Dragon Hand

CHAPTER ONE

Mona’s cell phone dropped from her hand. Her knees buckled and she slid to the floor. Eric’s been shot!

What? I hopped up from the couch and went to her. She was shaking. Who was on the phone?

It was Mei. They’re in an ambulance going to the hospital.

What had been a nice evening at home with Mona following dinner at her restaurant with her son, Eric, and his girlfriend, Mei, was now flipped upside down—a bullet had shattered the axis.

Mrs. Chandler? Mei’s voice could be heard on the dropped phone. Mrs. Chandler?

I picked up the phone and handed it to Mona. Mei, I’m on my way. Mona closed the phone and stood.

Where? I asked.

San Francisco General. Let’s go.

From my house in the Sunset to the hospital in the Mission is a twenty-five-minute drive. I made it in sixteen.

Your son’s in surgery in the ER, a plump, fiftyish nurse standing behind a desk said. Magnifying glasses hung on a chain around her neck and a pencil was wedged into her salt-and-pepper hair.

How is he? Mona asked. I’d never seen her frightened and was uncertain how to comfort her. Tears had smeared her make-up and her eyes were red and wild. As she fought to regain some control, I stood to her side, one hand resting on her back, while she spoke to the nurse. What can you tell me?

The nurse looked up from her clipboard. I know he came in as a GWS, Code 3.

What’s that mean?

It means the EMTs called it in as a serious gunshot wound.

Can I see him?

As I said, he is in the ER, in surgery.

Where’s that?

The nurse gave directions and Mona was moving before the nurse was done talking. You can’t see him in surgery, the nurse told Mona.

I lingered at the desk for a moment. Why was he brought here? I asked. Wasn’t there a closer hospital?

All trauma cases come to us first.

I see, thanks, I said, nodding to her and walking after Mona.

In the hall down from the ER’s waiting room, two uniformed cops and a guy in a suit I also made for a cop leaned against the wall. The suit waved a coffee cup in the air and stomped his foot, and they shared a laugh. Mona was talking to a nurse at another desk. And how long will he be in surgery? I heard her ask.

I’m not in a position to say, the nurse said. She was maybe thirty years old and, I guessed, Filipino—beautiful brown skin over a perfectly proportioned face, big black eyes in pools of cream, and shiny black hair pulled into a tight ponytail that hung half way down her back. She was maybe an inch over five feet, but it was five feet of professionalism. She told two nurses chatting near the desk to take their conversation elsewhere, and there was no doubt as who was in charge at this station. She scribbled in a binder, punched a computer keyboard, and looked back at Mona. I’m sorry.

Can’t you guess? An hour? Two hours? Where was he shot?

I’ll tell the doctor you’re here and he’ll come to see you as soon as he can, she replied, evading Mona’s questions.

I’ll be right here.

The waiting room is just around the corner. You should wait there.

Did those cops come in with Eric? I asked, pointing down the hall.

The nurse looked to her left as if seeing the police officers for the first time. I’ve no idea. It’s Friday. Cops come and go all night.

How about a young Chinese girl? Her name is Mei Song. She would have come in with him, I said.

I don’t know her name or if she’s Chinese, but there was an Asian girl wandering around by herself. Check the waiting room.

Okay, thank you.

I placed my hand on Mona’s waist, gently guiding her away from the nurse’s station. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cops down the hall glance in our direction.

C’mon, I said. We can’t do anything here. Maybe Mei is in the waiting room.

I can’t believe this is happening. Mona turned into me, laid her head against my chest, and began to cry again. I held her, feeling helpless.

Mei wasn’t in the waiting room, but two other families were there. A Hispanic man in jeans and a corduroy jacket, work boots, and an Oakland A’s cap leaned against his wife and tried to sleep. In the far corner, an African-American woman sat with her arms wrapped around two small children and stared at the floor.

Are you okay here for a minute? I want to talk to those cops, I asked Mona.

She wiped her eyes with a small blue and white embroidered handkerchief and exhaled a deep breath. Yes, but don’t be long.

Do you want me to bring you anything?

Eric, she said.

CHAPTER TWO

One of the two uniformed officers was gone. The guy in the suit saw me coming and moved away from the wall.

Officers, I said. Got a minute?

Time is on my side, the suit said in a sing-song voice. He appeared to be in his forties, about six feet tall and two hundred plus.

The Rolling Stones? said the uniformed cop. He was mid-twenties, short and stocky, belly pushing at the buttons on his uniform and clearly on his way to the next size. His nameplate read Dexter.

Good, Junior, the suit said.

My name’s Lucas, I said.

That a first name or a surname?

It’s my last name, usually just go by Lucky. I’m an ex-cop here with the mother of a teen-age boy—a gunshot victim. You guys here with that?

I’m Detective Ryan, the suit said. You the father?

No. I was with the boy’s mother when we got the news.

Who called you?

The boy’s girlfriend. You know where she is?

Ryan nodded to the uniform.

We talked with her at the scene, Dexter said. I saw her here. The EMTs let her ride in with them.

You know her well? Ryan asked.

I know her but not well. I date her boyfriend’s mother. I’m over fifty she’s eighteen.

Ain’t that right? Ryan said. Got three of my own. Like strangers living in the bodies of my kids.

Can you share anything?

Where were you on the job? Ryan asked, skirting my question.

Southern California. Pasadena.

What’d you say your name was again?

Lucas. I know Lt. McNamara. You guys know him?

I know Mac, Ryan said. Good guy.

We started at the same time in Pasadena. He left years earlier to move up here.

Ryan nodded. What we’ve got so far, the kid and his girlfriend were rolling around North Beach. She says they were just walking around. There’s a lot of kids in that area on the weekends, sort of like car cruising in the suburbs back in the day. Teenagers find a couple streets, drive back and forth checking each other out, except here they’re walking. That’s really what’s going on. They’ll drift into Washington Square Park, smuggle beers, smoke a reefer, make-out. Mostly, it’s harmless. They’re too young for bars, so they walk around. Later in the evening, they’ll maybe collect at a pizza place, swap stories. It was me twenty years ago.

Twenty? Dexter said.

Fuck you, Ryan snarled.

I’m just saying.

Ryan continued, Kid and his girlfriend were …

Eric, I interrupted. Eric Chandler and Mei Song.

Right, Eric. So Eric and Mei were walking up Stockton Street. Between Union and Filbert.

Washington Square. The park, right?

Yeah. They’re right across the street.

Just the two of them?

No. It’s Friday night. There were others. Girl said there was a group of three or four guys who crossed the street walking ahead of them. They’d stopped to light cigarettes, and two other couples, one about their age and an older couple, walking behind them. They’d all been at the corner as a crowd before crossing the street. And now three guys walking toward them. Maybe others, she’s not sure.

Okay.

Suddenly she hears horns honking, brakes squealing, and she looks to her left as a car comes up from behind them, probably from around the corner—from Union Street onto Stockton—and another car swerves to avoid an accident. The car slows down a bit, then the shots and the car speeding away up Stockton. She looks at Eric and he’s on the ground. She’s screaming now and falls on top of him. Then she grabs her phone and dials 911.

Anybody else hit?

Nope.

Lucky, Dexter said.

Not for Eric, I told him.

He’s hit twice, Ryan said.

There were more shots?

Looks like four total. One hit a trashcan, one into a wall.

Then?

The older couple tries to help. Lady also calls it in with her cell while the younger couple sort of stands around, watching. The others scatter. When the shooting starts, people run. Hell, makes sense. You don’t know.

What about the car?

A dark sedan. Girl thinks it was black. The older gentleman says maybe a Ford or a Chevy. A four door, not new.

Mei get a look at the shooters?

She says no, happened too fast.

What about the guys ahead of them and the three walking toward them?

Gone.

Maybe somebody else was the target.

Lots of possibilities.

The guys walking toward Eric and Mei, they might have had a better look at the car, I said.

I’m aware of that. Another minute or two, the medics arrived. I got there a couple minutes after that. We’ll get more. I’ll be going back.

Lucky! It was Mona. I turned away from the cops and saw her coming toward me. The doctor’ll be out soon. I want you with me.

Of course. I looked back at the cops. Thanks.

Mona was already moving back toward the waiting room.

One quick thing, Ryan said.

Yeah?

The kid. Eric. Been in any trouble before?

He’s the victim here.

I know that but as an ex-cop, you know I need to ask.

Yeah, you’re right. Good kid. Clean. No arrests or trouble.

You’re sure?

Nothing I know about.

As I turned to leave, he said, Sorry for the kid.

Me, too, I replied.

Mona was standing in the middle of the waiting room, staring at the floor, arms dangling at her sides. I kissed the top of her head and led her to a chair. A few minutes later, a door opened and a tall, athletic-looking man with cropped black hair dressed in blue hospital scrubs, with a face mask dangling from his neck, glanced around the room and focused on Mona. Mrs. Chandler?

Yes.

We both stood. The doctor stepped toward us. I’m Dr. Ascher. I have good news. He touched Mona’s arm gently and guided her to a vacant couch. He sat down and gestured for Mona to sit beside him. Your son’s going to be okay. He’s lost some blood, but he’s young and strong.

Where was he shot? I asked.

This is Mr. Lucas, Mona said. He’s with me and can hear everything you have to say.

Okay. He was shot twice. One bullet entered his chest on the left side and the second a bit lower in his abdomen. Both areas can result in excessive bleeding, but the EMTs got to him quickly and we were able to manage it.

Can I see him? Mona asked.

Sure, but he’s heavily sedated and will sleep for a while. He’ll be closely monitored through the rest of the night.

Thank you doctor, Mona replied.

The doctor shook hands with us both. You’re welcome. We’ll talk tomorrow.

We sat on the couch, my arms around her. Tiny tremors moved through her body. Sometimes silence provides the best comfort so I said nothing and Mona leaned into my chest. I stared across the room at the cream-colored hospital wall as Mona cried quietly.

A moment later, a small voice said, Mrs. Chandler?

Mei was standing beside us, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach as if without their pressure her body might leak onto the floor. She was dressed as she had been at dinner: black jeans, black flats, and a stylish grey leather jacket over a loose white silk blouse. Only now the blouse was matted and wrinkled and stained with Eric’s blood.

CHAPTER THREE

Three days after Eric had been shot, I sat in the kitchen of Mona’s Noe Valley home drinking coffee with Don, Eric’s dad and Mona’s ex-husband. He had flown up from Los Angeles the morning after the shooting and was about to return home.

Thanks for coming over, he said.

Of course.

Mona was upstairs dressing. She was going to drive Don to the airport before going to her restaurant for a few hours to deal with business matters, one of which included an unhappy vendor, and she had called me in to sit with Eric. I’d met Don before and just a month earlier, we’d shared a beer in the backyard when he had come to San Francisco for Eric’s high school graduation. He was a successful lawyer in a Beverly Hills firm with a house on the beach in Malibu and a sailboat. I’d never seen him dressed in clothes that didn’t cost more than some cars, and he had a head of thick salt and pepper hair that most twenty-year-olds would envy, but he was also quick with a joke and did not take himself too seriously.

Can I ask you to do me a favor? he asked.

Sure.

Mona’ll try to do it all with Eric, he said. He leaned forward in his chair. She’ll try to make all the decisions, deal with the medical issues, the doctors’ appointments, the stuff necessary for his move to L.A. for school, and run the restaurant. Do everything. You know her.

I do know that she doesn’t like to delegate.

She hesitated to call you this morning and she’ll hesitate to call me.

And you want me to encourage her to keep you in the loop.

Exactly. You’ll see if she’s stressed, doing too much, that sort of thing. Get her to call me and if she won’t, maybe you can. Call me for anything.

Don removed a thin leather wallet from the inside pocket of his tailored silk jacket and got out a business card. He wrote on the back of the card and handed it to me. There’s an office number and my cell number on the back. Day or night.

I took the card. It’s doubtful I’d call you without talking to Mona.

One never knows.

I put the card on the table next to my coffee cup.

I’m ready, Mona said as she walked into the kitchen.

Don stood up and extended his hand. Nice to see you again, Lucky. And thanks for helping out at the hospital. And today.

I like Eric. I’m glad I can help. We shook hands and he left the kitchen.

I’ll be back in a few hours, Mona said, kissing me on the cheek.

Do what you need to do. We’ll be here.

I walked Mona and Don out to the car and waved goodbye, then went to my car and freed Lou the Dalmatian. He ran a few circles on the sidewalk and scampered up the steps to the front door.

We went into the house and Lou ran straight to the kitchen door leading to the backyard. I opened it and Lou bounced down the back steps and onto the grass, immediately sighting a bird in one corner of the yard and sprinting after it. As the bird calmly took flight, Lou barked at it and peed in the dirt.

I went back in the house and an hour later, I was stretched out on the couch reading a magazine article about the government’s new spy plane drones. One had apparently crashed in Pakistan, and while the U.S. had initially denied the plane had been conducting unauthorized surveillance, the evidence was pretty hard to refute. But politicians will argue