Free Year of the Dog by Henry Chang Page A

All his excuses to stay rooted.
    When Jack’s jook arrived, he dipped in a piece of yow jow gwai, fried cruller and let it soak up the congee, pondering Ah Por’s words: sacrifice, a monkey, and a gunshot wound.
    Hallucinations, mumbo jumbo, and witchcraft , Jack thought, but quickly remembered that her words had proven true in previous cases.
    The congee had reminded Jack of Pa, and when he finished the bowl, he decided to visit the temple across the way.

Ma’s Prayers

    The gilded-wood carving above the Mott Street storefront read TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. In the window an elaborate wood carving featured the various monks and deities. A wooden statue of the Goddess of Mercy stood off to one side.
    Inside, Jack heard Buddhist chanting from a tape in a boom box, saw red paper strips along the wall with black ink-brushed characters, the names of members and supporters. There was the smell of incense and of scented votive candles on pads floating in oil. In one corner, yellow plastic tags with the names of loved ones, the deceased arrayed in neat rows below the plates of oranges, the vases of gladiolas.
    Imagining the death faces of the Kung family, he stepped up to the gods.
    He lit three sticks of incense, bowed three times before the display of deities, and firmly planted the sticks in a sand-filled urn.
    He thanked the sister monk, observing through the Buddha’s picture window how busy the morning street had gotten.
    On the way out he slipped eight dollars into the red donation box, and bid his farewell to the Kungs.

AJA

    He walked briskly toward Chrystie Slip, where the street turned left and ran into NoHo. He exhaled puffs of steam as he went, saw that the cold prevented all but the hardy and unfortunate from walking the streets. Once past the junkie parks, he came to a storefront that was once a bodega, but now flew a big yellow banner that read ASIAN AMERICAN JUSTICE ADVOCACY.
    The AJA, pronounced Asia, was a grassroots activist organization staffed by lawyers giving back to the community in pro bono time.
    Inside the open storefront was a jumble of desks and office machines. There was no receptionist at reception out front, so he went directly toward Alex’s little office in the corner.
    He saw her through the small pane of glass in the wooden door. Alexandra Lee-Chow, late twenties but could still pass for an undergrad, going through the beginning of a divorce, at the start of what was looking like a bad day.
    She was in a foul mood as he walked in. He hesitated. She waved him on, putting up a palm to silence him.
    Jack put the plastic containers of bok tong go on the part of her desk that wasn’t cluttered with files and legal documents. He said quickly and quietly, “Just wanted to say thanks for Hawaii. And they told me you were out all morning.”
    Alex turned away, stating into the phone, “That’s unacceptable. Shen Ping bled out waiting for the ambulance.” She sat down, flashed Jack a disgusted look, and quietly hung up the phone.
    “The Shen Ping killing.” She rubbed her eyes. “You know, it’s all over the news, with the protests and everything. Anyway, the family wants to sue the city, EMS, the criminal justice system.” She paused. “And the NYPD, and anyone else connected to the killing.”
    Listening to her, Jack had already anticipated the complaint.
    “EMS took more than twenty-five minutes to respond to the location,” she began. “Out past Allen Street. The paramedics claim that commercial traffic, gridlock, boxed them in.”
    Jack listened patiently.
    “Now, understand, local merchants have been complaining for months that law enforcement—cops , court officers , and other city personnel—abuse their parking permits by using Chinatown streets as their personal, long-term parking lot. DOT turns a blind eye to police parking but issues tickets to Chinese truckers who can’t get to the curb and are forced to unload in the middle of the street.”
    Jack shook his head in