The Ninja's Blade Page 6

  Ma plucked the twisted orange peel off the rim of her glass and swirled it through the cranberry pink cosmopolitan. I cringed. Ma only drank alcohol when toasting at Chinese banquets or when she was about to crack under stress. Business wouldn’t do it. The only kind of stress that drove her to drink anything other than hot water and tea was family.

  She sipped her cocktail and gazed at me over the rim. “You made it.”

  “Of course. It’s your birthday.”

  She raised a perfectly penciled brow. “Is that why you came, out of duty?”

  “No.” I kissed her cheek and took the seat next to hers, across from Baba. “I came because it’s your special day, and I love you.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Baba took a long pull of beer—a wily tactic to avoid getting drawn into our exchange—while I scanned the room for anyone who didn’t belong. I knew the Varrios hadn’t followed me to South Pasadena, but I couldn’t stop myself from glancing out the window to check the street for a flame-orange lowrider.

  Ma sipped her Cosmo and winced.

  “Not good?” I asked.

  “Too much lime.”

  “Send it back. I’m sure they’ll be happy to fix it.”

  Her eyes widened ever so slightly.

  “What? It’s your birthday. You should get what you want.”

  Her laughter, politely restrained, tickled the ears without disrupting the ambiance of the room. I’d have to learn to laugh like that one day. It could come in handy at all those cocktail parties I attended.

  “Did I say something to amuse you, Lily?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because you’re beautiful.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious, Ma. You don’t look anywhere near fifty.”

  “Hmm. I should hope not.” She sipped her drink and tried not to grimace.

  “You sure you don’t want to send it back?”

  “It’s fine. Besides, we have things to discuss.”

  “What things?”

  “Why you haven’t answered my emails for one. Have you even looked at my list?”

  “I have, and I’m taking care of it.”

  “Good. Because your grandparents arrive tomorrow. I need you to pick them up at the airport.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “I am well aware.”

  My refusal to buy a car was a never-ending point of contention. No matter how many times I praised the efficiency, convenience, and freedom of Metro, rideshare, and bicycling, Ma clung to three unshakable beliefs: mass transit was for the poor, rideshares were dangerous, and bikes were for kids. Violet Wong ran an international finance company, lived in Chinese Beverly Hills, and donated thousands of dollars every year to the Arcadia Chinese Association. She did not have a daughter who rode the bus.

  Baba flashed me a cautionary look—poke the tiger, expect to be clawed.

  I shrugged. I had already run from one fight today; I didn’t have it in me to do it again. “If you want to impress Gung-Gung, why don’t you just hire a limo?”

  “I’m not trying to impress your grandfather.”

  “Oh really? Then what’s with the big, expensive party? It’s not for you.”

  “Of course it’s not for me. It’s for him, so he can feel proud of the daughter he raised and the investment he made. It’s called respect, Lily. Something you know little about.”

  “Respect? How about—”

  Baba reached across the table and covered my hand. “You can borrow my car. I’ll be cooking all day with Uncle. I won’t need it until after the dinner rush.”

  As always, his gentle touch calmed my agitation.

  Ma smirked. “Then it’s settled. Gung-Gung and Po-Po arrive at ten. You can greet them in the terminal when they exit customs.”

  Unless you drove for a limo company—which, apparently, I now did—it was far more efficient to text and meet across the lane from baggage claim. Short term parking was a royal pain, but with the ever-changing passenger pickup restrictions at LAX, it might be the easiest option.

  “Okay. What else?”

  Ma tilted her head just enough to convey her displeasure.

  “Sorry. I mean—how else may I help?”

  “You still have biking gear in our garage, though I’ve asked you repeatedly to move it to your apartment or throw it out. I need you to care of that. I also need you to box and store the rest of your belongings so I can use your old bedroom as an overflow coat room for my guests on Saturday night. And the signboard needs to be cleaned in case your grandparents decide to visit your father’s restaurant.”

  “Did that.”

  “Well…good. But mostly, I need you to keep Gung-Gung and Po-Po out of my hair until the party.”

  The party was Saturday night. How was I supposed to take care of the rest of Ma’s list of chores, entertain Gung-Gung and Po-Po, and find Emma Hughes?

  Ma tapped the table with her manicured nail. “You don’t realize the work involved with planning this party or the complex pieces in play. You’re too busy gallivanting around the city doing…whatever it is you do with your time. Honestly, Lily, if you’re not returning to school, it’s time for you to get a job. And I don’t mean waiting tables at Baba’s restaurant or diddling with websites—I’m talking about a career. Either that or find a husband. I’m sure that would make Gung-Gung and Po-Po very happy.”

  Diddling?

  I snapped my mouth shut and schooled my expression into contrite acceptance. Then I pulled out a brightly wrapped present from my backpack and placed it in front of her on the white table cloth.

  Her jaw tensed. The game was on.

  My seemingly thoughtful gesture disregarded a longstanding rule against the exchange of presents in public places. It also drew attention to the backpack she had asked me, repeatedly, not to bring to dinners—and, by extension, my all-black and decidedly unladylike attire. Ma reserved black for cocktail dresses, slacks, and evening gowns, never for leather, T-shirts, and jeans.

  I smiled. Three points for me.

  Ma smiled back. “Thank you, Lily.” She took the gift and placed it on the floor beside her feet. “I’ll take it with me when I leave.”

  An insulting action accompanied by a gracious response. Two points for Ma.

  We locked eyes and continued our combat in silence.

  “You think you’re so clever, Lily.”

  “Runs in the family.”

  “Ha! Your concept of family is a shallow stream.”

  “If yours is deeper, the river bed is sludge.”

  “Shall we order?” Baba asked, interrupting our silent argument. Although he didn’t fully understand them, he knew they existed. “What would you like, Vi—French onion soup, penne foie gras? Maybe an order of escargot to share?”

  Ma sighed, and the tension she and I had created dissolved.

  He pushed a menu toward me. “How about you, Dumpling? Chef Bruno makes a mean entrecôte au poivre.”

  “Sure, Baba. Steak sounds good.”

  This wasn’t about food. Baba had requested a truce. Ma and I had complied. Who said family dinners couldn’t be fun?

  After Baba ordered the food and another cosmo for Ma, he directed the conversation to catering, decorations, and flowers—praising every arrangement she had made. It seemed to calm her down. Then, as Baba ate the final snail and I sopped up the garlic butter with a crusty hunk of bread, Ma sipped her drink with a worried expression.

  “What if they think it’s garish? Or worse, meager?”

  Baba shook his head. “Not a chance. Your parties are exquisite.”

  “But what if they don’t think so?”

  “Come now, Vi, don’t borrow trouble.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one in emotional debt.”

  Ma downed the rest of her cocktail then grimaced as the alcohol burned her t
hroat. If she kept drinking like this, she’d regret it in the morning.

  “Baba’s right,” I said. “They’ll be very impressed.”

  She looked at me with a guarded expression. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or sarcastic.”

  I patted her hand. “Serious.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Lily. But neither you nor your father have any experience organizing parties. So many things are out of your control. So many things can go wrong.”

  I took a breath to tell her how much I understood about things going wrong. How washing a signboard had escalated into running for my life in Compton, or how my mind flitted from one horror to another like a frantic hummingbird. Nothing in my life felt in control, and everything that could possibly go wrong did. I closed my mouth and kept those thoughts to myself.

  By the time our steaks arrived, Ma’s second cocktail had lubricated her slide into paranoia. The guests would arrive too late. Or they’d arrive too soon. Or worse, they wouldn’t arrive at all, lowering Ma’s stature in the community and casting doubt about her ability to run the L.A. branch of Gung-Gung’s finance company.

  Worry fed anger, poisoned Ma’s words, and tainted Chef Bruno’s meal until Baba’s plan for a quiet birthday dinner devolved into a hot sloppy mess. I hadn’t seen Ma this distraught since Rose’s murder. And for what? A party? Compared to Emma’s predicament, Ma’s concerns seem shallow and self-centered.

  Mine, too.

  So what if a couple of gangbangers thought they’d recognized me? I’d dealt with their kind before. I might not have a psychopath assassin fighting by my side, but I’d get the job done and keep my family safe.

  “I offered them a suite at the Langham,” Ma said. “But they wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Huh?” Once again, I had drifted out of the moment into the labyrinth of my troubled thoughts.

  “Your grandparents, Lily. Haven’t you been listening? I offered to put them up at the Langham, and Gung-Gung refused.”

  “Is it too far away?”

  Ma shrugged. “It isn’t his.”

  “I didn’t know Gung-Gung owned any hotels.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  The expression on Ma’s face told it all—tight smile, sad eyes.

  I sighed. “You mean the house.”

  “Exactly.”

  Gung-Gung had bought the Arcadia estate for Ma as a wedding gift but…neglected to sign over the deed. Property values had escalated, and my childhood home had become the envy of our Asian community, a symbol of my parents’ success—and a seven-thousand-square-foot, three-million-dollar bargaining chip.

  Baba covered Ma’s hand protectively with his own. “It’ll be fine, Vi. The house looks beautiful, the party’ll be a smash, and your parents will love every minute they spend with you.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes.”

  She slipped out of his grasp and patted the top of his strong farmer hand. “You’re a sweet man, Vern.” Then she squeezed his fingers and brought them to her lips for a kiss. “And a lousy liar.”

  “What?”

  “You know damn well they’re not coming here to visit with me.” She waited for an attendant to remove my plate. “They’re not coming here to visit with you, either.”

  The way she had emphasized “visit” made me wonder what else they might want to do with me. Whisk me off to Hong Kong? Sell me to the highest bidder? Enroll me in a Swiss finishing school? I’d like to see them try.

  “Easy now,” Baba said. “We can deal with mud when the rain hits the dirt.”

  Ma scoffed. “If we wait until then, we’ll be stuck like a truck.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But at least we can enjoy our crêpe suzette in peace. Worry’s lousy for digestion. No sense stirring your belly for nothing.”

  True to his words, my belly revolted all the way to Union Station, clenching with every jolt of the railcar and sloshing at every stop.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sensei’s house sat on a quiet street, nestled behind a grove of young aspens and a shady Chinese elm that blocked my view of the moon. It had a charming blend of woodsy Americana and rural Japan with a vertical board fence, a wooden torii gate, and a rocking chair porch, dimly lit by a sconce.

  I knocked on the door.

  Sensei greeted me with a smile, wrapped in a full-length gray cotton yukata. “Konbanwa, Lily-chan. What a nice surprise.”

  It was nine o’clock and I hadn’t called ahead. Yet Sensei, as always, welcomed me as if I had.

  This custom had begun in the days just before my twelfth birthday, when I used to sneak away from Wushu practice to train with him in the park. I’d find him teaching a handful of students, practicing drills, or kneeling on the hard ground in deep meditation. His calm drew me like a whirlpool, swirling me closer and closer, until one day, I grew brave enough to introduce myself and asked him to teach me.

  “Konbanwa, Sensei. You’ve done a beautiful job on the door.” He’d fashioned a kasagi beam across the top to suggest another torii gate and varnished the wood in a delicious shade of caramel.

  He offered a slight bow and answered me in Japanese. As always, his gracious thanks far exceeded my compliment. He gazed up at the kasagi beam and chuckled. “It seems my hobby has grown into a passion. I can’t stop improving my home. So, Lily-chan. What brings you here this evening, training or tea?”

  My solo practice from the night before hadn’t exhausted my demons, perhaps training with Sensei could. Then again, I was in deep need of wisdom.

  “Both?”

  Sensei nodded, as if he’d expected my answer. “Leave your indecision at the door and come inside.”

  I slipped off my shoes and entered another world.

  Sensei had torn down the interior walls and refurbished the beams to their natural wood. To reinforce the structure, he had built a wooden frame at the ceiling and carved it into a work of art. All of the walls were painted a muted green, similar to my own, and the floors patterned with two shades of tatami mats laid in appealing geometric designs. Through the open shoji doors on the right, I could see the olive green kakebuton comforter draped over his futon mattress with two matching pillows. An elegant floral arrangement and a lacquered vase sat on the low platform at the head of the bed. A scroll with a mountain design hung beneath a single spotlight in the center. The only other furniture in the bedroom was a short-legged chabudai table and one floor cushion positioned to view a beautifully lit garden, fenced for privacy.

  “I’ve disturbed you,” I said, noting an open book beside a teapot and cup.

  “I was enjoying the evening alone. Now we will enjoy it together.”

  He gestured across his home dojo to another low table, this one bookended by two legless zaisu chairs with backs curved like spines. As we crossed the mat, I stopped, the need for tea replaced by troubled thoughts best dealt with in his dojo.

  We knelt, placed our palms on the floor, and bowed—mine coming sooner and lasting longer than his. “Onegaishimasu,” we said, in unison. Please assist me.

  Sensei straightened his back and returned to Seiza no Kamae, toes tucked beneath his seat for action but otherwise relaxed. He could kneel like this for hours, as comfortably as Westerners sat in chairs. Me? Not so much. The only time I tucked my toes in preparation for a quick launch into action was in his company. Sensei could attack without the slightest surge of energy or intent. I discovered this the summer before I went to college and had remained vigilant ever since.

  “So, Lily-chan. Why have you come?”

  I thought of all the possible answers: guidance, absolution, assurance, punishment—not just for yesterday’s mistakes but for last month’s violence.

  Sensei frowned. “Your fears swarm in your mind like locusts, devouring your peace and destroying your wisdom. Why do you allow this?”

  “Believe me, it’s not by choice.”

  “Everything you do and think is
by choice, Lily-chan. You know this.”

  I slumped. “It doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

  He reached forward and tapped my sternum. “Because you have lost your center.”

  “But how can I find it when every choice I make is bad?”

  Sensei shook his head. “Wrong question. You are here. Is this a bad choice?”

  “No.”

  “Then not every choice you make is bad. Only an ignorant person piles her actions one on top of the other to make them more important than they really are.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You are not ignorant of the ways we delude ourselves. And yet, you have tricked yourself into believing what is not there.”

  As mystical as Sensei seemed, he wasn’t psychic. And since I had never introduced him to Aleisha and Stan, they couldn’t have told him about my mistaken assumptions about the good Samaritans or my suspicions about the streetwise black girl, her younger Guatemalan friend, and the man who gave them a ride. So how could he have known I had tricked myself into believing anything?

  “Enough,” Sensei said. “I don’t need the details to know you are not seeing clearly.”

  He lunged forward with an ura shuto open-hand strike to the side of my neck and grabbed my shirt with his other hand to keep me from rolling away to safety. I positioned my forearm so his next strike would slide harmlessly from its target and pushed off from my now-tucked toes to attack. Instead, Sensei rocked back to capture my energy, wedged his foot in my pelvis, and tossed me over his head. His grip on my shirt prevented my escape and landed me flat on my back with a thud.

  When he released me, I rolled to the side and sat back on my heels to find him waiting patiently in Seiza no Kamae, exactly as he had looked before the attack, except now we were facing in the opposite directions.

  “You see, Lily-chan. A fight is a shared reality we create with our adversary. It is not a series of attacks and defenses. It is not a competition between one side and another. This notion of separateness is a delusion your mind insists on believing.”