ladies, elderly women who would have appeared more at home in a Toishan dirt village, congregated by the entrance to the park, squatting on low wooden footstools, spreading out their charts, drawings, herbs, the tools of their divinations. Some had little umbrellas raised against the mist.
Jack sought out Ah Por, a wizened old woman wrapped in a quilted meen naafi silk jacket, her tiny feet in sweat socks and kung fu slippers. She squatted among the old women, on her footstool, quietly chatting with another ancient spirit.
The old women looked atJackwith great curiosity, though they were careful to avoid the rudeness of staring. They watched him sidewise, framing him in their peripheral vision. When he stepped tip to Ah Por, there by the fence, the old women moved aside to allow him in, then re-formed around him, all wondering what this young Chinese man wanted from their eldest sister.
Jack had remembered Pa going to Ah Por many years after Ma died. His visits were to get lucky words and numbers to play the Chinese Lottery, or to hear of good fortune. Now he was coming to Ah Por with victim photographs of young girls, Chinese girls with long black hair.
There was neither recognition nor fear in Ah Por's eyes. She simply accepted him with a sweeping graceful look, and he squatted down on one knee and held the two pictures in front of her.
"Tell me about them," he said.
She took the photographs and studied them intently, then turned them upside down, narrowed her eyes again.
Two preteen girls who looked enough alike that they might be sisters. Preppie school jackets, big smiles grinning out at the world, deep obsidian eyes.
"This one is shy," said Ah Por. "She holds back her laughter. The other is bright, a brave girl."
Ah Por took up her cup, rolled a bundle of bamboo sticks in her alm, letting them fall back into the cup, rolling them again, dropping them again. She did this for thirty seconds, did it with the practiced grace of someone telling rosary beads.
She bobbed her head in a slow rhythmic nod, closed her eyes. Tai Seung, thoughtJack, the art of reading faces.
Ah Por awoke with a shudder. When she rattled the sticks in her cup, they all seemed to rise and dance near the rim. One stick shot out and it was numbered seventeen. She consulted her red booklet with the black ink-brushed Chinese characters, the Book of Fortunes.
She stroked the pages with her long thumbnail, ran it down the columns of proverbs, tapped it on a section of fortunes.
"The first one," she said softly, "will marry a rich man and have two boys." Jack leaned in with his ear.
"The second will do well in school, make a lot of money."
Jack said nothing when she glanced at him.
"But there is something bad following them, isn't there?"
Jack said quietly, "A bad man has hurt them."
Ah Por caught her breath. "Oh dear."
She repeated it several times and then there was a long pause, her eyes looking distant when she said, "I see fire, and someone with small ears."
"The bad man?" Jack asked.
"Fire," she repeated, voice so faint it was almost gone, "and small ears."
Jack got up, gave her five dollars. He thanked her and made his way through the circle of old women.
Nothing, he thought. He had nothing but riddles and proverbs, spirit mumbo jumbo and witchcraft.
And someone was out there raping young Chinese girls.
Nothing, he groused, as he came back around the park, passing through the queues of junket buses, caravans loaded down for Atlantic City, fat with Chinatown cash.
On Canal Street, the last of the gray day was fading out around the gong chong por, factory women, slogging their plastic bags of groceries toward the subway.
Jack turned onto Mott and headed back toward the Fury. He still had Billy's boxes to get, and frustration once again fueled the need to get away from Chinatown.
Change
He took the Brooklyn Bridge across the East River, felt the rumble leave the tires as they bit into the steel grating, the car making a
Jack sought out Ah Por, a wizened old woman wrapped in a quilted meen naafi silk jacket, her tiny feet in sweat socks and kung fu slippers. She squatted among the old women, on her footstool, quietly chatting with another ancient spirit.
The old women looked atJackwith great curiosity, though they were careful to avoid the rudeness of staring. They watched him sidewise, framing him in their peripheral vision. When he stepped tip to Ah Por, there by the fence, the old women moved aside to allow him in, then re-formed around him, all wondering what this young Chinese man wanted from their eldest sister.
Jack had remembered Pa going to Ah Por many years after Ma died. His visits were to get lucky words and numbers to play the Chinese Lottery, or to hear of good fortune. Now he was coming to Ah Por with victim photographs of young girls, Chinese girls with long black hair.
There was neither recognition nor fear in Ah Por's eyes. She simply accepted him with a sweeping graceful look, and he squatted down on one knee and held the two pictures in front of her.
"Tell me about them," he said.
She took the photographs and studied them intently, then turned them upside down, narrowed her eyes again.
Two preteen girls who looked enough alike that they might be sisters. Preppie school jackets, big smiles grinning out at the world, deep obsidian eyes.
"This one is shy," said Ah Por. "She holds back her laughter. The other is bright, a brave girl."
Ah Por took up her cup, rolled a bundle of bamboo sticks in her alm, letting them fall back into the cup, rolling them again, dropping them again. She did this for thirty seconds, did it with the practiced grace of someone telling rosary beads.
She bobbed her head in a slow rhythmic nod, closed her eyes. Tai Seung, thoughtJack, the art of reading faces.
Ah Por awoke with a shudder. When she rattled the sticks in her cup, they all seemed to rise and dance near the rim. One stick shot out and it was numbered seventeen. She consulted her red booklet with the black ink-brushed Chinese characters, the Book of Fortunes.
She stroked the pages with her long thumbnail, ran it down the columns of proverbs, tapped it on a section of fortunes.
"The first one," she said softly, "will marry a rich man and have two boys." Jack leaned in with his ear.
"The second will do well in school, make a lot of money."
Jack said nothing when she glanced at him.
"But there is something bad following them, isn't there?"
Jack said quietly, "A bad man has hurt them."
Ah Por caught her breath. "Oh dear."
She repeated it several times and then there was a long pause, her eyes looking distant when she said, "I see fire, and someone with small ears."
"The bad man?" Jack asked.
"Fire," she repeated, voice so faint it was almost gone, "and small ears."
Jack got up, gave her five dollars. He thanked her and made his way through the circle of old women.
Nothing, he thought. He had nothing but riddles and proverbs, spirit mumbo jumbo and witchcraft.
And someone was out there raping young Chinese girls.
Nothing, he groused, as he came back around the park, passing through the queues of junket buses, caravans loaded down for Atlantic City, fat with Chinatown cash.
On Canal Street, the last of the gray day was fading out around the gong chong por, factory women, slogging their plastic bags of groceries toward the subway.
Jack turned onto Mott and headed back toward the Fury. He still had Billy's boxes to get, and frustration once again fueled the need to get away from Chinatown.
Change
He took the Brooklyn Bridge across the East River, felt the rumble leave the tires as they bit into the steel grating, the car making a
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