Changes -- A Randall Lee Mystery Read online

  13

  We arrived at the Synergy of Heaven studio with two minutes to spare. In truth, I’d nearly forgotten all about the whole thing. As they say, time flies…

  The school was located in a big, upscale storefront, with great plate glass windows in the front. A massive Yin and Yang symbol adorned the window, along with some Chinese characters. I scanned the characters, but they didn’t seem to make any sense. The characters for ‘harmony’, ‘chaos’ and ‘peace’ were positioned inexplicably next to the characters for ‘snow pea’, ‘pork’ and ‘fist’.

  I opened the door for Tracy and followed her inside.

  I did not stare at her ass when she went in.

  Much.

  I’m a gentleman, after all.

  The school looked as if an episode of Kung Fu had exploded in an aerobics studio. Plaster Fu dog statues guarded every doorway. All the walls were decorated in red and gold. A massive stick of incredibly shitty incense burned in front of a tacky plastic altar. A tape of Chinese lute music played over the speakers. A few beginners were on the mat; I think they were trying to practice Pushing Hands, but I couldn’t be sure. They may have been performing a dramatization of young girls slap-fighting over who the cutest Backstreet Boy was, I don’t know.

  An overweight American guy walked out of the back room and headed straight for us. He looked to be about forty-five, with long, braided salt and pepper hair, a goatee, and serious eyes. He wore a black and white silk kung fu uniform and an air of superiority that stunk up the place worse than the shitty incense or his blue light special aftershave.

  We shook hands, and he introduced himself as Sifu Mort Green. We introduced ourselves. Sifu Mort immediately took a liking to Tracy. He moved as if to kiss her hand, but she managed to pull away in time.

  I liked her more and more.

  Mort didn’t seem to notice. He just turned to me and said, "So, y’all are interested in Tai Chi?"

  I nodded. Tracy, I think, was still in shock over the attempted hand molestation.

  "What most interests you in Tai Chi, Rand? Mind if I call you Rand?"

  I smiled feebly and said, "That’s fine. Mostly, sir, I was interested in the martial aspect of Tai Chi."

  He laughed and said, "Tai Chi is not about fighting, Rand. Tai Chi is about harmony. It’s about synergizing."

  "…Synergizing," I said. The word tasted retarded on my tongue. It made me want to ask for an order of the chaos pork or harmony snowpeas that were advertised on the window.

  "That’s right. For instance, if you were to push my right arm…" he said, raising his arm to indicate where I should push, "…I would synergize your energy."

  I pushed his arm lightly. Every muscle in his arm and chest tensed as he turned robotically. I remained attached to him and didn’t feel the least bit synergized, but he said, "Well, you get the idea."

  A playful gleam sparkled in his eye as he said, "Now you try!"

  He shoved.

  Hard.

  I turned, dissipating his energy… synergizing it, if you will. I expected him to at least know how to fall correctly, but his face skipped across the wooden floor like a pebble across a placid pool.

  Tracy, the dear, immediately tried to help him up. Mort managed it on his own, though, and mopped his sleeve across his face; it came away bloody. I expected anger from him, but he merely extended his right fist, covered it with his open left hand in the traditional martial salute, and bowed.

  "Forgive my arrogance, sir," he said.

  I could feel Tracy staring at me, and I felt that old familiar heat in my cheeks.

  "Listen… are you the only instructor here?" I said.

  "Yes, Sifu."

  I sighed. "I’m not your master. Is there anybody else in town that you know of, any other teachers, maybe?"

  "Cheng Xing is the best, I’m told."

  "Yeah, and available through invitation only." I said.

  He smiled a pink-toothed smile and said, "Perhaps I can assist. A letter of introduction from me may get you in."

  I didn’t have anything better going for me, so I waited while he scribbled out a brief letter. He stamped a red ink seal on it and handed it to me.

  Mort grinned a pink-toothed grin and said, "I do know that Sifu Cheng often takes his students to Millar Park for practice. I have gone there to practice sometimes, and his students often gather to watch my form."

  Yeah, I bet they do. Wide-eyed with disbelief.

  I thanked him for the letter, though, and Tracy and I went out to her car.

  I opened the letter and read it. The red seal at the bottom proclaimed ‘Happy Choi’s meats are best.’

  I folded the letter, stuck it in my pocket and looked up to see Mort waving to us from the window. We both smiled and waved, and Tracy quickly drove away.

  At the next stop light, Tracy kept staring at me until I said, "What?"

  "You… That was amazing."

  "No," I said, "amazing is not the word. Sad. Sad would be the word for that."

  14

  We went back to the park for my car. As much as I hated to leave the magical, candy-colored, teenage wasteland of giddy lust that was my time with Tracy, I had to get back to work. On the drive back to the shop, I turned up the radio really loud and sang badly to whatever was on. I think it was Chicago. The Peter Cetera incarnation. It may even have been "You’re the Inspiration."

  Clearly, I have neither shame nor musical taste.

  The afternoon’s clients provided a nice break from reality. Things like asthma and irritable bowel syndrome I could deal with. Hell, even the police stuff wasn’t too bad, now that I had a plan. Never mind that my plan was basically to poke around where I didn’t belong until somebody poked back. It was something, at least.

  As far as Tracy, well, I was at a bit of a loss. I couldn’t stick a needle in her, or kick her ass, and really, those are my only comfort zones. I didn’t know what to do with anybody who could, at any point, make me bust out in that "Power of Love" song from Karate Kid II.

  So I focused on healing.

  And did my best not to fixate too much on my dinner with her at eight.

  At my place.

  Gulp.

  The minute Mrs. Sanchez, my last pincushion of the day, was out the door, I ran up the stairs and surveyed the damage: Dishes in the sink, dirty laundry on the floor, and a general unpleasant funk about the place. The place looked like a combination between the average bachelor pad and a Turkish prison cell.

  I rummaged through a kitchen drawer for some incense and came up with a single shriveled stick of Nag Champa.

  Good enough.

  I opened the windows, lit the incense, and got to work straightening the place up.

  Amazing how much mess you can cram into a place in just six months.

  With the dishes washed, the laundry done, and the cardboard boxes shoved away into a back closet, the place started looking halfway presentable. Didn’t smell too bad, either.

  I took a quick shower, shaved, and dragged a brush through my hair. My closet was a disorganized mess, but I grabbed a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt.

  Feeling pretty good about things, I checked the time. Everything was set, and it was only quarter till eight.

  I was a master of the universe.

  Then it hit me…

  ‘Dinner’ meant that I was supposed to provide some sort of food, usually of the cooked variety.

  Shit.

  I ran to the cupboards and scrambled to find something remotely edible.

  And the doorbell rang.

  I spat out as many curses as my deflated lungs would allow and went to answer it.

  I stopped in front of the door, ran my fingers through my hair, wiped the sudden abundance of sweat from my face, and cleared my throat. Then I opened the door.

  "Hi." she said with a slight wave, her eyes downcast shyly.

  "Er…hi." I said, because I’m smooth like that.

  After an awkward minute, I mo
ved my stupid, gawking ass out of the way so she could come in. She wore a black and violet dress that accentuated curves I never knew she had, and that was impressive since I liked to think that I was becoming something of a scholar when it came to her curves. Her jet black hair was swept up and secured with long, deadly-looking pins; I made a mental note to keep my hands to myself. I also noted her big, dark eyes, her pale, fine neck, those ever-lovely legs, and her long and delicate fingers.

  I cleared my throat again and offered her a drink.

  She asked if I had beer. I didn’t let on that beer was about the only thing I had.

  I took two bottles from the fridge, popped the tops, and explained how I’d completely spaced dinner. While I fumbled the words, she watched with an amused, lopsided grin and finally said, "That’s okay. We could order in."

  There was something predatory in her eyes that said I wasn’t getting off the hook this time. That was okay by me. While I was on the phone, she scanned my bookshelves and ended up at the CD rack.

  "…Huh…"

  "What?" I said.

  "What what?" she said, wide-eyed.

  "You made a disappointed ‘huh’ sound." I said, grinning.

  "No, I didn’t."

  I nodded. "Sure did."

  She blushed slightly and said, "It’s just…you have really weird taste in music."

  "I do?"

  She raised an eyebrow and said, "Um, yeah? You have a royal crap-ton of, like, Chinese CDS and then…it’s… I mean, classic rock, anyone?"

  "What’s wrong with that?" I said.

  She poked me in the stomach and said, "Live in the now, man! Don’t be an old geezer!"

  "I told you. I’m older than I look."

  She stuck the tip of her tongue out at me and said, "You’re not that old."

  I grinned. "Okay. How old do you think I am?"

  "Unh-uh. I’m not playing that game," she said.

  "Why not?" I said.

  "Because I’ll guess one way or the other too far and insult the shit out of you. Just tell me."

  "Does it matter?" I said. I’d wondered that a lot, myself.

  "No," she said, laughing, "Why, what are you….thirty?"

  "I’m forty-two." I said.

  She laughed again and said, "Bullshit."

  I smiled and shrugged.

  "You are not," she said, looking to see if I was indeed pulling her leg.

  I kept smiling; I could’ve whipped out my driver’s license, but that would’ve just been tacky.

  Her smile faded a little. "Are you?"

  "Does it matter?" I said again. It occurred to me then how unfair this was. I should’ve told her immediately, before any feelings had developed. Of course, I couldn’t speak for her, but my feelings developed the day she walked into my shop with her friend. Maybe I should just start shouting out, "I’m forty-two," to everybody who came into the shop. That’d fix ‘em.

  She stared at me, searching. I was certain, for a moment, that she was going to leave. Instead, she came closer, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed me. She stopped, stared at me some more, and kissed me again, deeper. Laying her head on my chest, she said, "This is weird."

  "It is?" I said.

  "No," she said, "not at all. And that makes it weird."

  Later, when the pizza arrived, I took a spare blanket from the hall closet and, at Tracy’s suggestion, spread it out on the living room floor so that we could have a ‘carpet picnic.’

  While I got plates for us and another beer for her, she went down to her car and came back up with a massive, sticker-covered CD case.

  "What’s that for?" I said.

  "Culture." she said, unzipping the case and flipping through the clear plastic pages. After much deliberation, she slipped a disc from its sleeve and put it in the stereo.

  "This," she said with a flourish, "is Dead Can Dance. Listen, learn, and love."

  She closed her eyes with a smile and made a slow, swaying turn in time with the music, gliding up to me like a ghost, wrapping her arms around my neck and looking up with those eyes; she made my chest ache, though not unpleasantly.

  My hands found her waist as if by magic and slid down over her hips. Our lips found each other and reunited happily. I bent my knees enough to clasp the backs of her thighs and lift her to me. She kicked her shoes to the floor and wrapped her bare legs around my waist.

  Lightheaded as I was, I’m not sure how we ended up against the wall. I was conscious only of the heat of her mouth, the swell of her breasts as her breathing came in shuddering sighs, the pressure of her hips arching against mine.

  And then, at the unlikeliest of times, my brain kicked in.

  You barely know this girl, it said.

  Technically, this was true.

  You’re practically old enough to be her father, it said.

  She doesn’t seem to mind, I retorted, and besides, you’re only as old as you feel, right?

  My brain, ever the smart-ass, said, So what are you, then, huh? Ninety? What about Miranda? What about Grace?

  I mentally told my brain to go right on off and fuck itself.

  Luckily, Tracy brought me back to reality before I had to resort to the ole ‘I’m rubber and you’re glue’ defense.

  She whispered, "What about the pizza?"

  "It can wait, right?" I said.

  "Mm-hm," she muttered. "It can watch for all I care."

  Take that, brain.

  15

  "Is it lame of me to ask what all of this means?" she asked, later.

  Pizza in bed at three a.m. with a beautiful naked woman. Does life get better?

  I think not.

  I’d figured that I knew what all of this meant, but I said, "Hm?"

  Because I’m clever like that.

  She drew her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. A half-eaten slice of deep dish cheese with black olives dangled from her hand.

  "This. Us. Is there even an us? I mean, was this just for fun or…or what?"

  I took a bite of pizza and wiped my mouth with a paper towel.

  She said, "Shit. I’m fucking it up, aren’t I? I’m totally doing the girl thing. I’m sorry, forget I said anything. It is what it is." She slumped and said, "I just… I don’t want you to think I go around doing this sort of thing…"

  I leaned over, cupped her chin in my hand, and lifted her face enough to kiss her.

  "I don’t." I said. "And it wasn’t fun."

  Her eyes widened.

  I stammered, "No! I mean it was fun… but I just meant… that it wasn’t just fun. I like you. A lot."

  "You do?"

  She smiled.

  "You couldn’t tell?" I said.

  She shrugged and said, "Lots of guys want to fuck me. That doesn’t necessarily mean they like me."

  It wasn’t a boast.

  "I like you." I said. When in doubt, repeat yourself.

  "Well, I like you, too." She said, tilting her chin up and blowing me a kiss.

  I dropped my slice of pizza into the box, tossed the box to the floor, and slid closer. She bit her lip and raised an eyebrow.

  "Again?" she said.

  I bit her neck in response.

  She wrapped her arms around me, tossed her pizza at the box on the floor, and giggled, "I guess you really do like me."

  In the early morning hours a pale sunrise filtered in through the window painting her sleeping body in shades of peach and pink, casting shadows that shifted with the slow rise and fall of her breath. I sat and watched her. I wanted a cigarette and a strong drink, but I refrained.

  Instead, I thought about the mechanics of ‘like,’ and about the way it becomes…more than ‘like’.

  After much careful thought, I decided that what we had, whatever it was, was really something. Two adults pouncing on each other like a couple of teenagers in the middle of the night, with pizza-breath, no less, felt like something more than just casual. But then, what did I know?

  I thought about Miran
da.

  And Grace.

  And promptly began to really feel like a piece of shit.

  I got up, found an old, stale pack of Marlboros in a desk drawer, and went out on the balcony for a cigarette.

  I didn’t get much sleep that night.

  That, in itself, wasn’t anything new.

  I wasn’t sure about Tracy’s sleeping schedule, though, and I didn’t want to wake her. I got up around seven, ran through a little practice quickly, and showered. I scribbled a note for Tracy and walked down to the market. On the way, I passed HK Trading and barely restrained the urge to stick out my tongue.

  I hit a different market, and realized that I didn’t know what she would want for breakfast. We’d gotten a meatless pizza; did that mean she was a vegetarian? I tried to think of our previous meals together, but I’d never paid very much attention to the food.

  And here I thought I was observant.

  This girl had knocked me for a loop. Boy, had she.

  "Lee Laoshi, you’re smiling… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before."

  I looked up at Mrs. Yip, the owner of the store, and felt color rush to my face. Great, I thought, I’m walking around like a dopey kid with a crush.

  I asked Mrs. Yip how she and her family were doing and continued shopping while she ranted about her husband. We’d been through this many times before. I knew just when to throw in an ‘uh-huh’ or a ‘you’re kidding’. She never seemed to mind. Part of it was that she just wanted to practice her English.

  I half-listened and decided to just get a little of everything and hope for the best.

  I took my groceries to the counter and waited for Mrs. Yip to give me a total. She looked at the food and looked up at me. Her eyes looked huge behind her thick glasses. Mrs. Yip was used to me only buying a six pack and a packet of chow mein noodles at any given time. I think she was in shock. As she added up the items, I went to the small flower stand by the front window and picked a couple of nice long-stem pink roses. When I laid them upon the counter Mrs. Yip’s eyes lit up.