Revolution Number 9 by Peter Abrahams

used to seeing Chinese faces contorted like that. Rodolfo Chang couldn’t help it; he looked Chinese, but he had his mother’s temperament, extravagant and Latin, the temperament of a much bigger man. He was trapped in a body of the wrong race and size. Chang turned the key, holding it down longer than necessary, making the starter squeal the way he wanted Brucie to squeal, then sped out into traffic without looking and headed for Brucie’s shop.
    · · ·
    Brucie’s shop was a three-story Victorian that had been in his family for generations but didn’t look as though it would survive Brucie’s stewardship. Chang parked across the street from the sagging structure and waited. A man wrapped in a blanket went by, pushing a shopping cart loaded with green plastic garbage bags and talking about moonglow in Spanish. Chang knew at once he was a U.S. citizen, although he couldn’t have explained how, and didn’t give him a second glance. A few minutes later an old car rolled up the street, burning oil, and stopped in front of Brucie’s. It was an American-made car, a Chevy, and bore a California license plate, but Chang knew just as quickly and certainly that its occupants were not U.S. citizens. He copied their plate number in his notebook.
    In the front of the Chevy sat a man and a woman with a baby on her lap; in back, three or four kids. The woman countedsome bills from her purse and gave them to the man. He got out of the car, walked up to Brucie’s shop, spent almost a full minute eyeing the sign that read “Wine Printing and Engraving,” and knocked on the door. After a while he knocked again, waited some more. He stuck his nose against the glass and peered in. His wife called to him in Spanish: “Louder, you fool. Don’t be so timid.” The man banged the door, then looked around furtively in case anyone had heard. He saw Chang. Chang pretended to be searching for something in the glove compartment. When he looked up, the man was getting into his car. The engine made a few explosive noises and blue smoke erupted from the exhaust. The Chevy drove off.
    Chang stayed where he was. The old car had barely disappeared from view when a black Trans-Am roared up the street and braked to a hard stop. Chang recognized the car. It was the same one the police had pulled over on the Golden Gate Bridge, acting on Chang’s tip that there were stolen passports inside. They’d found no passports but had done even better, from the cops’ point of view, seizing 192 grand in counterfeit bills. And now, twenty feet away, there was Brucie Wine, free as the goddamned air.
    Brucie, shirtless and holding a can of Bud, got out of his car. He had a skinny chest, a potbelly, a graying rat tail hanging down his back. He glanced around as though looking for someone, checked his watch, glanced around again. Then he tilted the Bud to his lips; his Adam’s apple bobbed in the sunshine. He tossed the empty can onto the street and whistled.
    An ugly dog sprang out of the car. Chang didn’t like the look of that dog at all. He reached into his pocket and touched his nine-millimeter pistol. Brucie closed the door with care, locked it, tried the handle to make sure it was locked, and chained the dog to a No Parking sign within striking distance of the car. Chang took his hand from his pocket. He didn’t like dogs of any kind, but especially those bigger and stronger than he was.
    Brucie checked his watch one more time, then walked to the front door of the house and let himself in. He was gone for a long time. Chang had nothing to do but wonder what was going on inside. After a while he decided to hazard a peek inone of the windows. He crossed the street and had one foot on the sidewalk when he heard a growl. The dog was facing him, chain pulled taut, muscles popping, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. Chang turned and got back in his car.
    Not long after, Brucie came outside. He had another Bud in one hand and a stack of blue cards in the other.