal Affairs, falsely accusing him of shaking down the gambling operators. The accusations had triggered an investigation, and he’d gotten suspended.
    Somewhere, there was still a woman in the wind, he remembered, as he crossed Mott.

Pa’s Jook

    Big Wang, a longtime quick-food restaurant on Mott, still made congee the old Cantonese way, thick and clumpy, instead of more recent overseas styles that were watery, without substance. Jack remembered going to Big Wang’s for Pa’s favorite jook, ordering out a quart container each morning after Pa was no longer able to leave the apartment. Jack would deliver the jook to Pa before reporting to the Fifth Precinct, feeding his father each day of those last weeks of his life.
    The congee, another reason why Pa had refused to leave Chinatown. His jook, his Chinese newspapers, his particular baby bok choy.