White Ginger Read Free

Aren’t they gorgeous?”
    He pointed to a rack of barbecued pork. “I suppose the cha shiu ribs’ve got something to say, too.”
    She turned to stare at the ribs, their surface a bright red but burned black around the edges. They glistened enticingly. She could almost smell the caramelized sugar through the glass. When she spoke, her voice was wistful. “Pigs are aggressive and very direct. The ribs just say, ‘Eat me. You know you want me.’”
    Food had always conversed with her; since she’d turned thirty the conversations had become more intense, more confrontational. She craved fat and sugar.
    Lee dismissed her comments with a wave of his hand. “Your spareribs sound a lot like a man I know.”
    She glared at him.
    â€œPigs and men do seem to have a lot in common,” she said with disdain. “You certainly know how to ruin a girl’s appetite.”
    He took her hand in his. She smiled, convinced he’d seen the error of his ways.
    â€œIt’s for your own good,” he said as he pulled her forcefully away from the window. “You’ll thank me later.”
    She balked. “I might thank you later,” she said as she turned to face him, “but I want you to know I’m not feeling it right now.”
    â€œThink of this as an intervention.”
    He linked arms to walk with her. They made their way nearly to Washington Street before stopping again. The Far East Café was located one door down from the corner. Large gold letters frayed with age displayed the café’s name on dark glass. Peeling paint on the door served as an omen of neglect.
    Lee closed their umbrella. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. He opened the door and ushered her through the entrance. Stopping just inside the doorway, Bai let her eyes adjust to the subdued lighting. She took her time to visually inventory her surroundings.
    The café had changed. What had once been a meeting place for the geriatric set now catered to a much younger clientele. About a half dozen Wah Ching , young thugs, sat at tables in the far corner near the window. Their girlfriends sat with them. The crowd stared at them with disaffected interest.
    Wah Ching is a boy gang, teenagers mostly, though older members might reach into their thirties. They’re triad wannabes with a reputation for being vicious. Their eventual goal is membership in a triad, though few have the aptitude or discipline to make it that far.
    The boys sitting at the small tables looked like a mixed crew—short, tall, fat, and skinny. They dressed in leather jackets and dirty jeans with knee-length swag chains clipped to their belt loops. Heavy, industrial-type boots covered their feet. Tee-shirts, featuring heavy metal rock bands, rounded out the look. They’d apparently developed allergies to soap.
    Bai’s reputation in Chinatown was that of a well-connected, if somewhat meddlesome, woman. Her business was getting into other people’s business. Lee’s reputation was somewhat less affable. In his youth, he’d developed a reputation as a street fighter. But that had been years ago. He’d mellowed with age, for the most part.
    The Wah Ching gave no indication they recognized either of them.
    Bai nodded and smiled a greeting to the crowd who silently eyed them. Lee just stared at the bangers then turned away—a dismissal. They strolled over to take seats at the counter on round stools covered in pea-green Naugahyde. A green Formica counter, faded with age and chipped along the edges, provided a place to rest their elbows. The café smelled of old grease and burned coffee.
    No one stood behind the counter. Bai couldn’t see anyone through the service window to the kitchen. The place was quiet, too quiet. She stole another glance at the kids in the corner. They stared back with deadpan faces. Coffee mugs and soda glasses crowded the small tables in front of them. Half-eaten burgers