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The Painted Boy
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
- 1 - - SANTO DEL VADO VIEJO , MARCH 2008
- 2 -
- 3 -
- 4 - - JAY
- 5 -
- 6 -
- 7 -
- 8 -
- 9 -
Acknowledgements
BOOKS BY CHARLES DE LINT
The Riddle of the Wren
Moonheart: A Romance
The Harp of the Grey Rose
Mulenegro: A Romany Tale
Yarrow: An Autumn Tale
Jack, the Giant Killer
Greenmantle
Wolf Moon
Svaha
The Valley of Thunder
Drink Down the Moon
Ghostwood
Angel of Darkness (as Samuel M. Key)
The Dreaming Place
The Little Country
From a Whisper to a Scream (as Samuel M. Key)
Spiritwalk
Dreams Underfoot (collection)
Into the Green
I’ ll Be Watching You (as Samuel M. Key)
The Wild Wood
Memory and Dream
The Ivory and the Horn (collection)
Jack of Kinrowan
Trader
Someplace to be Flying
Moonlight and Vines (collection)
Forests of the Heart
Triskell Tales: 22 Years of Chapbooks (collection)
The Road to Lisdoonvarna
The Onion Girl
Seven Wild Sisters (illustrated by Charles Vess)
A Handful of Coppers (collection)
Waifs and Strays (collection)
Tapping the Dream Tree (collection)
A Circle of Cats (illustrated by Charles Vess)
Spirits in the Wires
Medicine Road (illustrated by Charles Vess)
The Blue Girl
Quicksilver and Shadow (collection)
The Hour Before Dawn (collection)
Triskell Tales 2 (collection)
Widdershins
Promises to Keep
Little (Grrl) Lost
Woods and Waters Wild (collection)
What the Mouse Found (collection)
Dingo
The Mystery of Grace
Eyes Like Leaves
Muse and Reverie (collection)
The Painted Boy
VIKING
Published by Penguin Group
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First published in the United States in 2010 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Charles de Lint, 2010
All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE
eISBN : 978-1-101-44534-1
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
The city, characters, and events to be found in these pages are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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FOR KIN & PENNY
THE DRAGON GARDEN, CHICAGO CHINATOWN, 2003
Jade that is not chiseled cannot become a gem.
—CHINESE PROVERB
THE BOY HAD finally fallen asleep. Standing at the side of his bed, Susan Li pulled the cover down and studied the dragon tattoo that was not a tattoo. It took up most of her eleven-year-old son’s back, a complicated pattern of golds and yellows with black outlines, the image bearing a disturbing similarity to the logo of the restaurant downstairs.
He’d always been a brave boy, never flinching over cuts and scrapes, but he’d cried in misery for hours at the pain of the image forming on his skin.
The family crest.
The family curse was what Susan called it.
She had three other children. She’d agonized over each of them until they reached puberty, then given thanks to the spirits of her ancestors that the child had been spared. Three times lucky.
But not this time.
“
She turned to see her own mother standing in the doorway.
“You don’t have some magic to tell you that?” she asked.
Paupau frowned at the double insult—the tone of her daughter’s voice and being addressed in their adopted language rather than Mandarin—but then her features smoothed.
“” she said.
Susan nodded. She wanted to rail at the older woman, but she knew it wasn’t Paupau’s fault. This was something that lay deep in the family’s blood. It went back for generations.
“I thought my children would be free of the curse,” she said. “That it would skip my children’s generation as it did my own.”
“
“” Susan said, finally switching to Mandarin.
It was impossible to read Paupau’s expression.
“” she told her daughter. “
“
Paupau’s gaze went to the sleeping boy.
“
- 1 -
SANTO DEL VADO VIEJO , MARCH 2008
Fortune seldom repeats; troubles never occur alone.
—CHINESE PROVERB
ROSALIE BROUGHT a plate of beans and rice out to La Maravilla’s back patio. Setting the plate on a table, she got a glass of water from a pitcher by the door, then settled gratefully into a chair. She’d been on her feet since early this morning and she’d be here until late tonight, working a double shift because her cousin Ines had asked her to cover for her.
For a long moment she simply savored being able to relax in the quiet. She took the elastic out of her hair and redid her ponytail. She pulled the chair on the opposite side of the tab
le closer with the toe of her running shoe, then stretched her legs out on it.
It was midafternoon of another hot day and she had the patio to herself. The touristas preferred the air-conditioning inside, and in comparison the two-tiered patio was not only hot, but also shabby. It sported a motley array of plastic patio furniture, worn by use and discolored by weather. A fence of saguaro ribs ran along either side of the patio to the wall at the back; scraggly cacti grew in rock garden beds that followed the fences. More saguaro ribs served as a half roof over this part of the patio. Two large mesquite trees shaded the upper tier and were home to dozens of wrens and sparrows that would swoop down to snatch dropped tortilla chips. A low adobe wall separated the patio from the dusty alley behind.
The birds were bold, the tiny lizards shyer. But if you sat quietly enough, they would come out from between the saguaro ribs or rest on the wide top of the wall soaking up the sun.
Rosalie moved her plate closer and reached for her fork, but before she could take a bite, she heard the sound of rapid footsteps in the alley. A moment later, a dark-haired Chinese boy wearing a small backpack vaulted over the wall. He saw her, put a finger to his lips, then scrambled up into one of the mesquites with all the agility of a monkey.
While she was still registering his sudden appearance, she heard more footsteps. A moment later, two of the local gangbangers were staring at her from the other side of the wall. She didn’t know their names, but she knew they ran with the Presidio Kings. The heavier of the two pointed at her with a muscled arm covered in tattoos. He had a crown tattooed on his forehead with devil’s horns on either side. His companion had a knife scar down one side of his face.
“Yo,” he said. “You there. You see a Chink go by?”
Rosalie had no reason to protect the boy hiding in the tree, but like most people in the neighborhood, she hated the swaggering gangbangers.
She shook her head.
“I find you’ve been lying to me,” the man said, “and I’ll come back and mess up that pretty little face of yours.”
The threat made her angry, but she kept her temper in check. Confronting him would only make things worse.
She lowered her feet to the ground to make it easier to move if she had to retreat into the restaurant.
“I’m not lying,” she said. “No one went by.”
And it was the truth. The boy hadn’t gone by. He’d climbed up into the tree.
The gangbanger held her gaze for a long moment, then he grinned. He blew her a kiss and the pair moved off down the alley. Rosalie raised her middle finger to their backs, but she stayed where she was until her pulse slowed a little. She waited a few moments longer before she went up the steps and crossed the upper patio to lean over the wall. She looked in the direction the men had gone, then the other just to be safe, before she quietly called up into the tree.
“They’re gone,” she said. “You can come down now.”
He was just as agile in his descent, but whereas before she didn’t doubt it was panic that had gotten him up the tree so quickly, now she was sure he was just showing off. He dropped the last few feet, landing lightly, and they stood there looking at each other.
He wasn’t hard to look at, Rosalie thought. He seemed about seventeen—her own age—with the soft jet-black hair that you couldn’t get out of a bottle, only from your genes. His eyes were so dark they almost seemed black, and he was sinewy rather than scrawny, as she’d thought from her earlier glance. His well-worn jeans were a boot cut, though he was wearing running shoes. His white T-shirt had no logo and could stand a wash. He had a gray hooded jersey tied around his waist.
“Thanks,” he said.
She nodded.
“So, what did you do to piss off the Kings?” she asked.
“The Kings?” he repeated. “What, are those guys in a band or something?”
“Try gang. They were members of the Presidio Kings and seriously, you don’t want to mess with them.”
He held up a hand to stop her.
“I swear I have no idea what they wanted from me,” he said.
“Then why were they chasing you?”
“I don’t know. I got into town on the ten o’clock bus. When I got off the bus I noticed these guys—you know, the baggy pants, shaved heads, all the tattoos on their faces and everything.”
She gave him a surprised look. “You saw the Kings at the bus station? That’s weird.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s 66 Bandas turf.”
“I didn’t mean it was the same guys who were chasing me,” he said. “They were just, you know, similar.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Is it all gangs around here?”
She shrugged. “There’s, like, two worlds,” she said, interlacing her fingers and holding them up. “The world most people see and then the one that belongs to the bandas—the gangs. They don’t really mix—lots of people don’t know much more about the bandas than what they read in the paper—but if you pay any kind of attention, you can see them both. Here in the barrios, we don’t really get a choice. They’re always around and all you can do is try to keep out of their way.”
“I wish I’d talked to you before I got off the bus.”
“So, what did you do to get onto the 66ers’ radar?”
“Nothing.” He paused, then added, “Well, I talked to a cop.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nice move.”
“What? I was just asking him directions to some Chinese restaurants.”
“You don’t like Mexican food?”
“I love Mexican food. I was looking for a job. I went to this one a couple of blocks south of the bus station called the something Gardens—”
“Shanghai.”
“Right. The Shanghai Gardens. The cook there said he’d heard the Imperial down here in Barrio Histórico was looking for help. When I stepped out of the restaurant, those guys were waiting for me and told me to hand over my knapsack. I got away from them and—”
“You got away from two different gangs?”
He shrugged. “As soon as I saw them, I recognized them from the bus depot, so I just took off. I’m a fast runner. But here’s the funny thing. When I was crossing that bridge over the San Pedro . . .” His voice trailed off and he gave her a puzzled smile. “Why exactly do you have a huge dry riverbed in the middle of the city?”
“It’s only dry until it rains in the mountains. Then it’s a torrent that’s so strong it can easily wash a car away. Some years it even overflows its banks.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “So, you were crossing the bridge . . . ?”
“Yeah, and those guys were hot behind me, but when I got halfway across, they just stopped and stood there watching me run to the other side.”
“That’s because this side of the river is Kings’ turf.”
“The point is I’ve got no idea why those first guys were after me. And then, as soon as I started walking away from the bridge, I picked up the two you just saw and took off through the alleys to try to lose them.”
“They must have seen the 66ers chasing you and wanted to know why.”
“I wouldn’t mind knowing why.”
“Maybe they think you’re a drug courier.”
“A what?”
“You know. You’re going into a Chinese restaurant, which could be a front for the Triads.”
He shook his head. “Right, and we make our meat dishes with cats and dogs that we catch in the alleys.”
She pulled a face. “I didn’t mean it that way. But you hear people talking about it at school—how Asian gangs are supposed to be trying to muscle in on the bandas’ turf.”
“Asian street gangs are a far cry from the Triads. That’s like comparing cockroaches to wolves.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m not Triad and all I’m carrying is a change of clothes. No drugs. No secret agendas.”
“I believe you.”
Rosalie leaned
over the wall again to check that the alley was still clear.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Sure, but—”
“C’mon. I was just having a late lunch. You can join me if you like.”
She headed back to the lower part of the patio and he trailed along behind her.
“I’m Rosalie,” she said as she indicated he take one of the chairs at the table where she’d been sitting. “What’s your name?”
“Jay Li.”
“Like Bruce Lee,” she said, and faked a few kung fu moves.
He smiled. “No. My name’s spelled L-I. And I don’t really know those kinds of martial arts.”
“Me neither.”
“I can tell.”
“Be nice, or you don’t get any lunch. Rice and beans okay?”
“Anything’d be great.”
She went into the kitchen and quickly made him a fat burrito. She put it on a plate with some tortilla chips and a little container of salsa.
“
She looked up to see her uncle leaning against the door that led to the restaurant. He had sideburns, his dark hair slicked back in a look that had been popular back in the fifties. Peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt were faded bandas tattoos.
“
Her uncle looked past her to where he could see Jay through the window.
“
“
Her uncle shook his head.
“
She ducked her head in embarrassment.
“” she said. “
Her uncle’s features darkened. “
The Painted Boy
Drink Down the Moon
Yarrow