A Time for War Read Free

candy, and cigarettes had all been restocked, the floors carefully swept, and the mousetraps and fly strips cleared away. In her hand she held the clipboard with the receipts for all the goods, including the note he always left her—“I love you” he wrote in Cantonese on the topmost sheet before he went upstairs.
    Taking a last look around, the young woman placed the clipboard on its hook beneath the counter. She removed the apron—it had belonged to her mother—checked herself in a hand mirror she had beside the baseball bat her father kept beneath the register, then unlocked the door and turned around the OPEN sign.
    The century-old brass bell tinkled above the door. Maggie smiled as she welcomed her first customer, Mrs. Chan. The smile was sincere. Maggie felt blessed to be surrounded by three of the four things she loved.
    One was her father. Johnny Yu had opened the grocery store in 1986, the year before Maggie was born. It was originally going to be named the Huangpu Market for the river where he used to sit as a boy growing up in Shanghai, his eyes on the ships that used to come and go—one of which, a freighter, eventually took him to his new home with his new bride. But Anita Yu did not want to be reminded of their old life: she insisted he name the grocery for his ancestors but also for himself and Yu descendants. He agreed that was a better idea.
    Maggie’s mother Anita died fourteen months after Maggie was born. All Maggie remembered of the woman was the hole it left in her father’s life.
    The second thing Maggie loved was the store itself. The checkout counter was straddled by a four-foot-tall dragon gate made of empty boxes of Chinese tea. It was held together by the flaps of the boxes, nothing more; it had survived the 1989 earthquake. There were three short aisles, each of which was lit by bulbs that reflected the contents: green for produce, red for condiments and spices, amber for grain. Small freezers and refrigerators lined the back wall. Mrs. Chan was pulling a bag of lime leaves from one of the freezers.
    The third thing Maggie loved was the Chinese population of San Francisco. Today the community had over a hundred thousand citizens nestled between the Financial District and Nob Hill. The citizens were vibrant and resilient, hardworking men and women devoted to their families, their neighborhood, and their nation. They were patriots with affection for their ancestral land but a fierce love for their current home.
    Sadly, there were also some—the fewest in number and certainly the least in moral character—who exhibited the kind of selfish ambition that tore the community apart a century before in a series of wars fought to control criminal activity. These people troubled Maggie. She saw them every day when they came into the store—usually young men, usually buying cigarettes, chips, or soda. They always looked out the door while they stood at the counter. There was something itchy about them, restless, as though they were about to do something or were preparing for something to happen to them. Eyes roving, shoulders rolling from time to time like a fighter before a bout, fingers texting or flexing or making gestures to other malcontents … but never at rest.
    They just seemed ready to take. Not from her or her father; shoplifting was too small. Besides, the locals knew she was ready for them and there were security cameras behind the counter—one of the upgrades Maggie had succeeded in negotiating with her father. These misfits preferred to steal cars or electronics outside the community, so as not to embarrass family. They sold drugs or laundered currency to those who were not Chinese.
    Until today.
    The bell jangled again. A Chinese man entered the store as Mrs. Chan was leaving. He was in his early thirties and she had not seen him emerge from the black SUV double-parked outside, but there was no doubt it was his. The smoky windows were like