Free Silent Slaughter by C. E. Lawrence Page B

asked Jimmy.
    “Yep. Of course, you take your life into your hands with some of the drivers, but Chinese people love to gamble, so that’s part of the fun.”
    “Thank God you’re above racial stereotypes.”
    “Cultural, my man, not racial—there’s a difference. Are you telling me you white Anglo-Saxon Protestants aren’t repressed? When’s the last time you went dancing?”
    “Actually, I like to dance.”
    “When’s the last time you went ?”
    “Okay, you win—I’m repressed, all right?”
    “And my old man likes to gamble. So what? It’s part of our culture,” Jimmy said, turning to look at a young man in tight jeans with windswept blond hair. He preferred dating Caucasian men, whom he called “humpies.”
    “Hey, I’ve never met your brother,” said Lee. “You want some company?”
    “Sure, if you got nothing better to do. What about that girl of yours?”
    “That’s on the rocks.”
    “That’s a shame. She sounded nice.”
    “How did you know about her?”
    Jimmy winked at him. “I get around, Angus. My Chinese name means The Shadow .”
    “Really?”
    “Actually, it means peaceful clarity .” Jimmy laughed. “Doesn’t really sound like me, does it?”
    “ Peaceful doesn’t exactly fit you.”
    “That’s what I’m saying,” he agreed as they passed Great Jones Street, home to a beautiful old firehouse. A couple of firefighters lingered outside Engine 33, Ladder 9, leaning against the brick building, suspenders dangling from their black rubber trousers.
    In post-9/11 New York, firemen had become what movie stars were to the rest of the country. In this town, every waiter was an actor and every restaurant hostess a model, and most people took the presence of celebrities casually. Film stars were routinely glimpsed on the Seventy-ninth Street crosstown bus, viewed using the stair machine at the gym or seen shopping at Zabar’s; they were even likely to turn up at a Wednesday night AA meeting in a local church basement. It was a point of honor for any true New Yorker to regard these people as part of the scenery, hardly worth a second glance. Oh, they felt the reflected glory, all right—down deep, New Yorkers believed they were living in the center of the universe.
    But after September 11, firefighters were more than celebrities: they were gods. The city embraced its fallen heroes and their comrades with a fervor uncommon even in a city of extremes. There was an air of ragged desperation around the edges of this fervor, but then, in the months following the attack, everyone had been a little overwrought.
    Jimmy smiled at the firemen, and one of them gave a friendly wave—a handsome devil with thick black hair and eyebrows. No wonder Kathy was so taken with New York firefighters. But then, every woman Lee had ever known said the same thing: firemen were dreamy. Judging by the look on Jimmy’s face, he agreed.
    “Hey, I could go for pizza,” his friend said, eyeing a storefront with a large pepperoni pie in the window.
    “What about your lactose intolerance?”
    Jimmy held up a bottle of Lactaid. “Meet the Chinaman’s best friend, my man. Come on—I’m buying.”
    Lee had always felt that Jimmy’s restless energy was hiding something—a darkness of the soul, perhaps, or a secret sorrow—but his friend never exposed that side of himself. He always radiated the buoyancy of a game-show host or a tour guide, and Lee had to admit, sometimes it was easier just to go along for the ride. Like the Fung Wah bus, though, it felt a little crazy, as if things could spin out of control at any minute.
    He took a breath of frosty air and followed Jimmy inside. It occurred to him that maybe he, too, liked to gamble. But like a lot of gamblers, he realized he might not know it was time to pull out until it was too late.

C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
    J immy’s parents lived above the restaurant his father once owned, the Happy Good Luck Palace, on Pell Street. The smell of Peking duck and