Ghosts of Chinatown Read Free Page B

studies Todd and grudgingly admits, “Cam is successful but this superstitious fool stays because he’s afraid his luck will change if he moves.”
    “Who you calling a fool? Luck is real.”
    “Please. Save it for the cockroaches who buy your books.”  
    Cam rolls his arms like the paddlewheel of a steamboat. “As long as the rent money keeps rolling in, why do you care?”
    “I care because I take the issue of the paranormal very seriously.”
    “And I take the issue of my book publishing royalty checks very seriously. Right, Liang?”
    Liang ignores Cam, takes out a key and tries the door. The key doesn’t work. Liang tries forcing the key but to no avail. “Sorry, I must get another key from my workroom.”
    Cam waves his finger at Liang in mock accusation. “Sorry. Always sorry. You are one sorry dude, Liang.”
    Liang glares at Cam. Cam grins, puts his thumbs in his ears, waves his fingers and sticks his tongue out at Liang. Todd bites his tongue, wondering what the hell is going on.
    Pianist and writer watch Liang stride down the hall and disappear down the flight of stairs.

    ***

    Liang’s workroom is a messy combination of Chinese herbalist, Dollar Store junk and mad scientist hangout. Dried salamanders and deer antlers mingle with wrenches and high-tech gadgetry, transmitters, receivers, fake blood, piano parts and much, much more. Most notable are the walls full of pictures and posters of Jasmine as an actress in costume in a variety of genres. In one, she wears the flowing robes of classical Chinese opera with her face covered with the exaggerated, impressionistic garishness; in another, she is aged and dresses as Tennessee Williams’ alcoholic southern belle, Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire ; another photo finds her transformed as the witchlike Lady Macbeth from Shakespeare; yet another shows her as a stylish fashionista in contemporary Beijing.  
    The best picture, though, sits on a workbench and is a black-and-white 8 X 10 photo of Jasmine in her natural beauty, flowing ebony hair and unblemished, milky skin with a perfectly shaped figure. It is contrasted by the real Jasmine, whose face is bleeding and gashed, standing and staring at the photo of what she once was.  
    Liang glides in and touches his daughter.  
    There is something netherworldy about her; instead of vibrancy, there’s a vacant and heavy expression of her carnaged face—her skin is translucent, paler than pale. “That’s him, Baba.”
    “You’re positive?”
    “Absolutely.”
    Liang is like a controlled volcano, wanting to erupt with a murderous fury, but controlling himself with Zen-like mastery.
    “I knew the moment he stepped through the door.”
    Jasmine grabs her father’s hand. “Then why are you scaring him away? It’s taken me so long to get him here and we can’t let him leave.”
    Liang shakes his head sadly. “There is no worry of him leaving. Jasmine, this is the place he’s been searching for. This is his… final destiny.”  
    Liang strokes a bruise on Jasmine’s face. “And he knows it…” Liang crumbles. No longer the stern Chinaman, he is the father who has lost all that is precious. “Oh, Jasmine... Jasmine... I wish… I wish I could have protected you.”
    “It’s hard to hate someone you used to love.”  
    “How you can call your insanity ‘love’?”
    Jasmine’s tired and glum eyes water. “I’m not a child.”
    “But you are naïve.” Liang touches a tear on Jasmine’s cheek and softly intones, “A little dragon once sat on a girl’s shoulder. The wretched reptile whispered, nibbling on her ear, how much he loved her. She refused to believe that mixed with the sweet words was venomous saliva. It killed her... it killed you. He killed you.”
    Jasmine squirms, agitated. “We don’t know for sure that it was Todd, Baba. There is no real proof.”
    There is no uncertainty in Liang’s voice. “Look at your face, your body, Jasmine. What further proof do you