The Last Days Of Lucky Dragon

Steve Mitchell

A Wondershpiel Book

First Published 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Steve Mitchell

Copyright © 2015 Wondershpiel

ISBN Number 978-1-68222-753-4

e-book ISBN Number 978-1-68222-754-1

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons or entities living or dead in purely coincidental.

Thanks to Winston Lee Chan for design assistance.

Printed in The United States Of America.

For the Lew family and my daughter Hope.

May you savor every part of your rich heritage.

Luck.

That’s what the neon sign hanging from the building read, the final y having finally burnt out some time ago. If you asked him, K.C. Chang couldn’t say exactly when it flickered last. Besides, right now he was occupied with the routine of closing up The Lucky Dragon for another night.

First, the count. The credit card slips looked lighter than other nights and the cash did too, save for a few hundred-dollar bills. But as he banged away on his mechanical calculator, pulling the lever between bursts of finger movements, K.C. was pleasantly surprised. A few tables had ordered liquor. What with some larger platters and a few appetizers here and there, the total wasn’t bad for a Thursday. That is, a Thursday anytime in the last fifteen years.

Maybe it was that very nostalgia that made his eye drift to the corkboard above his desk and the magazine clippings, curled and yellowed with the years.

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“Jazz And Chinese Food: Muncie Restaurant’s Winning Blend,” trumpeted Midwest Dining.

“The Lucky Dragon: Indiana’s Oasis Of Cool,” proclaimed Chicago.

Those days were never coming back. K.C. didn’t frown. He didn’t smile. He just stared.

He zipped the night’s take into a bank bag and headed out to the dining room for a last check-over. The stretch of tables on an expanse of worn red carpet seemed oddly less empty now than when they were only occupied by one or two diners, as was too often the case these days. A look over the steam table revealed all was in order. At the bar the only item out of place was the drumsticks. K.C. picked them up off the counter, caressed them for a beat, and dropped them into the cluster of chopsticks standing in a martini shaker, their usual home.

He opened the walk-in cooler, grabbed the takeout bag of food for home, and reached for the electrical panel. Without needing to look, he found each breaker for the lights and flicked them off. The last to go out was the big neon sign.

The sunshine blazing through the thirty-second floor window brought a dramatic accent to the Illinois Real Estate Commission seal mounted on the wall. The real estate agents seated along the boardroom table took no notice. Things were going to be dramatic enough at this meeting without help from the sun.

“We have to think about how this looks,” said a tanned, silver fox of an agent to his neighbor.

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“That’s what I’ve been saying all along. The last thing we need is to invite attention,” said a patrician power-seller, her greying hair a helmet on her head, ready for combat.

BANG!

A meaty hand slammed a gavel down at the head of the long table. Attached to the hand was the board chairman. The white col-lar of his otherwise blue shirt stretched tight around his fat neck. With maroon suspenders and diamond cufflinks, he was eternally Eighties. He had probably been feared since then too. The yammer-ing agents stopped without need of a second gavel hit.

“So, do we have a finding?” the chairman asked, his voice boom-ing down the long table.

“Yes, sir,” a young man in seersucker said as he passed the enve-lope up the table.

The chairman flipped open the flap and pulled out the paper inside. Annoyed disbelief crossed his face.

“Bring him back in,” he said.

The door to the hall opened and a good-looking Asian man, coiffed and wearing a designer suit, walked in. He took a seat at the far end, opposite the chairman, and stared ahead.

The chairman took a deep breath, and looked at him. A half-smile developed.

“Michael.”

“Mr. Chairman,” the younger man responded.

“Please, this is pathetic enough without the bull--” the chairman brought himself up short. “--without the excessive formality.”

“Just give it to me, Chuck,” said Michael, his fatigue showing.

The chairman inhaled, then read aloud.

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“In the case of the North Coast Towers Phase 2 development, this tribunal finds Michael Chang, an agent and broker, to be in violation of ethics clauses 16 and 122 of the Illinois Real Estate Commission’s Code of Conduct. While these findings in no way imply criminal liability, they constitute a serious violation of professional standards as established by this board. As such this agent-broker’s licenses to operate in the state of Illinois are hereby suspended for…”

The chairman frowned and reached for his pen, crossing out “One Year” and writing in his own number.

“--for six months effective today,” he continued.

A few tribunal members turned in surprise. The chairman glared back.

“Chair’s privilege. So put your eyes back in your heads,” he said. “For the record, Michael, do you have any comments on this matter or the decision?”

Michael thought for a moment, his mind re-processing all the options he’d run through. Was it time to unleash a tirade about hypocrisy? Was it time to name names and literally point fingers at some of the town’s dirtiest dealers, seated smugly at this very table? Was it time to stop the check he had mailed to the bonehead who had acted as his lawyer during this affair? The answer to all these questions came back, ‘no’. It was simply time to move on, pull back, and regroup.

“Yeah, I have one comment,” said Michael as he rose and slowly buttoned his jacket. “See you in six months.” He turned and walked toward the door, sending a dismissive little wave backward to the room.

The pearl metallic paint glowed on the his-and-hers Cadillacs in the driveway, making them look newer than they were. K.C. claimed the DeVille, Ma the Catera.

When the Changs moved into Rolling Meadow in the early 1960s, it was new and it was the best development in Muncie. Most of the split-levels and ranch bungalows had four bedrooms, double garages and, almost unheard of back then, two-piece master ensuite bathrooms. Some even had three-pieces. Inside one of those very rare three-pieces, K.C. stood before the mirror.

“Today, today. Goddamn it, let it be today,” he moaned, then rubbed his face vigorously before going into his routine.

Brush hit teeth, razor whacked whisker, and blood pressure sleeve hugged bicep. Routine complete, he walked back into the bedroom to find Ma completely ready in sneakers, windbreaker and tennis visor.

14 | STEVE MITCHELL

“Why’d you take so long?” she asked.

“So long? I just…” he reached for his glasses on the dresser. When he turned back to her, she was already gone.

He threw on his walking gear, locked up, and found Ma seated in the DeVille, fiddling with some cassettes. She made her usual selec-tion. Its Chinese-English cover announced Sammie To: When I’m With You.

As they rolled along, she stuck it in the dashboard. A syrupy Hong Kong love ballad poured forth and Ma swayed and sang qui-etly. After a minute, K.C. snapped off the stereo. Ma turned to him with dagger eyes.

“Humph!” she snorted, then looked out the window and pouted.

K.C. grudgingly turned the stereo back on, but at lower volume, and Ma got back into the crooner’s melody.

As they approached the high school, K.C. noticed more cars in the lot than usual. He hoped they brought only more joggers, not more dogs. Ma wouldn’t like that. They parked and walked down the steps to the track.

When they had started walking ten years ago, prompted by K.C.’s ‘spare tire’ and some stern doctor’s warnings, they would get up to a light jog. Now, they settled for brisk steps.

“What time is he coming?” Ma asked after a lap and a half.

“Eleven o’clock.”

“Chinese?”

“Korean,” K.C. said. He waited for a negative comment. Ma sur-prised him.

“Good. Last one Chinese. Big talk, no money.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

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“When did he call Roger?”

“Ma--”

“When, K.C.?”

“Tuesday.”

After some mental calculations, Ma blurted, “That’s the eighth! Eighth of the month, that is good luck.”

K.C. rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well we’ll need it.”

After exactly eight laps of the track Ma insisted they leave instead of doing their usual ten. When K.C. bristled, she deftly changed the topic by complaining about the barely noticeable drizzle just starting to hit them.

The DeVille rolled up to its parking spot at the rear of The Lucky Dragon. K.C. got out, dressed for another day in the restaurant busi-ness. He didn’t go for business casual. His father had drawn the line sharply; it was either ‘business’ or ‘casual’, never both. K.C. pulled up his tie and grabbed his jacket off the hook behind the driver’s seat. He inhaled deeply and walked around the outside of the joint, taking its measure.

If it were a hotel, it would be called a grand dame. With two storeys and seating for two hundred if needed - and it never was anymore - the Dragon occupied an entire odd-sized parcel of land here at the edge of downtown. The parking was equally generous, and K.C. had recently allowed a trucking company to rent space for a couple of its idle trailers at the far end of it.

At the front, huge crimson fighting dragons coiled around equally huge red pillars. They made a powerful statement in 1964. But now the green pagoda roof, the weathered yellow stucco on the

THE LAST DAYS OF LUCKY DRAGON | 17

walls, and the weeds growing out of the asphalt sent a different mes-sage, one all too familiar in the Rust Belt.

K.C.’s eyes drifted to the sign, an ornate neon affair that boldly proclaimed The Lucky Dragon, and underneath, Fine Chinese Dining with American Entertainment, the portion of the sign which he had disconnected from power some time back.

Still, the sign stirred him. A smile crept across his face. It died when his gaze drifted down the wall to a sagging vinyl banner. Super Value Lunch Buffet! it screamed. He sighed and walked back to the kitchen door at rear.

Once inside, he found King hard at work. Fresh off the boat, the kid toiled for the Dragon like it still had a chance. If only, K.C. thought.

“Morning Mr. Chang,” he chirped.

K.C. waved and continued to the dining room, and on past the bar. Well, almost past.

“There he is. Good morning, commander.”

K.C. stopped, feigning surprise. “Good morning, Dennis.”

In his double-breasted navy blazer set off with a pastel but-ton-down shirt and matching pocket puff, dapper Dennis Tewkesbury had held down the Dragon bar at lunch for over twenty years. He’d once owned the largest men’s formal wear company in town, a store that saw three generations of tumescent high-school prom-goers pass through its doors. That was, until a couple recessions ago when, coupled with a big divorce settlement against him, Dennis and his family were finally forced to hang up their tape measures. Now, with no need to get back to the store, he drank until mid-afternoon.

“Thanks for asking, sure I’ll have another,” Dennis said to the bartender who didn’t actually ask. He moved his tumbler forward to

18 | STEVE MITCHELL

catch another bourbon. His other arm slid around a reluctant K.C., roping him in.

“So, K.C. Here we are.”

“Yes, Dennis. Here we are.”

“Tell me. I hear you’re heading for the bamboo rocking chair? Florida? Say it isn’t so.”

K.C. played coy. “What do you mean, retirement?”

“What else would I mean?”

“No, no. Well, I’ve got plans, like anyone.”

“Plans?” Dennis leaned in. “Plans are for houses. You’re finally selling, aren’t you?”

K.C. realized there was no escape. He lowered his voice and played casual. “My ears are open. If it’s the right offer.”

Dennis pulled him close, waved for another shot.

“Do tell,” he said, a glimmer in his eye.

“Well, Roger’s listed me. Out of town mostly. I don’t want my competition knowing.”

“OK. So, I’ll give you two pieces of business advice. One, don’t sell to family.”

“And?” K.C. hated Dennis’s theatrical pause, but didn’t let it show.

“Don’t sell to strangers.”

It took a second. Then K.C. looked at his most loyal remaining customer and started laughing.

“You just want to keep coming in to grind my gears,” he said.

“You love it!” said Dennis.

“And drink my booze!”

THE LAST DAYS OF LUCKY DRAGON | 19

They were now both laughing.

“How the hell else am I supposed to start my day?” pleaded Dennis.

K.C. slapped him on the back and walked away to check the steam table. “Maybe with coffee like everyone else,” he said under his breath.

The quilt of color that was the ‘Super Value Lunch Buffet’ steam table was almost complete. Scarlet spare ribs, green beans, brown fried rice, and the translucent sauces, yellow and ruby—Nuclear Orange as Jimmy Timmy called it—were all there next to their chicken ball targets. K.C. stirred the rice unnecessarily and looked over at the stage.

Raised two steps from the rest of the dining room, the stage had been the restaurant’s distinction forty years ago. Later, with tables in place, it became just another part of the dining room, a sad reminder of the music dying. And now, with those seats lying fallow thanks to slow business, it had become an even sadder reminder. Especially to K.C. So, he blurred his gaze and slipped away….

On the kit, he’s keeping a fast, syncopated beat. The sax player is riding a melody line with the man on keys. The cat on upright bass is chugging forward with abandon. The singer, a woman who teaches music at Ball State, is just swaying, coiling for her next blast. The crowd, some of whom have just come for the music, is diggin’ it big time. K.C. breaks into a solo that leans on floor tom, ride cymbal, and brushed snare. It hits a peak, then another, and then another before the rest of the band comes back in. The place goes nuts. K.C. looks to the side and sees his father. He gives him a smile. He gets nothing in return. His father, frowning, shakes his head and retreats to the kitchen.