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juju sticks, empty liquor bottles. On top, a box of fresh cloth bandages, a couple of bloody ones shoved into the middle. Somebody had done some bleeding recently. She was betting it wasn’t young Doctor Chen. She rolled a juju inside one of the bloody cloths and stuck it in her bra.
    “I’m almost ready, Doctor. But I’m—I’m still frightened—about the murder—”
    He was getting impatient, rubbed the cigarette out on the chair.
    “I’m telling you—there won’t be any more murders. Don’t be afraid. Please, Miss. I have other patients—”
    If he was telling the truth, then Eddie Takahashi wasn’t a tong war killing or mob hit. They never stop with one. But the beating he took looked like a lesson, and not just for Eddie. That would be the Japanese—or so thought the cops.
    The curtain flew open and Mike Chen stood in front of her. The silk robe fell to the floor.
    “You—you’re still dressed—”
    Game over. She held her hands behind her back and didn’t bother to hide the contempt.
    “I changed my mind. I’m not so lonely anymore.”
    His hands were clenched, face red, fingers curling and uncurling. He took one step toward her. Her right hand came up holding her .22.
    “Back off and sit on your bed.”
    He moved backwards, hands by his belt, slowly sat on the mattress. She threw her jacket around her shoulders and shoved on the hat. He watched her, his angled face tight with fury.
    “This isn’t a grift. I want some information—about Eddie Takahashi.”
    His mouth stretched to a thin, compressed line of recognition. His body tensed, hands to the side, ready. She braced herself. Then the doorbells screamed.
    She gestured with her gun to the hallway. “Get up. I’ll be behind you.”
    He rose reluctantly. Miranda pressed the barrel into his back, prodded him forward.
    The old man was sitting behind the mixing desk, his back hunched, the gray hair in his beard long and unkempt.
    Miranda murmured, “Give me some medicine, and keep it in English.”
    She lowered the gun, holding it beside her, and Chen reached for a small, dusty jar on the shelf. Fear twisted the old man’s face. She wondered if he knew what went on in the back room.
    The son didn’t bother to hide the threat: “The lady wants something special to help her sleep at night.”
    His father started to speak, then glanced at Miranda and stayed quiet. She backed up toward the exit.
    “Thanks, Mr. Chen. I’m sure I’ll sleep just fine from now on.”
    He grunted, pouring about half an ounce of a greenish-yellow powder into a small paper envelope. Then he sponged the seal, wrote something on the envelope, and threw it at her.
    “On the house. And you don’t need to come back.”
    She took the envelope with her left hand. Her back was to the door, both purse and gun in her right.
    “Thank you, Mr. Chen. But I’ll be back. And I’ll tell my friends.” Worry about that one, you fucking son of a bitch.
    She pivoted out of the shop and was around the corner and on Waverly and Clay before she looked at the package in her hand. Next to the Chinese letters was written, “Ground powder of Deadly Nightshade leaves. Mix with warm water and drink until dead.”
     
     
     

Four
     

    S he tried to smile. Her breath was still a little ragged. She was standing against the shadowy side of a tailor’s shop on Clay, trying to light one of the remaining Chesterfields with shaking hands. The souvenir Fair lighter kicked a spark and nothing else. She threw it back in her bag, rummaging for a pack of matches.
    She found an unused pack from the Moderne, lit up and smoked under the red awning. Blew a puff out the corner of her mouth. Watched the smoke drift, disintegrate, toward one of the association doors that lined Waverly, past the barbershop and Twin Dragon nightclub with its bright chromium exterior, past the carnival booths that reminded her of the Gayway on Treasure Island.
    Chinatown. Grant and Washington, Chinese Sky Room, teashops