The Boy in the Gutter Read online

  The Boy in the Gutter

  John Triptych

  Published by J Triptych Publishing, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE BOY IN THE GUTTER

  First edition. September 24, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 John Triptych.

  Written by John Triptych.

  Also by John Triptych

  Expatriate Underworld

  The Opener

  The Loader

  Stars in Shadow

  Nepenthe Rising

  Shards of Eternity

  Wild Sargasso Space

  The Dying World

  Lands of Dust

  City of Delusions

  The Maker of Entropy

  The Dying World Omnibus

  Wrath of the Old Gods

  The Glooming

  Canticum Tenebris

  A World Darkly

  Wrath of the Old Gods Boxed Set 1

  Wrath of the Old Gods (Young Adult)

  Pagan Apocalypse

  The Fomorians

  Eye of Balor

  Wrath of the Old Gods: Box Set 2

  X WAR

  X War: Infiltration

  X War: Incursion

  X War: Infestation

  X War Trilogy

  Standalone

  Stars in Shadow Omnibus 1

  The Boy in the Gutter

  Watch for more at John Triptych’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By John Triptych

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

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  Further Reading: The Opener

  Also By John Triptych

  About the Author

  While you live, shine. Have no grief at all. Life exists only for a short while. And Time demands its due.

  Seikilos

  Chapter 1

  AFTER THE LAST FEW firecrackers went off, Chinatown became quiet once again. The acrid smoke quickly seeped away, like a low early morning fog drifting in from the Valley.

  An LAPD patrol car that was parked across the road started up, and the two cops keeping watch over us sped away, their sirens blaring into the late night. The few crowds still present had already thinned out as everyone needed to be up early.

  Leaning against one of the support columns by the Broadway entrance, I took out a pack of Chesterfields from my shirt pocket and lit one with my Zippo lighter, puffing in a lungful to counteract the smell of gunpowder in my nostrils. The main stage at the central plaza was about thirty feet from where I was, and the dragon dancers and accompanying musicians had begun to pack away their drums, cymbals, and gongs before leaving the platform.

  From the corner of my eye I saw my best friend walking towards me with a smile on his face. Herbert Wong looked kind of like me, except he was a tad pudgier, and his hair wasn’t as perfectly combed as mine. When we were kids we were practically twins, and only our parents could tell us apart. But when it came to eating, Herbert would always have one more: if I ate a hotdog or a hamburger, he’d have another, if I ate a bowl of noodles, he’d have a second helping, and if I drank a soda pop he’d have a further bottle for the road. And so it went until he expanded sideways.

  Herbert stopped a few feet away from me and lit up his own cigarette with a matchstick—he preferred Lucky Strikes. “That was some show, huh, Dapper?”

  I shrugged. To be honest, I had been bored by the whole thing. For the first time in seven seasons I didn’t volunteer to participate in the dragon dance. “Seen it all before. Happens year in and year out.”

  A voice from just outside the entrance called out in our direction. “Hey, hey, you guys!”

  We both turned. A middle-aged white man stood at the edge of the sidewalk, crooking his index finger towards us. He looked kind of funny, with a round smiling face like Stan Laurel’s, while having the pudgy body of Oliver Hardy. His mismatched blue and black suit was paired with a disheveled shirt that had an upturned collar to one side, and his short, fat red tie swung like a silk pendulum as his shoulders swayed back and forth in a listless manner. The battered porkpie hat on his head tilted sideways, the way Buster Keaton used to wear his.

  I stole a winking glance at Herbert before approaching the man. “What can we do for you, mister?”

  The man was clearly soused while pointing at the debris from the just concluded festivities with a wobbly finger. His red face was puffed up and he could barely stay upright. “What’s going on in this place of yours?” he asked.

  “We’re celebrating the start of the Chinese New Year,” I answered.

  “Gosh, didn’t New Year’s happen already? You Asiatics are awfully late!”

  I didn’t bother to look at Herbert, who I knew was probably rolling his eyes. “We use a different calendar, mister.”

  “Is that right? It’s... ah, what day is it again?”

  “We’re about an hour into January twenty-second, 1947,” I said, adding in the year just in case he forgot it too.

  “Right. So what kind of a calendar would celebrate New Year’s Eve three weeks late?”

  “Because our calendar includes phases of the Moon, so it sort of changes every year.”

  He pursed his lips. My words seemed to have impressed him. “Gee, that sounds pretty interesting. When I was walking over here, I heard a lot of gunfire. Were you Chinese shooting at cats and dogs so you could eat something during this event of yours?”

  “No, what you heard were firecrackers,” I said. “We set them off to scare away evil spirits and bad luck—too bad it didn’t work this time.”

  The man placed his plump hands on his hips and shook his head. “Fancy that. I missed it all.”

  “Ah, it’s not a problem, mister,” Herbert said. “The celebrations last for fifteen days. You can come back tomorrow, and there’ll be more dragon dances and firecrackers that you can watch in the next few evenings.”

  “Too bad for me, China boy,” the man said. “I gotta be on the train bound for Wichita by nine o’clock this morning. I’ve been given a free day to look around this city, and seems like my time has sadly come to an end.”

&nbs
p; “Sorry to hear that,” I lied.

  The lush started looking around. It seemed like he didn’t want his little tour of Los Angeles to end, but time was conspiring with fate to do just that. He was just about to give up and move on when an old rickshaw that had been placed by the entrance caught his eye. “Hey,” he said, pointing towards it. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I dunno, mister,” I said. “I’m not a mind reader.”

  Shuffling closer to the derelict two-wheeled cart that had been put there as a display, he began running his hands along the gnarled wooden spokes. “Say, you Orientals use these things to get around instead of cars, right?”

  I took a few steps closer towards him so I wouldn’t have to shout and spook the other people moving along the sidewalk. “We have cars now, mister, just like everyone else.”

  The rumdum looked up towards the late night sky with a smile on his face, as if an idea popped up in his otherwise intoxicated head. Taking out a pair of bills from his pocket he waved them at us. “How about you two take me for a ride? I’ll give you boys a buck each.”

  Herbert was about to turn around and walk away, but I held him by his elbow while staring at the money being offered. I needed bus fare for my classes at the university the next day, and my parents had just paid off the creditors since it was a tradition that all debts ought to be settled during the Spring Festival, so our family’s finances would be tight for a while.

  “Could you up it to maybe five?” I asked.

  He took out another bill from his same pocket until the inner cloth had flapped out like an exposed dirty handkerchief. “All I got left is three, Chinaman. How about it?”

  I walked closer to him. “Three dollars will only get you a few blocks at the most, mister. Where do you want to go?”

  That was when he leaned forward and gave me a sly wink, his alcohol stained breath wafting into my nostrils. “Bring me to one of these little opium dens you people have.”

  I leaned back, disgusted at both his request and his odor. “Opium den?”

  “Yeah, you know, the secret places where you enslaved all the Caucasian women in. I wanna see the exotic Orient.”

  Herbert was starting to fume. “Look, mister, I think you got the wrong idea about us, we don’t—”

  I stopped him from continuing by placing my hand on his chest. Keeping my voice low, I talked through the side of my mouth without moving my lips so the drunk wouldn’t notice. “Just play along with him.”

  Herbert stood there like a propped up wooden plank. “For Pete’s sake, why?”

  “Three bucks isn’t too bad for a few minutes of work.”

  “But he wants us to take him to an opium den! There aren’t any!”

  “I’ll handle it,” I whispered back before turning towards the other man with a gentle smile. “Okay, mister, get on. But give me the money first.”

  He obliged. Pocketing the bills, I took hold of the right pole while Herbert grabbed the left side. The old rickshaw was to be thrown out by the end of this year’s festivities anyway, and I figured this would be the best way to make some final use of it.

  The man awkwardly climbed up onto the chair, nearly falling over sideways on his first try, but he managed to right himself at the last minute and flopped into the seat, catching his hat before it slipped off his head. “Let’s go, Chinamen!”

  Herbert gave me a frown. “Where are we going to take him? I’ve never heard of any opium dens around here in all my life. Have you?”

  I winked back, copying what the old boozer just did to me. “Just follow my lead.”

  Holding up both wooden poles, we began to trot down the street. The wino sitting on the rickshaw started hollering and waving at curious onlookers that we passed by, and a few cars that were still along the road were honking at us.

  I turned the rickshaw eastwards, narrowly missing two pedestrians as we pulled the cart through the crosswalk. There didn’t seem to be any cops around, and I felt somewhat lucky because of it. My parents had always taught me that danger lurked outside of Chinatown, and I had to be careful so as not to provoke anyone who wasn’t one of us. The last thing they wanted was for me to end up in any kind of trouble.

  It was a little past one o’clock in the morning and traffic was almost nonexistent, which was a relief. Crossing another street, I continued to lead us towards Union Station, where the Old Chinatown used to be. I remembered growing up there as a little tot, when the rickety shack we lived in didn’t even have a shower and I had to take my baths in an old wooden washtub. There were still remnants of the old structures around the train station, and I figured it would be the best place to dump this drunken old coot in.

  By the time we made it close to the Old Plaza, Herbert was already breathing through his mouth, sucking in great gulps of air while his husky chest heaved. “I... I can’t keep this up,” he begged.

  Being part of the cross country team at the university, my lungs and feet were in great shape. “I’ll take over from here.”

  “You got it, Dapper.”

  Herbert let go of his end and peeled away as I dexterously grasped both handles and became the sole driver. I continued pulling the rickshaw towards the southeast, crossing into another street while ignoring the shocked looks of a few sleepy bystanders on the sidewalk.

  The barfly sitting behind me continued to fidget. “Is that where the opium den is?”

  “Sure is,” I said. The street ahead had started to slope down and I needed less effort as the rickshaw gained speed. We had already crossed a mostly deserted thoroughfare while going south, and I could see the El Pueblo Historical Park just ahead of us.

  The rickshaw’s left wheel finally buckled as I tried to move it onto the sidewalk after crossing another street. At first it felt a little wobbly, but the spokes finally broke a few seconds later. I managed to move sideways and just got out of the way as the now one-wheeled cart fishtailed into a clump of bushes fronting the city’s historic plaza.

  I ended up partly skinning my left elbow when I fell, but it was a small price to pay as I got up and viewed the results of my devilish handiwork.

  The swigger had been thrown clear of the now smashed up rickshaw, and his back lay on a bed of thorny rosebushes. He screamed out in pain for a few seconds, before finally drifting off into an inebriated stupor.

  Only a few people saw what had happened, and those that did rushed over towards the now sleeping drunk. I turned and ran the other way, losing myself in the gathering crowd.

  When I made it back to the outskirts of Chinatown, Herbert was there waiting for me. We both got a few laughs when I recounted what had occurred and we visited his parents’ bar to help out with some dishwashing before calling it a night. He let me keep the three bucks since I did all the work too.

  By the end of it all I was beat, and I literally crawled my way into bed for a long snooze. Little did I know that the next few hours would change my life forever.

  Chapter 2

  CHINESE TEND TO WAKE up early, just before sunrise. By the wee hours of the morning, both my parents had already gotten up and were no doubt busy getting ready to open their restaurant, tucked away by the side of Castelar Street. I was kind of used to getting up at around the same time too, and my soul was halfway between wakefulness and Slumberland when I felt someone’s hand tugging at my shoulders.

  “Tommy, Tommy!”

  It took a few seconds for my mind to figure out who was speaking and breaking me out of a restful sleep. My ten-year-old brother Michael had a high-pitched voice just like that, and my brain quickly put the clues together and figured he was the culprit.

  Rubbing my eyes open, I turned and looked up at him with forethoughts of malice. Judging from the dim light coming from our shared bedroom window, it was just about the crack of dawn. “What’s the big deal?”

  Michael was standing over my bed, still dressed in his pajamas. Everyone called him Mickey on account of his crescent moon eyebrows and bulging eyes, reminding
us all of a certain cartoon mouse. “You need to go downstairs, quick!”

  I sat up and rubbed my tired neck. “What’s wrong?”

  “I heard Momma scream and Daddy was shouting too,” he said. “I got up and started going down the stairs, but Daddy saw me and ordered me to get back in here.”

  Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I quickly grabbed a pair of wool trousers and put them on, right over my own pajamas. I didn’t bother with socks when I slipped my shoes on, but I did a quick comb over with a dash of hair tonic before putting on a starched white collared shirt that had been hanging in my closet.

  “Stay here,” I told my brother before I opened the bedroom door and began walking down the narrow staircase that led directly into the kitchen of my parents’ restaurant. When my feet touched the ground, I noticed that the back door leading to the alleyway had been left open, and I could hear hushed murmurings in Cantonese coming from outside.

  Stepping out into the alley, I quickly spotted my parents, who were standing together facing a row of trashcans at the back of the building. Momma’s face was puffed up, it was clear she had been crying. Daddy had his arms around her, whispering soothing words of comfort in Cantonese.

  The alleyway that ran behind the rows of low buildings was one of many in Chinatown. These narrow lanes were only used for putting garbage away or for accepting deliveries through the back doors. Shallow gutters ran the length of these backstreets in order to funnel away the rain and drain them into the sewers.

  As I got closer, I saw that Wing Fong was standing at the opposite side of the alley, about fifteen feet from where my parents were. Mr. Fong ran the gift shop that fronted the street beside my family’s establishment, and his face was as white as a sheet as he continued to look at something on the ground in front of him.

  When my eyes fell upon the object that was lying in between two overfilled trashcans, I first thought it was a discarded store mannequin of some kind. Taking a few steps closer, I suddenly realized that it was the naked body of a child, probably around eleven to thirteen years old.