Dragon House by John Shors Page A

all that remained from the previous day’s winnings, and they had to decide whether to buy noodles, bananas, dragon fruit, bread, or rice.
    Minh wanted to save the dollar, to add it to their secret stash. But they’d eaten nothing for so long that he felt weak, and so he pretended to slurp up a noodle.
    “ Pho it is,” she replied, darting underwater to rinse her hair. She then rubbed her scalp, her gums, her privates. “What about going to the war museum?” she asked. “I bet I could sell some fans there. The new tourists will go there first, like they always do, and they won’t have seen too many fans by then. And you might get a quick game or two. We can sit beneath that big tree and it won’t be too hot. Well, what do you think, Minh the Teeth Scrubber?”
    Minh stopped cleaning his teeth and shook his head. He didn’t want to be near the war museum, as he’d seen what was within its walls.
    “I don’t like it either,” Mai replied. “But you can’t be so picky, Minh. We need to—”
    “She’s right,” a man said, stepping to the water’s edge.
    Minh turned toward the raspy voice, instinctively lowering himself deeper, as if the river were a mighty shield that could protect him from every danger. Loc hacked and spat in Minh’s direction. Gathering his will, Minh forced himself to look at Loc—a large man who always wore a New York Yankees baseball jersey. Loc’s face was prematurely aged from years of smoking opium. His bloodshot eyes wandered slowly. His fingers were burned and battered. A mole on his chin sprouted thick hairs that fell halfway to his neck.
    “Get over here,” Loc said, pointing at his own chest.
    Mai was closer to shore and bravely walked forward, feeling naked in her underwear. Loc reached for her hair and pulled her roughly ahead. She whimpered but made no effort to resist him. Seeing her in pain, Minh stepped faster. Loc’s hand swung out with surprising speed, striking Minh on the side of the head. Minh’s ear rang. His vision blurred. He felt as if someone had thrust a steel pole into his brain. Still, he didn’t fall, for he knew that if he did, Loc would kick him. And kicks hurt even worse than cuffs.
    “I need more money,” Loc said, speaking loudly, as if addressing everyone under the bridge. His voice, ruined from years of sucking on his pipe, sounded as if it emerged from a hole in his throat. “You need to win more. You hear me, you motherless half boy?”
    Minh nodded, his knees weak.
    “You two brats want protection?” Loc asked. “A place to sleep? Then win more games and sell more fans. Four dollars a day isn’t enough. I want five.”
    Mai risked a glance into Loc’s eyes and saw that he was reeling from a crash, from whatever it felt like to no longer be within a world fashioned from poppy seeds. Before he could strike Minh again, she said, “You can take our only dollar. The dollar we kept after paying you last night. We were going to have some pho , but you—”
    “Give it to me.”
    Mai hurried to their basket, removing the dollar from within a fold of their blanket. Loc grabbed the bill, and with a grunt, dumped the basket upside down. The blanket and sections of carpet fell on compressed mud. Loc rifled through the pile, searching for anything they might have stashed away.
    “We’ll win today,” Mai said, trying to distract him, to keep him from finding the loose piece of bamboo.
    “Where?”
    “What?”
    “Where will I find you?”
    She thought quickly. “Tonight? At the train station. We’ll be with foreigners.”
    Loc glared at Minh and through the haze in his head remembered finding the abandoned toddler, remembered cutting off his hand so that he’d be a better beggar. Though Minh had almost died, Loc had been careful, and had managed to stop the bleeding and ultimately heal the wound. “I know why she left you, half boy,” Loc said, craving his pipe, fueled by the repressed aches of his own childhood. “You weren’t good