The Last Days Of Lucky Dragon

By Steve Mitchell

His license suspended, high-flying big-city real estate agent Michael Chang retreats to his hometown where he becomes embroiled with an old flame and the sale of his family's Chinese restaurant. Get ready to laugh and cry as you journey to The Last Days Of Lucky Dragon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682227541

Steve Mitchell

Born and raised in the Midwest, Steve Mitchell joined the navy after graduating from high school in 1969. He served nine months in Vietnam, then on a destroyer home ported in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. After his six-year navy hitch, Mitchell attended Iowa State University and earned a journalism degree. He wrote for SolarUtilization News before getting a job at the Estes Park Public Library, where he now works as a reference librarian. Mitchell, his wife Lori and his son Jeff live five minutes from the entrance of Rocky Mountain National Park.

Book preview

23

Luck.

That’s what the neon sign hanging from the building read, the final y having finally burnt out some time ago. If you asked him, K.C. Chang couldn’t say exactly when it flickered last. Besides, right now he was occupied with the routine of closing up The Lucky Dragon for another night.

First, the count. The credit card slips looked lighter than other nights and the cash did too, save for a few hundred-dollar bills. But as he banged away on his mechanical calculator, pulling the lever between bursts of finger movements, K.C. was pleasantly surprised. A few tables had ordered liquor. What with some larger platters and a few appetizers here and there, the total wasn’t bad for a Thursday. That is, a Thursday anytime in the last fifteen years.

Maybe it was that very nostalgia that made his eye drift to the corkboard above his desk and the magazine clippings, curled and yellowed with the years.

Jazz And Chinese Food: Muncie Restaurant’s Winning Blend, trumpeted Midwest Dining.

The Lucky Dragon: Indiana’s Oasis Of Cool, proclaimed Chicago.

Those days were never coming back. K.C. didn’t frown. He didn’t smile. He just stared.

He zipped the night’s take into a bank bag and headed out to the dining room for a last check-over. The stretch of tables on an expanse of worn red carpet seemed oddly less empty now than when they were only occupied by one or two diners, as was too often the case these days. A look over the steam table revealed all was in order. At the bar the only item out of place was the drumsticks. K.C. picked them up off the counter, caressed them for a beat, and dropped them into the cluster of chopsticks standing in a martini shaker, their usual home.

He opened the walk-in cooler, grabbed the takeout bag of food for home, and reached for the electrical panel. Without needing to look, he found each breaker for the lights and flicked them off. The last to go out was the big neon sign.

The sunshine blazing through the thirty-second floor window brought a dramatic accent to the Illinois Real Estate Commission seal mounted on the wall. The real estate agents seated along the boardroom table took no notice. Things were going to be dramatic enough at this meeting without help from the sun.

We have to think about how this looks, said a tanned, silver fox of an agent to his neighbor.

That’s what I’ve been saying all along. The last thing we need is to invite attention, said a patrician power-seller, her greying hair a helmet on her head, ready for combat.

BANG!

A meaty hand slammed a gavel down at the head of the long table. Attached to the hand was the board chairman. The white collar of his otherwise blue shirt stretched tight around his fat neck. With maroon suspenders and diamond cufflinks, he was eternally Eighties. He had probably been feared since then too. The yammering agents stopped without need of a second gavel hit.

So, do we have a finding? the chairman asked, his voice booming down the long table.

Yes, sir, a young man in seersucker said as he passed the envelope up the table.

The chairman flipped open the flap and pulled out the paper inside. Annoyed disbelief crossed his face.

Bring him back in, he said.

The door to the hall opened and a good-looking Asian man, coiffed and wearing a designer suit, walked in. He took a seat at the far end, opposite the chairman, and stared ahead.

The chairman took a deep breath, and looked at him. A half-smile developed.

Michael.

Mr. Chairman, the younger man responded.

Please, this is pathetic enough without the bull-- the chairman brought himself up short. --without the excessive formality.

Just give it to me, Chuck, said Michael, his fatigue showing.

The chairman inhaled, then read aloud.

In the case of the North Coast Towers Phase 2 development, this tribunal finds Michael Chang, an agent and broker, to be in violation of ethics clauses 16 and 122 of the Illinois Real Estate Commission’s Code of Conduct. While these findings in no way imply criminal liability, they constitute a serious violation of professional standards as established by this board. As such this agent-broker’s licenses to operate in the state of Illinois are hereby suspended for…

The chairman frowned and reached for his pen, crossing out One Year and writing in his own number.

--for six months effective today, he continued.

A few tribunal members turned in surprise. The chairman glared back.

Chair’s privilege. So put your eyes back in your heads, he said. For the record, Michael, do you have any comments on this matter or the decision?

Michael thought for a moment, his mind re-processing all the options he’d run through. Was it time to unleash a tirade about hypocrisy? Was it time to name names and literally point fingers at some of the town’s dirtiest dealers, seated smugly at this very table? Was it time to stop the check he had mailed to the bonehead who had acted as his lawyer during this affair? The answer to all these questions came back, ‘no’. It was simply time to move on, pull back, and regroup.

Yeah, I have one comment, said Michael as he rose and slowly buttoned his jacket. See you in six months. He turned and walked toward the door, sending a dismissive little wave backward to the room.

The pearl metallic paint glowed on the his-and-hers Cadillacs in the driveway, making them look newer than they were. K.C. claimed the DeVille, Ma the Catera.

When the Changs moved into Rolling Meadow in the early 1960s, it was new and it was the best development in Muncie. Most of the split-levels and ranch bungalows had four bedrooms, double garages and, almost unheard of back then, two-piece master ensuite bathrooms. Some even had three-pieces. Inside one of those very rare three-pieces, K.C. stood before the mirror.

Today, today. Goddamn it, let it be today, he moaned, then rubbed his face vigorously before going into his routine.

Brush hit teeth, razor whacked whisker, and blood pressure sleeve hugged bicep. Routine complete, he walked back into the bedroom to find Ma completely ready in sneakers, windbreaker and tennis visor.

Why’d you take so long? she asked.

So long? I just… he reached for his glasses on the dresser. When he turned back to her, she was already gone.

He threw on his walking gear, locked up, and found Ma seated in the DeVille, fiddling with some cassettes. She made her usual selection. Its Chinese-English cover announced Sammie To: When I’m With You.

As they rolled along, she stuck it in the dashboard. A syrupy Hong Kong love ballad poured forth and Ma swayed and sang quietly. After a minute, K.C. snapped off the stereo. Ma turned to him with dagger eyes.

Humph! she snorted, then looked out the window and pouted.

K.C. grudgingly turned the stereo back on, but at lower volume, and Ma got back into the crooner’s melody.

As they approached the high school, K.C. noticed more cars in the lot than usual. He hoped they brought only more joggers, not more dogs. Ma wouldn’t like that. They parked and walked down the steps to