The Crooked Street

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Denny Clark emerged through a cloud of steam into the cold darkness of Chinatown.

The fragrance of ginger and jasmine, and the spitting sizzle of hot oil, chased him into the alley. His shoes tracked footprints outlined in pig’s blood onto the stone. He slammed the metal door behind him, silencing the chorus of voices bellowing in Mandarin from the restaurant kitchen. With sweat on his forehead, Denny breathed hard and nervously eyed the shadows. On either side of the walkway, brick buildings rose six stories over his head, and fire escapes clung to the walls. The alley-front shops were barred and padlocked. It was ten o’clock on Friday night.

He’d come here to deliver a warning, but he was too late. Mr. Jin was already gone. So was his son. No one had seen or heard from them for three long days.

Denny squinted at the faces in the alley. Two Chinese teenage girls chirped to each other as they zigzagged toward him in short skirts and high heels. A hooker serviced a bald client in the doorway of a massage parlor. Barely ten feet away, a homeless man bared his yellowed teeth and banged a copper mug against the pavement. Denny threw him some change from his pocket.

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