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“Sunrise and sunset are about the only times this junkyard of a city looks good.”
The bells that tolled from the highest of the parade floats not only marked the beginning of the Lunar New Year but also the impending dread that finally set into the stomach of Shorter Wong. While it had been an eventful year full of many new faces, figures and a few lost, he didn’t necessarily feel as joyous as he had in years past.
The loss of his parents had rocked him senseless for a few years, the news bringing anguish to him during his early teen years when he was in juvenile detention. It was a minor offense, really, and he had been let out after only a few months. Nadia had visited him the second she got the news of their parents’ passing, informing him before a stone-cold officer managed to do so. Lunar New Year felt like an annual reminder of his parents’ tragic death as he entered a new year without them.
“Shorter!” His name was yelped from the room next to his. The walls were thin enough to hear someone breathing on the other side if they were close enough. Shorter shot up from his place next to his window and made his way over to the room in which he had heard his name.
The source of the voice was Tāotiè, a scrawny, lanky boy with the eyes of a doe. His hair was constantly frizzed which he always attributed to the humidity, even during winter. Shorter found him sitting at the edge of his bed, fighting with a mop of black hair with only a fine-toothed comb to wield with.
“Shorter,” he said again, this time at a normal volume, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror he had set in front of him he borrowed from Nadia a few weeks ago. Shorter knew it wasn’t going to be returned.
He made his way over to his desk that was set right by his window. It allowed a view of the busy street lined with a crowd of festive people and floats of all different sizes. Lunar New Year was a huge celebration in Chinatown and he wanted to take Nadia down to the crowd later, a tradition they used to adamantly stick to as children.
“There are a lot of people celebrating this year,” Shorter remarked absentmindedly as he stared out the window, the same as which he had previously done in his room before he was called by Tāotiè.
“I need to go to D.C. for a few days, boss,” Tāotiè said, dropping his comb and mirror to the bed and making direct eye contact with Shorter.
Tāotiè was a spontaneous, greedy, weasel-of-a-boy who couldn’t manage to sit still for more than ten seconds. While he seemed disloyal at first glance, he was trustworthy enough for Shorter to keep by his side at all times and trust with managing part of part of the gang’s negotiations. While he was a tricky bastard, he was also persuasive and knew his way around a proper transaction. His absence would bring a hectic whirl of unmanaged deals and while Shorter had a few back-ups, no one could do it as well as Tāotiè.
“Why?”
Tāotiè sighed as if the question caused him a great deal of discomfort. He wiped his palms on his tattered, bleach-stained jeans before speaking. “I’ve got a… friend there. He’s not doing well. Financially, I mean. He wanted me to help him move up here. I’ve already got a room set up and everything for him,” he explained. The desperate look in his eyes told Shorter that he wasn’t lying. He might as well hide his face behind a masquerade mask, however, because Tāotiè was known for deceiving everyone with his expressions.
“Yeah, and then you’ll leave for a few days and never come back. Sold yourself out to another gang, did you? Fuck no, you’re not leaving, especially when we’re hunkered down in this run-down shit of a place because we’re hiding from the cops ,” Shorter said. His tone was calm but his eyes told Tāotiè everything he needed to know. He was stubborn, though, because he bit the inside of his cheek and glared at Shorter.
“I’m not lying, boss, I swear. I’m just the only one who’s willing to get him back on his feet. No pig would ever try to follow me out to D.C. anyway,” he pleaded, although he stayed put on the edge of the twin-sized bed that harbored moth-eaten blankets and a stained cot.
Shorter thought for a moment and then another before he let out a loud, defeated sigh. “When do you think you’ll be leaving?”
A certain type of light sparkled in Tāotiè’s eyes as he heard those words and a cautious smile spread across his lips. Shorter kept his expression neutral so as to not make him any more excited than he already was. “First thing tomorrow, boss. I’d like to go before the sun wakes up but I’ve never been the best at driving at night,” he said as he held back a nervous smile by biting his bottom lip forcefully.
“I’ll get someone to go with you just in case some shit goes down. You’ll be back here by Friday, so three days from now. That gives you enough time to get you there, pack up his shit and come right back,” Shorter said and then paused, giving Tāotiè the time he needed to mentally celebrate. “If you’re not back by Friday, just know I’ve got people in D.C.” Shorter only had legislators in D.C., which did nothing except corrupt the justice system and allowed guilty people to to walk free under the guise of honorable casework. None of them would be willing to go after a single, scrawny henchman that knows less than a quarter of the Chinatown mafia’s deals. The threat was enough to convince Tāotiè, though, and that was all Shorter needed.
“Yes, boss! I promise I’ll be back before you even miss me,” he said before returning back to his mess of curls he inherited from somewhere obscure along his bloodline.
Shorter spent a few overdue seconds near his window before walking out the door and down the hallway lined with peeling wallpaper and chipped paint. The wallpaper was old but not old enough to be the original layer. Some of it had peeled away to reveal an ugly orange sitting under it which had Shorter constantly wondering what was going on in the 60’s.
There were a few of the guys in the kitchen, all kept inside despite the festivities of the parade that had been making its way through the streets of Chinatown since early morning. Many of them didn’t dare step foot outside the hideout Ash had secured for them in return for some of the profit Chinatown makes off their drug deals in fear of getting picked up by the police.
NYPD’s security had tightened around the time of the parade and Ash would be pissed if any of them got caught. It had been an offer Shorter couldn’t refuse, no matter how much he wanted to in fear of being indebted to one of the biggest gang leaders in New York. The cops had been hot on their trail recently and any real estate the Chinatown mafia owned was too far out of the way; traveling would get them on a radar which Shorter wanted to avoid at all costs.
“Shorter, when is Nadia supposed to get here?” Toby, a stout, corpulent boy whose features made him appear as a man and had a huge, deep scar that ran the length of his leg, called out as he was cleaning off the countertops with a torn, bleach-stained rag.
“She’s supposed to come in the evening. The restaurant is busy today because of all the people visiting for the parade,” Shorter replied as he snagged a piece of bacon that lay on a paper towel which rested on a stack of paper plates.
“Damn, do you think she needs help? You think we could help for a few hours?” Toby asked as he slung the rag over his shoulder and leaned his elbows on the counter.
“No one trusts you to do shit in the kitchen, Toby. You’d burn the whole damn place down,” Rou criticized with a teasing smile as he appeared by the plate of bacon. His bony fingers reached for the last piece but a single glare from Shorter had him recoiling sheepishly with a grin that showed his top gums.
“Don’t talk like you’re a chef, either, Rou. You’d burn water if you ever managed to get the stove going,” Sing called over his shoulder, sitting at the kitchen table and cleaning a small .22 caliber. Shorter grabbed the last piece of bacon and took a seat that was set in front of Sing. He spared him a glance, nodded, and returned to his chore.
Rou scoffed as if Sing had lied straight to his face. Rou was a horrible cook and was rarely allowed in the kitchen when food was being cooked because of his clumsiness. He was tall, lanky and a complete dofus. “Shut the hell up, Sing.”
“He ain’t wrong, you’d kill everyone by accident with a single frying pan,” Shorter said, laughing as Rou just rolled his eyes and picked the crumbs off the plate that once held bacon.
“Nadia would just let me clean the dishes or something,” he grumbled, chewing noisily. “You think she’d let me?” The smile on his face made Shorter frown; he seemed too star-struck for his liking and Nadia wasn’t on the table.
“Don’t even think about it. She’s got a little cop boyfriend, you don’t want to compete against that. Besides, what the hell do you have to offer? A coupon to her own restaurant?” Shorter asked him, Rou promptly puffing his chest out in defense.
“I collect those coupons for a reason,” Rou explained. “I love Nadia but I’m not paying twenty bucks for dinner.”
Toby scoffed and proceeded to dodge a poorly-aimed empty plastic cup by Rou. “No girl likes a broke man, Rou,” he said, coaxing a round of laughter out of several of the boys.
“I damn well have as much as you,” Rou barked back angrily, adamant about proving his point. While no one in the room was rich beyond their wildest dreams, there was a clear ranking of them all. Rou was quite poor, as his constant habit of stealing necessities spoke for itself. Shorter was well off, being head of the Chinatown mafia, but most of that money wasn’t his.
“Yeah, but at least I don’t go around showing it to hot girls,” Toby said snarkily, sniggering as Rou’s face flushed crimson with anger.
Shorter cut off their banter, though, with a loud scoff. “None of you guys would ever get Nadia. She likes the proper men,” he said. “Don’t go getting a crush on my sister or I’ll knock your head off,” Shorter said, this time directly to Rou.
“I don’t mean bad by my compliments, Shorter. I’m just saying, she’s a nice girl,” he defended, arms in the air in mock surrender.
“It would be nice,” Sing started suddenly, butting into the conversation with a glare. “If you guys would manage to shut the hell up for more than five seconds.” The gun he had been fiddling with for the past few minutes had been giving him a hard time, as there was a spot on it he couldn’t seem to clean off entirely. He didn’t use guns a lot, preferring his infamous weapon he affectionately nicknamed 'Flying Dragon Fang.’ Shorter didn’t understand the appeal nor how he could master the usage of such an obscure weapon so quickly, but it sounded badass and it kept him alive.
“Damn, kid, don’t get all pissy on us just because you can’t celebrate this year,” Tāotiè commented as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed an apple from a fruit basket Rou suggested should be bought the moment they stepped foot into the hideout.
“I’ve got a fucking right to be pissy, Tāotiè. I’ve gotta listen to people celebrating all day, we’re stuck in this hideout for who knows how long, and I can’t clean this damn gun properly,” Sing complained, slamming the gun down on the table more forcefully than he should’ve.
The air was still for a few seconds before Tāotiè had the confidence to let out a nervous snicker. “Damn, imagine Sing as boss. Would send us marching straight into Hell with a temper like that,” he joked, the rest of the boys laughing along with him.
“Fuck off,” Sing just grumbled once more before turning back to the gun. Shorter laughed and got up from the table. He rested a hand on Sing’s shoulder, gathering his attention.
“No, I think Sing’s got the capability to be boss one day. He might be young but he’s got wit,” Shorter reassured the small group, a hum of thought falling over the kitchen.
“I hope I’m dead when that time comes or else I’ll have to have a word with God,” Toby sighed loudly as he let out a yawn, mouth wide open like a dog and arms stretched high above his head. “We need more toilet paper and canned beans, I’m going to go out and get some. Can I, boss?” he asked, looking at Shorter with a hopeful look. He didn’t blame any of them for being so restless; it had been a few weeks of them hiding and avoiding the police and they were all getting cabin fever. A simple grocery run would be the highlight of his guys’ day.
“Yeah, bring Sing with you,” he said, coaxing a groan of protest out of Sing before he had the chance to resist. “He needs it.” The abashed look on his face told Shorter that he instantly regretted his small outburst.
“Yes, boss,” was all he said before he got up from the kitchen table and walked down the hallway into his room he shared with a few others. The gun he had been fiddling with was left on the table and Shorter picked it up. It seemed perfectly fine to him and he assumed it probably was; Sing was known for being a perfectionist.
Shorter set it down and looked at Toby. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. He’s young and he may be smart as hell, but he’s brash. Don’t let him get into shit he shouldn’t be getting into,” Shorter advised, his tone of voice dropping a decibel to show that he was serious with his request. The last thing they needed was someone as witty as Sing to be arrested, no matter if he was just a simple gang member in the eyes of the law and most everyone else. Shorter has always managed to see past that and to his true capabilities, which meant that he was more protective over Sing than he normally was with everyone else.
“Yes, boss. We’ll get groceries and come right back. We’ll take the back alleys, too, to avoid the large crowd. We’ll be back soon,” Toby confirmed before walking off down the same hallway and most likely making his way into the same bedroom Sing had previously went into.
“So, Ash Lynx,” Tāotiè spoke, mouth stuffed with bits of apple. As he spoke, parts of it flew out of his mouth and onto the table that had just been cleaned by Toby.
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Why’re you making deals with a white boy, boss?” Tāotiè asked, wincing at his words as if he had been slapped before Shorter got the chance to say anything in retaliation. “I mean, I get that he set us up with this apartment and shit, but is it really worth it? Isn’t he close with that rich politician- Golzine, was it?” he said, slumping against the counter lazily.
“He’s trustworthy. He owes me, anyway. I protected his ass a few years ago in juvie,” Shorter said, ripping a piece of cold bacon with his teeth and chewing it thoroughly.
“Still, how do we know he won’t sell us out to Golzine? He’s got connections high up, I’m sure,” he worried, lines creasing his forehead in concern. While Tāotiè was relatively detached from the majority of his gang members, he was still concerned for the well-being of the entire gang. It wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart, however, and he mainly had a narcissistic angle; if the whole gang got caught, he got caught.
“We don’t. I’m not saying I completely trust him but I am saying that I’m the boss and I know what the hell I’m doing. He wouldn’t be doing something that wouldn’t benefit him. If he’s helping us, then we’re of use to him. And right now, he’s of use to us. I don’t give a shit about his skin color,” Shorter retaliated.
The air went rigid as Shorter, Rou and Tāotiè all stood in silence in the kitchen. Tāotiè was sometimes too stouthearted for his own good. It was rare for someone to defy Shorter. He wasn’t at the top but he wasn’t afraid to harm someone for trying to stand up against him. Defying him was a threat in his eyes and no one ended up in one piece once they offended him.
“Yes, boss,” he said monotonously before he left the kitchen. Some commotion wafted from the hallway he had gone down but it soon died out by a sharp bark of anger. Toby and Sing appeared just seconds later, looking disgruntled.
“We’re heading out now, boss,” Toby said to Shorter, who looked at him with a smile and saluted to the both of them without a word.
“Keep out of sight,” Rou called out, who was now fiddling with the toaster. Ever since Tāotiè and another gang member, Niki, had smashed into it while playing football inside, it shocked you whenever you plugged it in and it cooked the toast too quickly.
“If you ever get that thing working properly again, I owe you twenty,” Shorter said with a joking smile, one Rou returned.
“You got it, boss,” he said before looking back at it and poking a little at the hunk of metal. Shorter turned away to glance at the front door which had just been shut by Toby and Sing. He turned back around at the sound of a yelp and found Rou cradling his hand and blowing hard on it.
“It hates me,” he mumbled as he pressed his hand tenaciously close to his stomach in an attempt to somehow squeeze the pain out of his hand. It was not working, Shorter saw, as he just grumbled and rubbed at his fingers hard.
A knock sounded harshly on the front door, which beckoned the attention of all the members in the kitchen. Tāotiè was the first to cross the kitchen and walk up to the peephole to find out who it was. Tāotiè let out a barely audible scoff before he opened the door, revealing Ash, dressed in his usual blue jeans, white shirt and red converse. He was also wearing a puffy, red jacket that seemed to be brand new to suit the New York winter weather.
“Shorter,” he called, throwing up a peace sign before stepping into the threshold, Tāotiè just barely moving out of the way enough to let him in.
“Ash, man, what’s up?” Shorter asked him, Ash arriving right next to him but then taking a seat at the kitchen table. Shorter leaned against the kitchen counter, right next to Rou, who was back to fiddling with the toaster, and turned to Ash.
“Just wanted to check in, I guess. Have you seen the parade?” he asked, fumbling with a newspaper that had been sitting on the kitchen table since last Sunday. It was covered in coffee stains and a thin layer of grease from the gun Sing had been tinkering with since the early morning.
“How could I not? That’s what woke me up this morning. I’ve been watching it from the windows but I haven’t been down there myself,” he responded. He wished he could be down there, in all honesty. He missed the way Lunar New Year made him feel, the way he would wake up first thing in the morning to bring in the new year with his mother, father and Nadia. He missed eating potstickers, dumplings, Peking duck, and hotpot for the new year and sitting in the kitchen, trying to help his mother cook all the foods. He missed setting out plates of food for his ancestors, adjusting the plates to be as perfect as they could.
“Do you want to go?” Ash offered, slightly nervous. The bouncing of his leg told Shorter that but it also told him that he had prepared such a request. He had known Ash for a good amount of time but because of the chaotic nature of their lives, they never had the time to sit down and converse with each other or even indulge in a long conversation. Asking Shorter to spend genuine time with him was a first and a quite awkward request despite the fact that it shouldn’t be awkward at all.
“Yeah,” was all Shorter said before he patted his pockets to make sure he had a few bucks in his back pocket and his knife. He went over to the table and grabbed the gun Sing had been tinkering with, sliding it into the holster already attached to his pants. “Tāotiè, I’ll be back in a few hours. There are some runners out right now. Niki, Juéwàng, and Grover. They’ll be back soon and make sure they all get here by 3:00. If not, find me,” he said.
“Yes, boss,” Tāotiè spoke around a faceful of Doritos . Rou snorted which coaxed a mocking, lopsided smile out of Tāotiè, one filled with mushed chips and saliva.
With that, Shorter turned and walked out of the apartment, Ash following closely behind. He kept his distance for the majority of the walk down the long, decrepit hallways filled with moldy wallpaper and spray paint. Eventually, the silence drove Shorter to speak.
“What’s got you so quiet?” he asked him offhandedly. He could see Ash stiffen out of the corner of his eye and then saw him cast his eyes down as if to hide an expression not meant for Shorter to see.
“Nothing interesting. How’s the apartment treating you? It was the best I could find at such short notice,” he said. His pace quickened so that he was side-by-side with Shorter as they spoke.
“It’s fine. The guys don’t mind it, at least. It could be worse. The toaster got broke, though. Rou keeps shocking himself dumb trying to fix it,” Shorter said, laughing to himself as he told Ash about Rou’s latest hobby.
Ash didn’t seem to return the emotions, though, as he seemed more concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other rather than continuing a conversation. They fell into a silence which grew agonizingly large as they finally made their way to the end of the stairway and through the wooden back door.
Shorter flipped his sunglasses down over his eyes where they had previously been sitting on the top of his head once the light of the early morning reached his eyes. Ash squinted up at the sky, which was a clear blue, dotted with fluffy cumulus clouds. While the small alleyway the back door of the small apartment complex led to was void of anyone, the echoing sound of glee and exuberation rang in Shorter’s ears. It set him on edge and he could tell it did the same to Ash, as he tensed up like an anxious cat. Out of the corner of his eye, Shorter saw him reach under his puffy jacket and rest a hand on something he automatically assumed to be a gun that rested right near his waistband. A Smith and Wesson 357 magnum with the barrel cut short. A gun only he would opt to use.
A shiver went through Shorter as he realized he was wearing nothing but ripped jeans and a yellow hoodie. As they walked down the alleyway, Ash glanced at him and snickered to himself. A raise of an eyebrow from Shorter sent him into an explanation. “Nothing, it’s just that- a hoodie? Really? It’s below freezing and you’re wearing a goddamn hoodie.”
Shorter huffed and crossed his arms, glaring at the laughing boy walking next to him. “It’s not like I woke up and checked the forecast this morning, you ass,” he retaliated, although it wasn’t a good excuse. They lived in New York City and while the weather can sometimes be unpredictable, it was still winter and wearing just a hoodie accompanied with ripped jeans was just asking to be cold.
“Idiot,” Ash snarkily mumbled, loud enough for Shorter to clearly hear him. He bit back a retaliation as they made their way onto the busy streets of Chinatown, moving with the crowd like fish going downstream.
Ash seemed to quickly set his eyes on something in the crowd, his feet taking off before Shorter had the time to process that he was clearly not going to wait for him to catch up. Fighting through tipsy adults, excited kids and troublemaking teenagers, Shorter finally found Ash just barely hiding behind the front line that had a clear view of the parade passing by. His mouth was wide open in awe as he watched the huge dragon puppeted by at least twenty men prance around the street in a choreographed manner. It was made of red, white, orange and yellow fabric and its mouth was huge and gaping. A firecracker went off, shot from one of the towering floats, and both Ash and Shorter flinched. Ash’s eyes only slightly wavered, though, as he quickly found the dragon once again.
Shorter made sure Ash saw him before approaching him from behind, waving a hand in front of his face to get his attention. “Do you like the dragon?” Shorter yelled to Ash over the loud music and festivities.
Ash just nodded before he directed his attention back to the parade, eyes darting back and forth to the dancers, floats, decorations and puppeted dragons. The bells meticulously tied to each float jingled as they moved through the crowded street. The barriers that kept the crowd from overflowing into the line of parade traffic bent and contorted as the wave of people surged.
Eventually, the screaming and music overwhelmed Shorter and he tugged on Ash’s jacket to get his attention. He seemed dazed, as if Shorter had taken him out of a trippy daydream, and followed him out of the crowd. Behind the crowd, closer to the various shops that lined the streets of Chinatown, was less populated and allowed room for easy moving. The less people there were, however, made it more likely for them to be spotted by police. Ash pulled his hood up over his head to keep him from being spotted more easily.
“Where do you wanna go?” Shorter asked, attempting to keep a conversation flowing between them. Ash wasn’t much of a talker while Shorter was a stark contrast. Oddly, Ash didn’t seem to mind.
“Changdai, maybe?” he suggested, a grin spreading across Shorter’s face at the words. He loved visiting his sister, especially when she was working. Even though she’d never admit it, she loved seeing Shorter enjoying himself and feeling lively.
“You know that’s my sister’s-”
“Yeah, I know,” Ash interrupted, his shoulders rolling back and his back straightening. The hands that rested in his pockets shifted ever so slightly and Shorter bit back a retort.
Instead, he settled with, “Damn, does every gang leader know my sister is the owner of Changdai or is it just the grumpy ones?”
Ash found humor in that as he let out a small huff through his nose and shook his head with a tiny, tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, just the grumpy ones for now. Who knows, maybe in the future the annoying ones will find out, too.”
“God, I sure hope they don’t. Nadia would kick my ass if too many gang leaders came around to eat. I wouldn’t even know them and she’d still yap my ear off because,” he said, cleared his throat and then proceeded in a high-pitched voice that definitely didn’t match the pitch of Nadia’s voice. “‘You can’t bring gang members around Changdai anymore, it’s bad for business!’”
A smile less faint than before spread across Ash’s lips and warmed his cheeks with color. “She’s not wrong, though,” he pointed out, which Shorter could only agree with.
“She’s never wrong,” Shorter said.
Ash perked up then, his hands clenching at his sides as he glanced behind him. He took a sharp dive into a nearby coffee shop, pulling Shorter by the wrist along with him. He was about to question him when he brought a finger up to his own lips and shushed him.
The coffee shop smelled of strong aromas, vanilla and the distinct bitter smell of coffee mixing together. While it was in Chinatown, Shorter had never been even though he’d seen it in passing. He kept it bookmarked in his mind, maybe for future reference.
He took a booth in the very back, away from the windows that faced the street. “Someone was following us,” he whispered, biting his lower lip and scanning the room as if he was a predator.
Shit. Shorter didn’t want to deal with that, not when he was supposed to be celebrating with Ash. Not when he had managed to avoid the police for weeks now. The way Ash reacted, though, was off. He didn’t smirk like he usually did when a newbie cop was trailing them nor did he cuss like he did when someone from Cain’s gang tried to spy. He seemed paranoid, an index finger rapping against the sticky table and his hand reaching up to comb through his blonde mess of hair.
To keep Ash’s mind from racing too fast, he spoke up. “So, how’s everyone doing? Alex? Bones? Kong?” he listed. They were a few members of Ash’s gang, some newer than the others. Bones was relatively new, joining only a year ago when Ash picked him up in a homeless shelter and offered him a place to stay in exchange for doing some dirty work. Alex, however, had been in Ash’s gang for as long as Shorter knew. He had always been Ash’s right-hand man and while he wasn’t exactly his best friend, he was someone he trusted dearly. Kong was a towering, shy man who didn’t like to be in the way. He was quite timid but loyal to Ash, which was one of the reasons why he still stuck around. That, and he and Bones formed a close friendship with each other the year they’ve known each other. In some ways, Shorter was jealous.
“Ah, they’re fine,” Ash said, shoulders sagging as he glanced away from the scenery of the coffeeshop and instead directed his attention to Shorter. “Nothing much, really. Accidentally punched Bones’ front teeth out, though,” he said as he chuckled to himself while Shorter only whistled in wavering concern.
“Eating steak smoothies for the next month?” Shorter said, coaxing a snicker out of Ash.
“That’s what he gets for waking me up, damn near knocked him unconscious for that,” Ash said, sliding his bruised knuckles Shorter had just noticed under the table and into his lap.
A silence fell on them as the background noises started to filter into his ears. A barista hurriedly rushed behind the counter, attempting to make three drinks at once. A gaggle of teenagers dressed in sweatshirts and saggy jeans were conversing in Cantonese as they waited for their drinks. A white woman stood in the corner of the coffee shop, lips pursed and shoulders hunched up to her chin. Her black formal pantsuit mirrored her pretentious personality and fit her thin, high cheek-boned face.
“I think he left,” Ash said, just barely a whisper as he tapped on the table twice with his pointer finger, nails chipped and bitten. He saw him slide a five dollar bill onto the table despite them not buying anything. Shorter was sure there was no possible way someone who wanted to trail them had left so quickly but he trusted his judgment.
They left swiftly without being too much of a nuisance, only the stressed college student sitting at a two-seat table glancing up at them as he took a break from his books to sip on his lukewarm coffee. The bell on the door rang but the shop buzz was too loud for anyone to notice as they merged into the constant foot traffic.
Despite Ash’s odd behavior towards the person who’s apparently following them, Shorter wasn’t surprised. He constantly had someone on his tail, whether it be the police, rat, or a member from a rival gang. Shorter Wong and the Ash Lynx walking along the streets of Chinatown together was, without a doubt, a strange (and suspicious) sight to see.
They weren’t… friends, per se. More like business partners. Coworkers. Friends? Shorter wished, sometimes. He wished he could be friends with the famous Ash Lynx, the predator of New York City that came from a life that hardened him into the ruthless killer he was today. It was a thrill to just be near him in the heat of the moment. He was a man who could control himself with adrenaline pumping through his veins like blood. He lived off the thrill of street combat, Fight Club style. He lived off the cocking of a gun in a crowded subway station coming from only feet from him and having to find a way to keep himself safe without any bystander casualties. He lived off the absolute deranged freedom fighting a mob boss gave him.
He was someone Shorter looked up to, in a way. Not in a familial way and not in a religious way. More like the way a soldier would look up to his sergeant. He wanted to fight alongside Ash, not be him. He was his own person, his own leader, and he liked the way he ran things but the swirl of excitement that pumped through him when he knew he would be fighting alongside Ash was like nothing else.
A whiff of potstickers tickled Shorter's nose and he grabbed Ash’s forearm to drag him in the direction his nose was taking him. It was a small stand pressed close to tall apartment buildings, out of the way of the huge crowd but close enough to bring in a steady line of customers.
“You’ve got money?” Ash asked him as he patted down his pant pockets, Shorter’s eyes watching as his hand lightly grazed his gun holster.
Shorter pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his back pocket, a smirk plastered across his face. “I came prepared.” A smile spread across Ash’s face, one Shorter hadn’t seen before. He seemed genuinely excited.
“I haven’t had potstickers in a while. Hadn’t had a chance to go to Changdai. Would Nadia get mad if we eat before going to her restaurant?” Ash asked, fingers reaching into his front pocket to pull out a crinkled pack of gum. He offered a stick to Shorter but he declined. Ash shrugged and popped it in his mouth, chewing the probably-stale gum.
“Nah, she doesn't care how much or how little we eat, as long as we pay for it,” Shorter said, Ash nodding.
The line moved rather quickly and soon they were in front of a towering Chinese man. “ Hello, ” Shorter said nervously in Cantonese. He briefly looked up at him before looking down at the potstickers he was making.
“ What do you want? ” he asked, taking a break from his stove to look up at him and point to the yellowed menu taped to the glass that separated him and Shorter.
“What do you want?” Shorter asked, turning to Ash to translate for him. He stared at the menu for a few seconds before turning back to Shorter.
“An order of ten?” he asked him, as if to confirm if that was enough for him. Shorter would give him the whole plate if he asked.
Shorter turned back to the man who seemed to be growing slightly impatient, tapping a wooden spoon against the metal of the cart. “ An order of ten with two cups of soy sauce, please, ” he said.
The man instantly dived into his work to make five, taking five more off a warming plate and setting them onto a heavy-duty paper plate with his free hand. Soon, their potstickers and cups of soy sauce were ready and he paid with a ten dollar bill despite it only costing eight. When the man attempted to give him change he just waved it off, telling him to keep it. He shot him an appreciative smile before turning to the next customer in line.
Shorter barely had time to get into a less-crowded section of the street before Ash was taking three in one hand, shoveling them into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten anything in weeks. “Don’t forget to swallow,” Shorter said jokingly, picking up the smallest one from the plate and dipping it in soy sauce, balancing the plate with one hand. He was sort of a natural, working at Changdai since he was a child.
“I told you, I haven’t had these in too long. It’s not fun living off cold pizza and flat soda,” he said, although he hesitated when taking a fourth one from the plate.
He wasn’t wrong; while Ash ran the most successful drug gang in Manhattan, they weren’t rich . They were mostly a group of misfits. Black, White, Latino, Asian, all together into one gang that ran Manhattan’s drug trafficking ring with an iron grip. Ash Lynx was at the head of their success, building his gang from the ground up when Dino Golzine gave him enough leeway to do so.
As Shorter said before, they were not friends. Ash doesn’t talk about him and Dino’s relationship with Shorter. He doesn’t talk about why he ended up in juvie, the first time they met. He doesn’t talk about where he’s from, who he left behind, and where his family was. He was a loner surrounded by a group of followers.
And yet, Shorter still seemed to want to know more and more about him. It was odd that Ash willingly kept around him and his thoughts quickly flashed back to Tāotiè’s hesitancy towards him. It wasn’t absurd to believe that Ash was trying to use Shorter or try to find things out to get another upper hand in the world of gangs. Foolishly, Shorter was pretty sure he was willingly falling for his tricks.
He was The Lynx of Manhattan. Strong, coldblooded, fearless, calloused and unsparing. He was not one to be messed with and for some reason, Shorter was disregarding that and willingly putting himself in the line of fire to fulfill his curiosity. Still, Ash somehow pulled him in with his leadership and beauty.
Like an angel.
-oOo-
Changdai was a small, charming restaurant hidden in the many noisy streets and colorful buildings of Chinatown in lower Manhattan. It was the quintessential family-owned Chinese restaurant you see in any suburban town. The smells permeated the sitting area, wafting in from the tiny kitchen. Shorter was pretty sure Nadia hired a new cook, as one quit due to personal finances. She rarely had more than two cooks at a time but she had recently started hiring more employees. That always meant business was growing and a big part of Shorter’s heart swelled in satisfaction at that realization.
Nadia greeted them at the door, a smile spreading across her face as she saw Shorter despite his classic sunglasses. He had gotten in the habit of wearing them when he was a young teenager and first started smoking pot. Nadia always hated drugs, the hatred growing tenfold when her younger brother started to dabble in it. He started wearing the glasses in hopes that she wouldn’t notice he was high but she always found out, no matter how glued those sunglasses were to his face.
“Hello, Ash,” she said, turning to him and giving him a polite wave. Ash waved back just as politely, a thin, fake smile strapped to his lips, ready to keep it for however long was needed.
She led them to a table in the corner of the restaurant, just like the coffee shop. Nadia had picked up on Ash’ affinity for corners in busy places from the multitude of times he’d eaten there since meeting Shorter.
Shorter set down the plate of potstickers that only had one left on it, which Ash promptly ate. A few moments later, Nadia brought out a tray of dumplings and soy sauce, which Ash also promptly consumed. Shorter pushed it out of the way and grabbed one of the salt shakers, fiddling with it in his hands.
“Shorter,” Ash said. It wasn’t his name being called that caught him off guard but rather his tone. Shorter knew that he was a scary man; that was one of the reasons he admired him. However, being on the receiving end of Ash’s fury was an experience on its own and Shorter didn't want to be caught up in it.
“Yeah?” he asked, looking up at him. His brow was furrowed but he didn’t look like he wanted to blow Shorter’s head off. That was a good sign.
“What do you think about an alliance?” That wasn’t the words he expected to come out of Ash’s mouth. Maybe a bit of criticism, a rant of anger, or a spiel about a turf war he didn’t know anything about. He didn’t know why he expected Ash to be mad at him but he was glad he wasn’t. An alliance though, of all things, could be dangerous.
Shorter Wong and Ash Lynx weren’t small names by any means. They ran the two most powerful gangs in lower Manhattan. They’ve been on the cop’s radar for years, dangling the key to their future jail cells in front of them for years. Ash’s growth in success, in Shorter’s mind, was especially more impressive compared to Shorter’s. Ash’s gang had only been formed a few years ago against the odds of Dino Golzine, a pervert of a mafia boss. Then again, it was rare to find ones that weren’t.
Shorter’s gang, however, had been passed down through bosses since before he was a kid. He wasn’t born into the life but rather he somehow found himself in a trusted position by the previous boss. He was a narcissistic tyrant whose people were the death of him. Shorter was, understandably, slightly nervous when the people suggested Shorter as the next boss.
While Shorter’s gang was handed to him, Ash built his from the ground up. They had almost no similarities but Ash somehow believed that wouldn’t get in the way. Or maybe, possibly, he was in his ‘I can change the world’ moods that were fleeting.
“I mean,” Shorter said, swallowing forcefully to keep cool. “Why? Why not Cain?” It wasn’t a stupid question, Shorter thought, but the look of barely-contained annoyance Ash had was enough to convince him to stop while he was ahead.
“I’m white, Shorter, I’d be kicked out before I could get a word in,” he said. Shorter slumped back in his chair. He pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, offering one to Ash who declined with a hand. He lit it swiftly, the flame licking the open end, and tucked the lighter back into his front pocket, blowing out a puff of curling smoke. His head started to clear as the smoke started to dissipate into the heavy air of Changdai.
“I want to combine our territory and connections. Think about it, man. You’d get the Corsican mafia’s top insider on your team. We’re both the biggest players in the game and we’d only benefit from combining our individual assets,” he said.
Ash was making sense; he always did, even when he was half-delirious, running on three hours of sleep to get him through a whole week in the middle of a bloody turf war. Working together wouldn’t be the hard part but he knew Ash knew that wasn’t what he was worried about. It was getting their gangs to agree with it.
His gang were all Asians and while some gangs were mixed, like Ash’s, it was rare that a gang that stuck to one race would bond well with others different from them. Shorter was the only one who could convince everyone in his gang to be on good terms with Ash’s gang and vice versa. Accomplishing such would be a task in itself.
“How would we even get everyone to agree with it? I mean, most of my guys have only seen you in action as bystanders. You don’t exactly have an ‘I’m a trusty ally’ vibe,” Shorter asked. He wished he didn’t sound stupid right now. Ash didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he chose to disregard his absent eyes as he thought hard, because a cunning smirk spread across his lips.
“What’s the single thing that brings people together?” Ash asked as if he was the host of Jeopardy getting ready to watch the person who had been in the lead win as he read off a particularly simple question.
“I don’t know, food?”
To Shorter’s surprise, Ash nodded excitedly with the smirk never leaving his face. “Food and booze. I know just the place to get them all together,” he said, the smirk turning into a smile. “The Pink Pig. It’s owned by one of the guys in my gang, just outside of Chinatown. We all go there when well, the pigs start getting too far up our ass. If we can get your guys to frequent it, we might be able to get some alliances going without them even realizing it.”
Shorter leaned back and whistled, taking a long drag of his neglected cigarette and rubbing at his temples. “Damn, you’ve really thought about this,” he said, his voice a low mumble. He was sure it would work because Ash’s plans always worked. He just wasn’t sure how quickly. It didn’t need to be an immediate process but he wasn’t wanting to make his guys socialize like some kind of shitty group therapy meeting. He’d be questioned too quickly and if there was anything he knew about his gang, it was that they weren’t hesitant to throw someone out they didn’t like, no matter their hierarchical status.
Shorter rubbed the heel of his hand against his temples, took another drag of his cigarette and huffed the smoke out. “Sure, yeah, let’s give it a shot,” Shorter finally said, a successful smile crossing Ash’s face. “I wanna see this place first before I start sending my guys out there for some drinks and small talk, though.”
“Of course.”
-oOo-
The Pink Pig was exactly what Shorter expected. It was more of a dive bar than it was a restaurant. Two pool tables sat in the middle, people crowded around them as they all watched an eight ball slowly roll into the top right pocket. Baskets of half-eaten fries laid on tall, sticky bar tables but the potent smell of tobacco and weed covered the smell of hot oil they supposedly had been fried in. Graffiti, chewed gum and band posters decorated the walls, the original gray paint peeking out from under the clutter in certain spots.
Everyone’s eyes seemed to automatically float to Ash the moment he walked in through the door. Shorter felt nervous. He was outside his territory, away from the people who would protect him the most and the only thing separating him and being attacked was the subtle threat Ash’s eyes gave every time someone went too close to Shorter.
Ash moved to the bar as if he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Or whatever religious reference worked there, he didn’t really read the Bible growing up. All the men in the bar seemed to worship him silently as they moved out of his way, whispers barely loud enough over the heavy bass song playing through the jukebox in the corner. He wondered if that was the difference between him and them. He didn’t want to worship Ash. He wanted to be alongside him. Was he? Shorter wish he knew. If Ash was anything other than a leader he was confusing. That aspect surprisingly didn’t weigh him down as a gang leader.
A man behind the bar that looked to be around 16 wordlessly set a drink down in front of Ash and another one in front of Shorter. One sip told him it was whiskey, the strong kind. He leaned into the drink, elbows resting on the worn wooden countertop.
Ash seemed to sink into the barstool as he steadily drank his whiskey. Shorter never considered him a heavy drinker. Everyone drank; it was certainly nothing new or taboo among the group of people they both were familiar with. In a way, he was amazed Ash wasn’t a heavy drinker. The way he slouched at the bar, though, was natural. Hell, the way he walked into the bar as if he was a regular was natural. Maybe he was.
“I think I’m about to blow my fucking brains out,” a voice said, coming up from behind them and taking an uninvited seat next to Ash. Shorter held his breath, ready for someone’s fingers to be shot off but no click of a gun came. He didn’t even move his hand towards his gun holster that sat beneath his red jacket.
“Why?” Ash asked lazily, taking another greedy gulp of his whiskey. He stared forward at the rows of alcohol bottles haphazardly crammed together. Shorter leaned over the bar to see what brave man had taken a seat next to Ash uninvited and to his surprise, it was a boy rather than a man. Two boys, actually, who looked quite similar to each other.
The boy who had supposedly spoken, Shorter only assuming because he looked at Ash as if he was going to tell him the purpose of life, looked to be about fourteen. Possibly younger or possibly older. It was always impossible to tell under shitty lighting at a bar that didn’t card you. He was clad in jeans and a sweatshirt too thin for the weather and too big for his frame. Nothing about the boy seemed definite.
Next to him was a significantly younger boy and if Shorter had to guess, he’d put him at ten. His natural afro was frizzy and occasionally he’d pull at his strands of hair, frizzing it even more.
“The Fly’s been up my ass lately, keeps saying he’ll blow my brains out if I don’t pay him back for the coke I bought off him,” the kid complained, ignoring the glass of tequila that had been set before him by the bartender the second he sat down. Shorter was thinking about tipping him with the way he served everyone who sat down so quickly. “I keep telling him that if he doesn’t get off me then I’ll do the job for him.”
“He’s been on everyone’s ass lately. He got himself too deep in some shit with another black market seller so he’s trying to milk every last one of his customers before he leaves. Or gets shot.”
The Fly was the most popular black market dealer in lower Manhattan, maybe even the whole of New York City. He sold anything; weed, coke, guns, knives, information. He was a shady man who was even shadier when he let you take out ‘loans’ that were never really loans, just money he’d kill you for if you didn’t pay it back.
“Hope he gets shot before he comes to shoot me. I don’t got his money,” he said, putting his head in his hands and staring at his drink angrily.
“Take a drink, it’ll make you feel better,” Ash encouraged, sliding the glass closer to him.
“Nah. I drink when I drink and I’m mad when I’m mad. I don’t drink when I’m mad,” he mumbled. Shorter raised a brow. He didn’t expect a teenager to have that kind of responsibility. His suspicions were proven correct, though, when he laughed at himself and downed the entire glass in one go, his Adam’s Apple bobbing.
“Skip, whaddya want to drink?” Ash asked, waving the bartender over.
“Just a rum and coke,” the youngest boy, Skip, said, facing the bartender, teeth and gums showing in a sweet smile. The glass was promptly placed in front of him a few seconds later. Shorter was definitely going to tip him.
“This is Shorter Wong,” Ash said, turning to him and smacking him on the back. Shorter made an ‘oof!’ sound as he was jerked forward by the sudden impact. “He’s the leader of Chinatown’s mafia. A good friend of mine.” Shorter knew he wasn’t wrong but he almost pulled at Ash’s ear for introducing him as if he was some kind of Italian middle-aged man in a business suit smoking a cigar. It was weird to put the word ‘mafia’ on his group of idiots (affectionately).
“Ah,” the teenager said, tapping a finger on the edge of his refilled glass. “I’ve heard of you,” was all he said. The stare he gave him was one of contempt and scorn. Shorter briefly questioned if Ash’s plan to make some form of coexistence between their gangs would even work at all.
“This is Captain,” Ash said, nudging the teenager with his elbow, “and that’s his brother, Skipper.” The younger boy raised his hand, putting his glass down.
“Or Skip! Whatever, I don’t care. I respond to damn near anything,” he said, smiling when Shorter chuckled.
“Yeah, you’ll even respond to ‘dumbass,’” Captain said, cackling when Skipper let out a round of protests and profanities. His cackling continued as he shielded himself from Skipper’s physical attacks.
Shorter shook his head, laughing to himself. He pulled out his box of cigarettes and offered one to Ash. This time he took one, taking a lighter out of his back pocket and lighting it before Shorter had the chance to offer his own. He let out a long breath of smoke, the smell mixing with everything else in the air that seemed to suffocate the entire bar. Shorter followed suit, tapping the ash onto an ashtray the bartender slid to him when he saw him light a cigarette. He, in turn, slid him a dollar which he slipped into the front pocket of his jeans wordlessly without a second glance.
“Skip, how old are you?” Shorter asked, leaning over the bar to look at him. He was picking at a hole in his plain blue shirt under his overalls, a toothy grin on his face. He was missing a canine, the gap giving him a boyish charm.
“10! Turning 11 in a few months,” he said.
“You're pretty young to be here,” Shorter noted. He kept his mouth closed and put his cigarette to his lips once more when he caught Captain’s glare.
“He’s fine. I’d rather have him here than anywhere else. It’s safe here,” Captain said. He was trying to keep his voice level and respectful but was just barely failing.
Shorter nodded. He understood, in a way. Chinatown could get dangerous and yet, that’s the safest place he knows for Nadia. He wouldn’t keep her in the safehouse with the gang. He wouldn’t trust her new cop boyfriend to keep her safe. He wouldn’t allow Ash to protect her. She was safe in a dangerous place.
“It is,” Ash echoed, taking another sip of his drink as he held his smoking cigarette in his other hand, eyes flicking up and down the wall of the alcohol shelf.
The buzz of the room seemed to become louder as it started to ring in Shorter’s ears. The clicking of glasses, the dull knocking of pool balls hitting against each other, the friendly banter got louder, louder, louder. Shorter’s shoulders hunched up and instinctively he looked over to Ash, who had the same panicked expression on his face.
A single bang echoed throughout the bar that had Ash leaping out of his chair, cocking his gun and Shorter sprinted to the source of the noise alongside him. He pulled his gun and cocked it, eyes wide and searching. He didn’t know much of anyone in the bar but it was easy to identify who was the shooter and who wasn’t based on their looks of panic.
Shorter’s eyes landed on a group of men huddled together, almost dogpiling someone to the floor. Ash stopped in front of them, ordering them to get off him without letting the person go.
Fuck. Shorter was absolutely fucked.
There was Toby, resisting against the strength of ten enraged men, gun far away from him with his hands behind his back. He was propped up on his knees, in a chokehold by one of Ash’s men. It was a jumble of limbs and anger and Shorter wasn’t sure if he should let Ash shoot Toby or choke him to death himself.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ash asked, his voice monotone and eyes dead set on Toby. His hands didn’t even shake as he kept his gun pointed at his head.
Toby just spit at Ash’s feet, spattering the floor with saliva and blood. The smirk didn’t wipe off his face, even as the hold around his throat tightened. Ash’s finger shifted on the trigger, an almost centimeter difference. One more movement and the gun would-
“ Ash, ” Skip cried, heaving in pain as he pulled on Ash’s free hand as if he didn’t have a gun pointed at a man in the other. “Captain, he’s, he ain’t dead but, shit, Ash , he’s, there’s a lot of blood and…” Skp kept stuttering, piecing together words that barely made sense strewn together incoherently.
Ash’s resolve loosened and he lowered the gun pointed at Toby’s head. “Keep him there for now.” Ash said, which translated to, ‘I don’t care what you do to him for now, just don’t kill him.’ Skip led Ash and Shorter over to Captain, who was on the floor, slumped against the bar. He had a hand over a wound, the color of his shirt darkening as his chest started to heave frantically.
Ash dropped to his knees, them loudly knocking against the wooden floor but he didn’t seem to mind. Shorter did the same, although he could only watch as Ash delicately removed Captain’s hand from his stomach.
There was a moment of clarity in Shorter’s mind and he looked around to see Skip on the verge of a panic attack, chest heaving and breath stuttering. He looked over to a man standing near them, eyes red and blown wide. “Get him out of here,” he said to him. He acknowledged him at first but didn’t move, eyes flicking between Captain, Shorter and Skip. “ Get Skip out of here, ” Shorter said, voice louder. It seemed to break the trance the man was in because he scooped up the boy before he could protest, throwing him over his shoulder. Shorter wasn’t surprised to see him kicking and screaming as they disappeared out of The Pink Pig.
Captain wasn’t doing too good. He was going in and out of consciousness as Ash put pressure on his wound. He didn’t move to take him out of The Pink Pig or ask someone to call an ambulance. Captain didn’t have much time left and Ash knew this, Shorter realized.
“Ash,” Captain muttered, breath ragged and shallow. His eyes fluttered and he moved his mouth to say something else before he closed it and made a choking sound. Ash muttered breathless pleads, watching as he went to form words once again. “Take care of Skip,” he said, his hand falling slack against his stomach.
Shorter wasn’t supposed to feel queasy. He had seen many people die in front of him before. Hell, he had been their killer for most of them. A metallic taste formed in his mouth, though, and he turned his head to keep his composure. When he turned back, Ash was standing up and waving a group of his men over. His head hung low, eyes cast down and a vein that traced his forehead stood raised against his pale skin.
“Take him out through the back, don’t let Skip see. He doesn’t need that.” One of the men hauled Captain over his shoulders and the others followed. Shorter, for a brief second, wondered where they were taking him, if he was dead or if they were going to help him, but he was too afraid to ask.
Ash was quiet as he walked over to Toby, eyes narrowed and dead set on him. He was bloodied and bruised, the aftermath of Ash’s men being alone with him for a few minutes. His feeble wheezing made Shorter cringe.
“Let him go,” Ash said as he pulled his gun out again and cocked it, aiming it at Toby’s head. The men did as he asked and Toby stumbled forward, swaying from side to side as if there was a strong wind pushing him around.
All three of them walked out to the back of The Pink Pig. It was dirty, just like a regular alleyway, and Shorter was sure he caught an abnormally large rat hiding in the nearby dumpster in his peripheral view.
“Who are you?” Ash asked, voice in the same monotonous pitch as it was when he first spoke to him. Toby just smirked, eyes set on Shorter.
“He’s one of mine, Ash,” he said, hands instantly raising in the air as Ash spun on his heels and pointed the gun at Shorter instead. It was so close to his face that Shorter was staring down the barrel of the gun, both literally and figuratively. Shorter started to think he should start speaking in sentences with all of his intended points in them instead of pausing in between thoughts.
“He’s one of mine but I didn’t send him here to kill you ,” Shorter said, Ash’s finger on the trigger not moving. Shorter gulped. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. I didn’t know about this.”
There was a clatter near Toby and Shorter and Ash both whipped back around to see him on his feet, wielding a rusty piece of pipe in his bloodied hands Shorter was sure one of his knuckles wasn’t set right. With experienced swift, Ash pulled the trigger on his gun, the bullet going right through Toby’s arm. He let out a mangled scream and fell to the dirty concrete, the pipe clanging as he let go of it to cradle his arm.
The gun didn’t move but the distrust that emanated from Ash was still just as much of a threat as the gun was. “We can hide this. If you still want this alliance, we can cover this up,” Ash said after a few moments, his jaw tense.
“How?”
Ash looked at him, eyes narrowed as he scanned Shorter up and down. “We can say he’s some dumbass from an amature gang wanting to look tough. No one cares about them, so we wouldn’t have to worry about being questioned further,” Ash said as if the fear he gave people didn’t already keep them from questioning him.
“Okay,” Shorter said, nodding. He went to put his hands in his pockets, a nervous habit, but Ash’s eyes instantly traveled to his moving hands and he decided against it. “What are we going to do with him, then?”
“You’re going to kill him,” Ash said, handing out his gun, forcefully placing it in Shorter’s hands. He wasn’t asking him to kill Toby; he was telling him to.
Toby was on his knees in front of him, back pressed against the dirty brick wall of The Pink Pig. The rusty pipe was feet from him, resting against a pile of trash that overflowed from a trash bin nearby. His right eye was swollen and blood caked his face. He was barely recognizable, the blotches of purple and blue blossoming on his cheeks and exposed arms against his tan skin.
Should he have kept an eye on Toby rather than Tāotiè? He never showed signs of betrayal, unlike Tāotiè who constantly went away days at a time without a good explanation or alibi. Frankly, he even enjoyed Toby’s company, as he had laid on the couch in the living room the night prior, sipping on a beer with him as they talked about whatever was on their minds.
His words from this morning rang in Shorter’s ears.
“I hope I’m dead when that time comes or else I’ll have to have a word with God.”
How convenient.
“Where’s Sing?” Shorter asked. When Toby’s lips kept shut, he cocked the gun and rested it against his forehead.
“He’s back at the hideout, boss. Doesn’t know I came here,” he muttered, voice weak and cracking with each syllable. Boss. He bit back a scream, or maybe a sob, that started to scratch at his throat. He didn’t get close to people in his gang. He always tried not to. He wasn’t close with Toby and yet the sides of his eyes started to burn and he felt the urge to hide his face. He sniffed and rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt to play it off as if the nipping winter cold got to him.
“I hope I’m dead when that time comes or else I’ll have to have a word with God.”
Shorter’s finger moved to the trigger of the gun and Toby’s eyes closed shut. He shifted on his knees and leaned his forehead into the cold metal of the barrel. Shorter wasn’t able to rid the violent shake of his hand. He jumped when Ash’s hands wrapped around his hand that was around the gun. He reached his thumb up and flicked the safety off and of course, Shorter would forget to turn it off before firing it.
His hands steadied his own, though, and he silently thanked him when he looked into his eyes. Ash’s eyes were green. An unmistakable jade green, almost artificial in color. Shorter wasn’t sure how to read the expression that lingered in his eyes. He looked almost pitiful, as if he understood the shake in his hand and the fake sniffing.
Then, as swiftly as his hand had rested on his, Ash’s eyes changed; they became cold and dark and Shorter knew this is what victims of The Lynx see before they die. This was the other side of Ash Lynx, the one that killed mercilessly. Ash’s hand squeezed Shorter’s, forcibly pushing his finger into the trigger.
Bang.
-oOo-
The apartment was filled with the smell of Chinese food; noodles, fresh rice, potstickers and lo mein. That meant Nadia had finally come with a big batch of food for dinner, ready to serve an apartment full of hungry, restless boys.
He walked into the kitchen to see just what he was expecting. The entire gang was scattered around the small area of the kitchen and living room, a paper plate in each hand filled with an assorted mountain of food from Changdai. Rou was sitting a few feet away from Nadia, although the heart eyes he was making at her were visible from a mile away.
“It smells good in here,” Shorter said, slipping off his shoes and pushing them out of the way. He grabbed a paper plate and loaded it with any food that caught his eye. Eventually, he ended up with more than he knew he was going to eat.
He walked into the living room, greeting a smiling Nadia. She was wearing gold earrings and red eyeliner, sparkles in the corners of her eyes along with a black t-shirt and jeans. Her plate was practically empty, most of the food already eaten. He wondered how long ago she had arrived.
She went to say something but the smile fell from her face as she looked him up and down. “Go change,” she said, frown sinking deep into her face. The room fell quiet, the previous buzz of chatter dying out as everyone turned to look at Shorter.
“Boss, who’s blood is that? You okay?” Shorter bit back a groan. He thought he had wiped all the blood off from his face. His sweatshirt was wrapped around his waist inside out, as the front was completely spattered in blood, so it thankfully wasn’t visible to any of them.
He sat his plate of food down on the table next to the couch and went into the bathroom in the hallway. Just as he had worried, there was a smear of blood under his chin he had missed when he walked into the Pink Pig and wiped himself off after the trigger had been pulled.
Everyone had been thankful as Ash brazenly announced Shorter was the one to pull the trigger on Toby. It was a lie but really, what wasn’t anymore? He just hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.
After his face was drenched in water, his rough hands harshly scrubbed against his skin like a pumice rock. He patted his face down with the hem of his shirt and walked out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Tāotiè’s room was littered with random articles of clothing and a singular pack that rested on his bed, which caught Shorter’s eye.
Tāotiè was standing by a small dresser he had bought from a flea market a few weeks ago. Shorter remembered when he came home with the dresser, oddly proud of a purchase he bought with his own money. He remembered how relentlessly the gang had teased him for buying it but then again, he was the only one with a decent place to put his clothes, so it was a win on his part.
“Oh, boss,” he said, waving a limp hand in his direction as he stared at the pile of clothes on his bed once he realized the footsteps behind him were Shorter. “I’m trying to figure out what to take without getting things I like stolen while I’m gone.” He wasn’t wrong. If you left anything alone for too long, you ran the risk of getting it stolen by someone else in the gang. Shorter briefly remembered a Bob Ross bobblehead he treasured until Toby had stolen and accidentally lost it.
Toby.
Shorter wasn’t one who wavered. He didn’t know why his finger stuttered on the trigger. He didn’t want Ash to be the one to push his finger down because it made him feel weak and absolutely pathetic. All he had to do was end the life that took another and he stood there like a fish out of water. The air was suffocating.
Then there was the problem of telling the gang that Toby wasn’t coming back. It wasn’t going to be too big of a hassle, as anything Shorter said went and if there was still a traitor in the gang, he hoped Toby would serve as a warning. He wished he had interrogated him more before he died and yet, part of him told him there was no way he would speak. Toby was a little too excited to have a gun pressed against his forehead.
Shorter made his way over to the pile of wrinkled, mostly stolen clothes that laid on the poor excuse of a bed. “This is good, bring something comfortable. DC is a bit away,” he said, picking up a pair of Adidas sweatpants he recognized from a haul he brought in yesterday. Tāotiè didn’t own much and yet he always managed to stock up on clothes. Shorter was sure it was a guilty pleasure of his.
“You’re right,” he mumbled, pulling two other pairs of the same sweatpants from the mound of clothes and stuffing them into his backpack. His gun was already in there, along with a pack of ammo. He saw that the safety was on and Tāotiè didn’t seem to be making any move to it but he was still on edge. Should he still trust him? He trusted Toby more than him and look where that ended him.
Shorter wasn’t sure about a lot of things.
He wasn’t sure if making an alliance with Ash was a good idea. He wasn’t sure if allowing Tāotiè to go to DC was a good idea. Most of all, he sure as hell wasn’t sure if he should trust his intuition anymore. How can he trust something that has only got him as far as a few dead bodies and a traitor?
But it had done more for him than that, though, he remembered. His intuition to protect Ash in prison got him a friendship he treasured more than he’d like to admit to anyone, especially himself. Shorter wasn’t sure why he held Ash’s friendship above innocent victims and yet he didn’t seem too disturbed by the prospect.
Shorter wanted to believe in it. Whether it be a higher power, evolution, or even simply God, or multiple, the thought of putting your trust in some other thing so you didn’t have to worry about it yourself was like a weight off your shoulders. Shorter wanted to believe that Ash would keep up on his promises. He wanted to believe that Ash would keep him by his side for as long as he wanted, or for as long as he needed. Was that something he was able to put his trust in so blindly? He supposed the only way he knew was to do what he was theorizing.
“I killed Toby,” Shorter said, his words morphing the peaceful buzzing silence into stagnant tension. Tāotiè glanced at him and nodded as if what he said was a normal offhand part of their conversation. The knuckle-whitening grip he had on a piece of clothing said otherwise.
“Oh,” he said with bated breath, eyes glued to the pile of clothes.
“He was a traitor,” Shorter continued carefully, as if he was the one who was just told the person standing next to him killed one of their own. “And he tried to kill Ash, so I killed him.”
Tāotiè stared at him then, his head spinning to face him so fast he was sure he gave himself whiplash. His eyes were scared and hurt, emotions that rarely crossed his face. “So now you’re protecting a white man?” he snapped, eyes narrowing with betrayal as the timidness of his expression melted.
“I’m protecting us ,” he said, as if it was common sense. He wished it was but by Tāotiè’s rising anger, just pretending it was common sense wasn’t working.
“He isn’t a traitor to us, he’s a traitor to Ash. We aren’t Ash ,” he said, his jaw locking. He said the last sentence as if it burned his tongue, his mouth constricting as if to contain the fire that rose in his mouth.
Shorter didn’t want to kill two people in one day. Tāotiè was close to having one of Shorter’s bullets lodged in his head. He laid his hand over the gun that rested in his holster, moving to it as if it was a natural movement. A habit. Was it a habit, now? They say it takes about 21 days for something to become a habit and Shorter was starting to lose track of time.
Tāotiè was smart. He caught the movement and held it in his eyes before he dropped his arms by his sides. They weren’t up in surrender but his shoulders unconsciously slumped as if to show submission. “You’re right,” Shorter said, surprising him. “But,” A tense. “We could benefit from working alongside him. He’s got manpower and connections, both of which we could benefit from,” Tāotiè’s eyes broke contact with Shorter’s, dropping down to the floor. “He offered us an alliance.” The words brought his eyes back up, searching Shorter’s face for any sign of… what? He wasn’t sure.
Tāotiè paused for a few more seconds before speaking. “I’m assuming you took the offer,” he said, voice taut and constricted as his vocal chords seemed to tighten around every word he uttered.
“Not yet,” That got his attention, eyes connecting with Shorter’s once again. “I’m not saying you have to like him, but he isn’t a threat and I killed the man who tried to kill him. He owes me and we need his resources.” Tāotiè’s eyes sank to the floor once again but rather than attempting to avoid conversation, it was to process the words he was slowly starting to digest.
His jaw wavered, chewing on his thoughts before speaking them. “Okay,” he said simply, such a short response that garnered a heavy reaction from Shorter.
Frankly, Shorter didn’t expect many of the gang members to cooperate on the first go. He was the boss but the members were strong, not afraid to express opposition. It was, if anything, the reason they have been around for so long. Tāotiè agreeing in just a few sentences was surprising, as Shorter had expected to fight with him like a tired mother would argue with a petulant toddler.
Shorter nodded curtly, stepping out of Tāotiè’s room without another word and continuing down the hall. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to continue but rather extend to the others before Tāotiè had the chance to do it himself. In a gang, word spreads like disease; small whispers of Cantonese, a few words over a box of takeout, a quick phone call from a burner phone before the line goes dead.
The living room struck Shorter with a sort of unfamiliar nostalgia, one that tickled his brain and made him disoriented. He walked to the couch, picking up his almost-forgotten plate of food from the short wooden table and flopping down on the floor, next to Rou. He was stabbing his fork into his plate as if it had wronged him, loudly chewing on the egg noodles with velocity.
He looked up to Nadia, who was still perched on the couch. Her back straight, poised as if she was a statue with a lost purpose, eyes narrowed down to only scrutinize Shorter. He looked down at his shirt to check if there were blood stains he had missed but there were done. He returned to his plate, her eyes still boring into the back of his head.
“Hey, boss, how was the parade?” Juéwàng, one of the runners that joined a few months ago, asked. His eye bags pulled his droopy eyes down further and his shaggy hair curled around his face and neck like overgrowth in an abandoned greenhouse. He sat on the floor in front of a blue-and-white striped square armchair which Grover, another runner, sat cross-legged in.
“Almost got my toes crushed by all the people, but the decorations were pretty. They sure as hell went all out this year,” Shorter said around a mouthful of stirred lo mein. He could easily tell them about Toby right then. The mood was light and peaceful; there was no need to disturb an atmosphere in which everyone felt comfortable. Shorter decided to wait; the dead couldn’t speak and Tāotiè wouldn’t dare say anything if he didn’t want to be even more distrusted.
“Thought it would’ve calmed down by now,” Grover said offhandedly, taking tentative sips of the cheap canned beer he cradled with his good hand. It hadn’t; Shorter fought through crowds of people on his way back to the hideout, shoving numerous excited tourists and partying Chinese out of the way in a street where everywhere was in the way.
“Nah,” Shorter responded, glancing at one of the barred windows that peered out into the colorful avenue.
Across the street was another apartment building, strung with fifty cent paper streamers, the accented red and gold flowing against the mismatched burgundy and brown brick. Chinese dragons made of papier-mâché were tied around the black rails of small balconies by twine, swaying in the electric air. An Asian child stood on one of the balconies, peering through the bars down at the surging crowd that moved like a typhoon. Red and gold strings were threaded through her hair, wrapped up in the pigtails that ended in tight braids. She swayed on her feet as if she was on the ground herself, bright wide eyes watching each movement of the congested mob below.
Shorter supposed there was the same type of buzz in the air outside as in the hideout, though. Rou cracked jokes to Nadia, whose shoulders shook with humble mirth. Juéwàng laid on the floor, his plate now discarded as he leaned his head against the armrest of the chair. Grover twisted his finger in his hair that flowed onto the couch, biting on one of his nails on his other hand. He looked down at Juéwàng a little bit too long whenever he laughed, a smile brightening his own face. Sing kept quiet as he enjoyed his food, only bickering with Rou whenever he stressed a joke for too long. Tāotiè managed to make his way out of his room, the contents of it most likely still turned over but leaving it in disarray in favor of eating. Others who had been out all day were finally home, enjoying the company that was brought together with food.
Holiday cheer surged throughout the small living room stuffed with hoodlums (and Nadia) who had a place to call home, enjoying the holidays with good food and company. Shorter childishly bickered with Rou when he moved too close to Nadia, his arms going up in surrender each time as he tried to defend himself like an innocent man on death row.
The energetic thrum of rowdiness brought on by celebration eventually dwindled as the beer started to wear off and Nadia had left, wanting to get home before the sun set. Shorter left the living room after throwing away a mountain of paper plates, only leaving a gaggle of insomniacs with the hopes of them being quiet for the rest of the night. He couldn’t blame them, though; hell, at this point, Shorter could consider himself an insomniac.
Still, his bones seemed to ache with each step it took to get to his room. His aches caused so much tunnel vision for his bed that he had almost completely missed the red envelope that sat on his pillow when he threw himself onto his bed. Face down on a blanket he had been meaning to wash for days, he fumbled around his bed blindly until his fingers grazed the rough texture of cardstock.
He lifted his head up off the pillow to see the envelope he now held in his hand. It was painted with gold paint, glistening in the setting sun that sliced parts of Shorter’s bed with sunbeams filled with dust that hung in the air. It was then that Shorter briefly realized that his window was slightly cracked. The envelope read ‘Best Wishes For You’ at the top in English, with fancy Chinese characters Sunday Chinese lessons with Nadia weren't up to par with.
He opened it and out fell 128 yuan and a 20 dollar bill simultaneously. Shorter sat up then, thumbing through the bills. Out fell a note, torn from a sheet of yellow notepad paper with font-perfect writing printed onto the brittle material.
i forgot to give this to you. nadia said this means a lot to you, reminds you of childhood or something sappy like that. wasn’t sure if i should put yuan or dollar bills in it, so i put both.
It was from Ash because he genuinely didn’t know anyone who had such perfect handwriting while not caring for capitalization in the slightest. Shorter wasn’t the sentimental type and yet, as he tucked the bills and note carefully back into its envelope in which it came in, he couldn’t help but pat it once before putting it on his bedside table.
The gesture had the name Ash written on it in every way. The way he snuck in through his window, the envelope that was clearly bought from one of the many kiosks lining the streets, the fact that Ash was younger but still gave him one, and that he wrote a huge note to go along with it, all contradicting the normal Chinese traditions when gifting a red envelope.
It was Ash, as extravagant and as plain as he always was and for once this Lunar New Year, that brought Shorter comfort.