The Wind in my Heart

1

New York City, 1991

On my way back from the one hour photo with a satchel full of sins, I stand on the corner and wait for the dragon to pass before crossing the street. It’s my third Chinese New Year in the office on Mott Street where, in spite of spotty work, I haven’t been evicted yet, and that dragon is still as impressive as the first time I saw it. Wild-eyed, with curling horns and fierce paper jaws, the silk body winds down the street atop poles held by red and yellow clad dancers. I cross, trot up the steps to my building, and enter the lobby, dripping confetti from my shoes and shoulders. It’s a three-story walk-up, my office on the third floor, and by the time I get to the second landing I can hear my phone jangling. That’s the sound of thunder in the desert. I quicken my step.

My shoes squeak on the grimy tile floor as I make the turn at the head of the stairs. Dim sunlight filters in through a skylight dome the color of sour milk but doesn’t quite reach the end of the corridor where my office sits—the last of four. The fluorescent tubes are dead at my end of the hall. I slot my key into the doorknob by the scant illumination spilling through the frosted glass window in the door, stenciled with gold letters: INSIGHT DETECTIVE AGENCY—MILES LANDRY, PI.

The doors I passed on the way to mine were quiet except for a faint TV at the far end of the hall. I’m guessing my nearest neighbors, the tax accountant and the podiatrist, got out from under the parade while they could, knowing what kind of crimp it would put in business today. The sounds of the street swell up again as I open the door—loud enough that I half expect to see the curtains blowing in the wind from a wide open window to the fire escape. The sound is pouring in through the same gaps in the frame that let the heat out all winter, but the ringing phone is the loudest thing in the room, the hammer trilling on the bell hard enough to almost make it hop off my desk. It’s on the third ring when I get through the door and I’m afraid there won’t be a fourth.

I leave my keychain hanging from the doorknob, and I’m about to make a lunge for the phone when I get a little assistance from a kick in the ass that sends me sprawling face first on the red oriental carpet in front of my desk.

My valise lands under me, cushioning my fall, and I struggle to disentangle my head from the shoulder strap as I turn to face my attacker. The motion puts my forearm in range of the second kick—no doubt aimed at my jaw. My arm blocks the kick by dumb luck, but recoils, and I hit myself in the face with the back of my own hand.

Blinking through the stinging pain, I make out a female form settling gracefully into a ready stance.

Shit. Sophie Cheung. She looks a lot taller from down here.

I had trailed her for a couple of weeks on behalf of her husband before letting a wiretap on their home phone finish the job. You could say I verified Mr. Cheung’s hunch that the karate dojo in alphabet city wasn’t the only place where she was breaking a sweat with a fellow instructor. Sophie holds a third-degree black belt.

I wonder if my arm just fractured along the old fault lines.

“How does it feel?” she asks, and I think she means my arm until she says, “Finding out you’ve been stalked by someone you didn’t know was there?” She steps into the room and casually knocks a potted spider plant off an end table with a flick of her hand. The terra cotta pot smashes when it hits the floor, spilling black soil onto the carpet beside me. “How does it feel having your private space invaded?”

Okay, that pisses me off. The plant has sentimental value. I know I should be afraid of Sophie from this vulnerable vantage point, but the heat is already flushing my cheeks—a sure sign that I’m unlikely to act in my own best interest for the next little while.

Incredibly, the phone is still ringing. Seems like the answering machine should have clicked on by now, but I’ve lost count, what with getting my ass kicked and all. The machine is probably broken for good. I don’t hit women, but I think I might be tempted if I miss this phone call. Sophie’s husband paid me a decent sum, but not enough to compensate for the loss of the next job.Or a hospital bill.

“What’s in the bag, Landry?” Sophie asks, and sweeps a model airplane off the bookshelf before crunching it underfoot. “Pictures of your latest marks?”

I’m on my feet now, steadying myself with a hand on the desk. It’s a cheap particle board jobbie. Fake oak laminate. Wide enough to put me out of range, but I doubt I can get behind it in time if she strikes again.

“I’ve been following you ever since Rick dropped this divorce crap on me. First thing I find out is that your friends at the bar call you Dirty Laundry. Nice.” She looks around the office like she’s trying to decide what to break next. She catches me looking at the answering machine. “You messed with my phone, maybe I mess with yours, yeah?”

“Hey,” I say, “I’ll press charges for assault and destruction of property.”

Her eyes lock on mine again and there’s new fire in them. I don’t know if it’s the thought of me adding to her mounting legal fees, but I can tell that with the deep breath she’s taking, she’s gearing up to close the distance between us.

My face is stinging and the phone is still ringing when I drop my ass onto the desk, swing my legs over, and roll off the other side, sending my office chair skittering away on its wheels. Sophie Cheung shuffles forward, throws her right leg up above her head, and with an inarticulate war cry brings her heel down in an ax kick that breaks the desk clean in half.

As the phone slides down the V toward the break, I snatch the handset out of the cradle. The bottom right drawer rolls open as the desk collapses, and I snatch my gun from it with my free hand, rise and point it at her. “Insight Detective Agency, Miles Landry speaking.”

At the sight of the weapon, Sophie slips out the door.

The man on the line has a strong accent. Not Chinese but in the neighborhood.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” I say, trying not to breathe too hard into the mouthpiece while my galloping heart settles down.

“Mr. Landry? My name is Geshe Norbu. Am I reaching you at a good time?”

I catch my breath. “Just another day in paradise.”

“Good, good.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Norbu?”

“I’m calling from the Diamond Path Dharma Center in Union Square.”

“The what?”

“It’s a center for Buddhist studies.”

“A Buddhist temple?”

“Yes. We serve the immigrant community of Tibetan refugees and offer free meditation instruction for all.”

A religious fundraiser call for Asian refugees. I fought my way to the phone for this?

“I’m calling on behalf of my teacher, Jigme Rinpoche. He would like to consult with you regarding your services.”

“My services. As a private eye . . . ” I want to make sure this guy called the right number.

“Yes, of course. He is very eager to meet with you.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, crouching behind the wreckage of my desk with the phone in the crook of my neck, then setting my gun down on the floor to root around for a pen. My desk blotter with the giant calendar page is a shambles of ruffled paper, but I can still write on it if this doesn’t turn out to be a scam or a misunderstanding in the next two minutes.

“What kind of job are we talking about? I usually follow people around and catch them up to no good. I thought you guys were the trusting sort.”

The monk laughs. Even through a telephone, it sounds more genuine and delighted than most of the laughter I’ve heard since before boot camp. “Very good,” Norbu says. “You know something about Tibetan monks?”

“Not much. Saffron robes and baritone chants?”

“Maroon robes, but yes, deep chants. May I tell Rinpoche you will meet with him?”

I can’t exactly start turning down work, but I can’t shake the feeling they’ve got the wrong idea somehow. “Ah, again, I wouldn’t want to waste anyone’s time.” Including my own. “Can you give me a clue about what your teacher hopes I can do for him?” Best guess: one of the monks has been helping himself to the donation jar.

“He prefers to speak with you about it in person.”

“Understood. It’s just that I only handle certain kinds of cases.”

“Okay, so . . . this is about helping him find someone. Call it a missing persons case.”

“Someone?”

“A monk. A former student of Jigme Rinpoche.”

“He wander off and get lost in Manhattan? That sounds like a job for the police. I’m not a police detective. You know that, right?”

“Yes!” He says the word so emphatically, I wonder if he’s getting indignant with me. I’ve run into this with Chinese clients who thought I was talking down to them just because their English was rough. His is pretty polished. “Mr. Landry, there is more to the situation. You must meet with Rinpoche to understand, okay?”

“Sure.”

He asks if four o’clock works for me. I smooth out the calendar page and find my court mandated anger management meeting scrawled in the box for four-thirty. I ask if he can make it sooner or later than that, and we settle on sooner. Norbu gives me the address for the dharma center and tells me to leave my shoes at the door.

“Your office is in Chinatown, yes?” he asks as we wrap up the call.

“That’s right.”

“So you have followed the news about the recent murders?”

“I’m as familiar as anyone who reads the paper.”

“Good, good. I will tell Rinpoche to expect you at three.”

I pick the cradle out of the broken particle board and hang up the phone. I had a bad feeling about today, but it turns out Sophie wasn’t the worst of it. This guy wants to get me involved with the Chinatown Monster.