My editors, forgiving my previous transgressions, have sent me out on the murder beat.
Early morning, I’m in downtown Manhattan on Doyer’s Street, the only 90 degree street in the city.
Bodies lie in the street, covered in a blue-ish blood. They flicker in and out like bad television stations.
It looks like a gang war whipped through the right angle.
About 100 years ago.
I can see the people living above the shops peering down at me, hiding halfway behind curtains. A few venture out.
The wind was angry. Yelling. The wind had knives and cut these people down. I didn’t see them at first, just heard the screaming. They don’t look real now.
In the beginning of the last century there was a war here. More of an ambush, really. The death of Bow Kum set in motion the Tong Wars in this city.
The streets do not forget.
The police have taped off most of the street. Emergency response are bagging the bodies.
This happens every year. My grandmother and her friends used to go out and clean it up before anyone even noticed. Trouble is, this is the third time this year it’s happened. A low humming came from around that corner there, where the ambush was, and then the wind just started to cut people.
I can smell incense and hear prayers escaping from the cracked windows.
The wind howls and something cuts my cheek.
More invisible blades cutting as it grows colder.
I’m hiding in a doorway, watching the police scramble to their vehicles.
I think it’s the girl doing it. The one they brought from San Francisco. Too young to die. Especially like that. Leaves bad energy, angry wind.
The old woman slips back inside, but I can hear her yelling as she walks up the stairs.
Her death brought Fei Lian to New York. Just Fei Lian. No Houyi. He’s left to his fun and games and bag of wind.
The wind has stopped. All of the bodies are being driven away.
A girl cries from a window above.
Doyer’s street is quiet as I walk back towards Bowery.
I hear the dragon sigh somewhere behind me.