Tick Tock

decipher it—if you can?”
    “A couple of hours—if I can.” Gi raised his gaze from the note. “You haven't told me what they did to you.”
    “Broke into my house, vandalized it. Later… ran me off the road, and the car rolled twice.”
    “You weren't hurt?”
    “I'll be sore as hell in the morning, but I got out of the car without a cut.”
    “How did this woman save your life?”
    “Del,” said Del.
    Gi said, “Excuse me?”
    “My name is Del.”
    “Yes,” said Gi. To Tommy, he said, “How did this woman save your life?”
    “I got out of the car just in time, before it caught fire. Then… they were coming after me and—”
    “They? These gangsters?”
    “Yes,” Tommy lied, certain that every deception was transparent to Gi Minh. “They chased me, and I ran, and just when they might have nailed me for good, Del here pulled up in her van and got me out of there.”
    “You haven't gone to the police?”
    “No. They can't protect me.”
    Gi nodded, not in the least surprised. Like most Vietnamese of his generation, he did not fully trust the police even here in America. In their homeland, before the fall of Saigon, the police had been mostly corrupt, and after the communist takeover, they had been worse—sadistic torturers and murderers licensed by the regime to commit any atrocity. Even more than two decades later, and half a world away from that troubled land, Gi was wary of all uniformed authorities.
    “There's a deadline,” Tommy said, “so it's really important that you figure out what that note says as soon as possible.”
    “Deadline?”
    “Whoever sent the doll also sent a message to me by computer. It said, ‘The deadline is dawn. Ticktock.’”
    “Gangsters using computers?” Gi said disbelieving.
    “Everyone does these days,” said Del.
    Tommy said, “They mean to get me before sunrise. and from what I've seen so far, they'll stop at nothing to keep to that timetable.”
    “Well,” Gi said, “you can stay here while I work on the message, until we figure this out—what it is they want, or why they're out to get you. Meanwhile, no one can hurt you here, not with all those men down on the floor to stand with you.”
    Tommy shook his head and rose from his chair. “I don't want to draw these… these gangsters here.” Del got to her feet as well and moved to his side. “I don't want to cause you trouble, Gi.”
    “We can handle them like before.”
    Tommy was sure that the pastry and bread artists of New World Saigon Bakery could hold their own against any group of human thugs. But if it chose to reveal itself in order to get at Tommy, the demon-from-the-doll would be as unfazed by bakers as it was by bullets. It would cut through them like a buzz saw through a wedding cake—especially if it had grown and had continued its apparent evolution into ever more fierce predatory forms. He didn't want anyone to be harmed because of him.
    He said, “Thank you, Gi. But I think I'd better keep moving, so they can't find me. I'll call you in a couple of hours to see if you've been able to translate the note.”
    Gi rose from his chair but did not step out from behind his desk. “You came for advice, you said, not just to have this message translated. Well, my advice is… you're safer trusting in family.”
    “I do trust in you, Gi.”
    “But you trust a stranger more,” Gi said pointedly, although he did not look at Del.
    “It saddens me to hear you say that, Gi.”
    “It saddens me to have to say it,” his brother replied.
    Neither of them moved one inch toward the other, though Tommy sensed a yearning that matched his own.
    Gi's face was worse than angry, worse than hard. It was placid, almost serene, as if Tommy could no longer touch his heart for better or worse.
    “I'll call you,” Tommy finally said, “in a couple hours.” He and Del left the office and went down the steps into the enormous bakery.
    Tommy felt profoundly confused, petty, stubborn, stupid, guilty, and miserable—all emotions that the legendary private detective, Chip Nguyen, had never felt, had never been capable of feeling.
    The aromas of chocolate, cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg, yeasty baking bread, and hot lemon icing were no longer appealing. Indeed, he was half sickened by the stench. Tonight the smell of the bakery was the smell of loss and loneliness and foolish pride.
    As he and Del passed the coolers and storerooms, heading toward the back of the building and the door through which they had entered, she said, “Well, thanks for preparing me.”
    “For