His tongue didn’t hurt. The wound was tiny. Nevertheless, for reasons that he could not fully explain, Tommy was unnerved by the sight of the blood.
In one of the doll’s crude mitten-like hands was a folded paper. It was held firmly in place by a straight pin with a glossy black enamel head as large as a pea.
Tommy picked up the doll. It was solid and surprisingly heavy for its size, but loose-jointed and limp—as though it might be filled with sand.
When he pulled the pin out of the doll’s hand, the death-still street briefly came alive again. A chilly breeze swept across the porch. Shrubbery rustled, and trees shuddered sufficiently to cause moon shadows to shimmer across the black lawn. Then all fell quiet and motionless again.
The paper was unevenly yellowed, as though it might be a scrap of ancient parchment, slightly oily, and splintered along the edges. It had been folded in half, then folded in half again. Opened, it was about three inches square.
The message was in Vietnamese: three columns of gracefully drawn ideograms in thick black ink. Tommy recognized the language but was not able to read it.
Rising to his full height, he stared thoughtfully at the street, then down at the doll in his hand.
After refolding the note and putting it in his shirt pocket, he went inside and closed the door. He engaged the dead-bolt lock. And the security chain.
In the living room, Tommy put the strange blank-faced doll on the end table beside the sofa, propping it against a Stickley-style lamp with a green stained-glass shade, so it was sitting with its round white head cocked to the right and its arms straight down at its side. Its mitten-like hands were open, as they had been since he had first seen it on the porch, but now they seemed to be seeking something.
He put the pin on the table beside the doll. Its black enamel head glistened like a drop of oil, and silvery light glinted off the sharp point.
He closed the drapes over each of the three living-room windows. He did the same in the dining room and family room. In the kitchen, he twisted shut the slats on the Levolor blinds.
He still felt watched.
Upstairs in the bedroom that he had outfitted as an office, where he wrote his novels, he sat at the desk without turning on a lamp. The only light came through the open door from the hall. He picked up the phone, hesitated, and then called the home number of Sal Delano, who was a reporter at the Register, where Tommy had worked until yesterday. He got an answering machine but left no message.
He called Sal’s pager. After inputting his own number, he marked it urgent.
Less than five minutes later, Sal returned the call. “What’s so urgent, cheese head?” he asked. “You forget where you put your dick?”
“Where are you?” Tommy asked.
“In the sweatshop.”
“At the office?”
“Wrangling the news.”
“Late on another deadline,” Tommy guessed.
“You called just to question my professionalism? You’re out of the news racket one day and already you’ve lost all sense of brotherhood?”
Leaning forward in his chair, hunched over his desk, Tommy said, “Listen, Sal, I need to know something about the gangs.”
“You mean the fat cats who run Washington or the punks that lean on the businessmen in Little Saigon?”
“Local Vietnamese gangs.”
“The Santa Ana Boys… Cheap Boys, Natoma Boys. You already know about them.”
“Not as much as you do,” Tommy said. Sal was a crime reporter with a deep knowledge of the Vietnamese gangs that operated not only in Orange County but nationwide. While with the newspaper, Tommy had written primarily about the arts and entertainment.
“Sal, you ever hear about Natoma or the Cheap Boys threatening anybody by mailing them an imprint of a black hand or, you know, a skull-and-crossbones or something like that?”
“Or maybe leaving a severed horse’s head in their bed?”
“Yeah. Anything like that.”
“You have your cultures confused, boy wonder. These guys aren’t courteous enough to leave warnings. They make the Mafia seem like a chamber-music society.”