The sole of Danny’s shoe hit the door hard, sending the Chin boy staggering back. He barely kept himself from falling, cursing as his hand grabbed at the wall.
Danny stepped inside, surveyed the room. Half a dozen young men, counting the Chin boy, all staring back at him. Five of them sat on a couch and a pair of armchairs surrounding a coffee table laden with loose marijuana and rolled joints, a bag of coke, a few lines on the table’s glass top. Another bag of crystal meth, though it didn’t appear that any of them had partaken yet.
The Chin boy had the wide-eyed look, the flaring nostrils and the sheen of sweat on his forehead that said he’d had at least a line or two of coke. But Danny didn’t care about him. His only concern was Johnny Woo, the youngest of the boys, who sat in the middle of the couch. A faint wisp of hair on his upper lip, pimples across his nose and forehead. A child, really.
‘Johnny, come with me,’ Danny said.
Johnny said nothing.
Danny heard a snick-click at his left ear. He turned his head, saw the Chin boy and the .38 in his hand, cocked and ready.
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ the Chin boy said, ‘before I take your head off.’
Danny said nothing.
‘Yo, man,’ one of the other young men said. ‘That’s Danny Doe Jai.’
The Chin boy turned to his friend. ‘Danny who?’
A child, Danny reminded himself, nothing more. So easy. He simply reached up and grabbed the boy’s wrist, pushed it away, twisted, squeezed. The pistol dropped to the floor, a heavy clunk, and the boy fell to his knees. He squealed, and Danny squeezed harder. Felt bones grind beneath the flesh.
Danny turned to the young man on the couch. ‘Don’t call me that.’
The young man dropped his gaze, mumbled, ‘Sorry, Lee-sook.’
The boys all nodded, called him uncle, showed the respect he was due. Danny returned his attention to the Chin boy.
‘Any reason why I shouldn’t break your goddamn arm?’ he asked.
The boy whined. Danny twisted a little more, squeezed a little harder.
‘I asked you a question,’ he said.
The boy opened and closed his mouth, said, ‘Sorry … Lee … sook.’
Danny let go, and the boy collapsed onto the floor, hugging his wrist to his chest.
Johnny Woo picked at his nails, didn’t look up.
‘Come on,’ Danny said. ‘Your parents are waiting for you.’
Johnny lit a joint, took a long hit, and said, ‘Fuck you.’
The other young men winced. One of them nudged Johnny’s elbow, said, ‘Just go, man. Do what Lee-sook says.’
‘Fuck you, I ain’t going nowhere. You nod your head and call him uncle all you want, go ahead and be a pussy. He don’t scare me.’
‘Listen to your friends,’ Danny said. ‘Let’s go.’
Johnny took another hit, exhaled a long plume of smoke, and looked Danny in the eye. ‘Fuck. You.’
Danny reached down, grabbed a leg of the coffee table, threw it aside, scattering green flakes and white powder. It crashed into the wall, shattering the glass. The other boys dived out of the way as Danny stepped forward and slapped the joint from Johnny’s mouth. He put a hand at either side of the kid’s throat, hoisted him up by his neck. Johnny gave one strangled croak as Danny dragged him across the room, then threw him against the wall. He slapped the boy again, rocking his head on his shoulders, bringing tears to his eyes.
‘You a tough guy now?’ Danny asked.
Slapped him again, his hand powering through, even as Johnny tried to shield himself.
‘You a gangbanger?’
Slap.
‘You ready to take me on?’
Slap.
‘Go on.’
Slap.
‘Go on and try, boy, if you’re such a big man.’
Johnny slid down the wall, his hands over his head. ‘Stop, stop! I’m sorry! Stop!’
Danny reached down, lifted Johnny up by his collar. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
As Johnny stumbled out through the door, Danny kicked him once in the ass, almost knocking him off his feet. He gave the other boys one last hard look. None of them returned it, suddenly more interested in their shoes or their fingernails. He followed Johnny out, closed the door behind him. Johnny looked back to him, a child now, seeking instruction.
Danny pointed at the stairs and said, ‘Go.’
The air was damp and cold out on Jackson Street, a breeze blowing straight in off San Francisco Bay. Danny pulled his jacket tight around him. He pushed Johnny between the shoulder blades, told him to keep walking. The boy wore nothing but a short-sleeved 49ers shirt, and Danny could almost see the goosebumps on his skin.
They passed a beauty salon, lit up bright in the darkness, the sound of chattering women from inside. A seafood market, the ripe smell of fish and salt. It was relatively quiet here compared to the hubbub and the glare of Grant Avenue, where the sidewalks were perpetually crammed with Chinatown tourists. Less chance of the boy running and losing himself in the crowds.
Johnny looked back over his shoulder. ‘Hey, why they call you Danny Doe Jai?’
‘Shut up and keep walking,’ Danny said.
The boy looked back again. ‘Doe Jai. Knife Boy. You don’t get a name like that for nothing.’
‘Your mom told me you were a smart kid,’ Danny said. ‘Prove her right and shut your mouth.’
‘Come on, man, just tell—’
Danny grabbed Johnny’s shoulder, spun him around, threw him against the shutters of a closed-down catering wholesaler. The metal rattled and boomed. Danny grabbed the boy’s throat in his right hand, squeezed his windpipe tight.
Two young couples, Chinatown tourists, skipped out of the way, understanding this was none of their business.
Danny brought his nose to the boy’s, their eyes two inches apart.
‘Ask me again,’ he said. ‘Just ask me one more time and I’ll show you why they call me Knife Boy.’
The boy blinked and Danny eased off the pressure on his throat.
‘What?’ Danny asked. ‘You not interested anymore?’
‘No, Lee-sook,’ the boy croaked.
‘Good.’ Danny let him go, gave him another kick in the pants. ‘Now move your stupid ass.’
A thirty-minute walk – Johnny pouting and dragging his heels, Danny nudging his back – took them to the Woo house over in the Richmond. Mrs Woo answered the door, gasped, then called back into the house for her husband in Cantonese.
‘It’s Lee-gor! He’s brought Johnny home.’
Mr Woo came to the door, nodded respectfully at Danny, gave his son a withering look. The boy said nothing as he slipped past his father into the hall where his mother waited. Mrs Woo tried to embrace him, but he shrugged her off and disappeared into the house.
‘Thank you, Lee-gor,’ she said, nodding, her eyes wet. ‘Thank you so much.’
She elbowed Mr Woo’s flank, and he took his wallet from his pants. Two hundred-dollar bills. He took Danny’s wrist with his left hand, nodded again, pressed the money into the palm with his right. Danny’s pride might have told him to hand the two hundred dollars back, but his rational mind remembered the rent was due. He slipped the money into his pocket and gave a nod of thanks.
‘Keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘He’s probably too embarrassed to go back to that apartment, but you never know. Don’t go too hard on him. Don’t give him a reason to leave again.’
‘We won’t,’ Mrs Woo said. She turned to her husband, gave him a hard stare. ‘Will we?’
Mr Woo looked at the ground.
‘We don’t want trouble,’ Mr Woo said. ‘The Tong, will they …?’
He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Danny said.