Tick Tock

something I wrote when I still worked at the newspaper.”
    “They don't read.”
    “But that has to be it. There's no other reason.”
    “The more you write about how bad they are, the more they would like it if they did read it,” Gi said, still doubtful. “They want the bad-boy image. They thrive on it. So what have they done to you?”
    Tommy glanced at Del.
    She rolled her eyes.
    Although Tommy had intended to tell Gi every incredible detail of the night's bizarre events, he was suddenly reluctant to risk his brother's disbelief and scorn.
    Gi was far less of a traditionalist and more understanding than Ton or their parents. He might even have envied Tommy's bold embrace of all things American and, years ago, might have secretly harboured similar dreams for himself. Nevertheless, on another level, faithful son in the fullest Vietnamese sense, he disapproved of the path that Tommy had taken. Even to Gi, choosing self over family was ultimately an unforgivable weakness, and his respect for his younger brother had declined steadily in recent years.
    Now Tommy was surprised by how desperately he wanted to avoid sinking further in Gi's esteem. He had thought that he'd learned to live with his family's disapproval, that they could not hurt him any more by reminding him how much he had disappointed them, and that what they thought of him was less important than what kind of person he knew himself to be. But he was wrong. He still yearned for their approval and was panicky at the prospect of Gi dismissing the tale of the doll-thing as the ravings of a drug-addled mind.
    Family was the source of all blessings—and the home of all sadness. If that wasn't a Vietnamese saying, it should have been.
    He might have risked speaking of the demon anyway, if he had come here alone. But Del Payne's presence already prejudiced Gi against him.
    Therefore, Tommy thought carefully before he spoke, and then he said, “Gi, have you ever heard of the Black Hand?”
    Gi looked at Tommy's hands, as if expecting to be told that he had contracted some hideous venereal disease affecting the upper extremities, if not from this blonde-who-was-nearly-a-stranger, then from some other blonde whom he knew far better.
    “La Mano Negra,” Tommy said. “The Black Hand. It was a secret Mafia organization of blackmailers and assassins. When they marked you for murder, they sometimes warned you by sending a white piece of paper with the black-ink imprint of a hand. Just to scare the crap out of you and make you suffer for a while before they finally popped you.”
    “This is ridiculous detective-story stuff,” Gi said flatly, rolling down the sleeve of his white shirt and buttoning the cuff.
    “No, it's true.”
    “Fast Boys, Cheap Boys, Natona Boys, the Frogmen, their types—they don't send a black hand first,” Gi assured him.
    “No, I realize they don't. But have you ever heard of any gang that sends… something else as a warning?”
    “What else?”
    Tommy hesitated, squirmed in his chair. “Well… say like a doll.”
    Frowning, Gi said, “Doll?”
    “A rag doll.”
    Gi looked at Del for illumination.
    “Ugly little rag doll,” she said.
    “With a message on a piece of paper pinned to its hand,” Tommy explained.
    “What was the message?”
    “I don't know. It was written in Vietnamese.”
    “You once could read Vietnamese,” Gi reminded him in a tone of voice thick with disapproval.
    “When I was little,” Tommy agreed. “Not now.”
    “Let me see this doll,” Gi said.
    “It's… well, I don't have it now. But I have the note.”
    For a moment Tommy couldn't recall where he had stashed the message, and he reached for his wallet. Remembering, he slipped two fingers into the pocket of his flannel shirt and withdrew the sodden note, dismayed by its condition.
    Fortunately, the parchment-like paper had a high oil content, which prevented it from dissolving entirely into mush. When Tommy carefully unfolded it, he saw that the three columns of ideograms were still visible, though badly faded and smeared.
    Gi accepted the note and held it in his cupped palm as if he were providing a perch for a weary and delicate butterfly. “The ink has run.”
    “You can't read it?”
    “Not easily. So many ideograms are alike but with one small difference. Not like English letters, words. Each small difference in the stroke of the pen can create a whole new meaning. I'd have to dry this out, use a magnifying glass, study it.”
    Leaning forward in his chair, Tommy said, “How long to