BOOK EXCERPT: What, exactly, is Johnny delivering?

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Wayne Ng is an Ottawa social worker and award-winning novelist. In this excerpt from his new book, Johnny Delivers, 18-year-old Johnny Wong tries to save his chaotic family and their Chinese restaurant from debt, by invoking the spirit of Bruce Lee and selling weed with deliveries. All this while juggling a first love, high school, and uncovering sordid family secrets.

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Chapter 2: Leo

I’m always either refereeing my parents or looking out for them. Like when Mama takes off after we all go to bed. I used to check for her floral slippers by the door when I’d wake up at night. If they weren’t there, that meant she’d snuck in, home safe, and had gone to bed. Twice, Baba caught me up waiting for her. I let him think I was sleepwalking and did some of Bruce (Lee’s) rapid air punches. Of course, Bruce was punching alongside me, adjusting my hips and raising my elbows, ready to smack me if I took my eyes off the opponent.

Over time, I got used to not knowing where Mama was. I got better at sleeping. And yet, each morning, I still check for her slippers.

Mama has lots of hangout spots, like the back of King’s Noodle, which usually has some games going on and serves scotch in chipped teacups after-hours. There’s also Ying Ying Soy, whose owner was on the same boat as Mama when she came over. But this time, I figured she could be found at the bottom of Huron Street, a few blocks south of Chinatown’s main drag on Dundas. She’s there so often it’s like she’d rather be there than with us. I parked our shitbox delivery car, the Vega, in front of a string of row houses and noticed a new steel door with freshly painted characters: Wong Association.

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Auntie works in one of the smaller and newer associations. She’s not my for-real aunt. Although, somewhere, way back, most Wongs are blood. My uncle and a bunch of elders figured they’d never make it to the executive of the really big Wong Association, so years ago, they splintered off. That was a big deal, like walking away from your family. They took over the old row house from an aging bachelor who used to use it as a rooming house. They converted it into a small community hub for Wongs, who were more interested in gambling and dishing out high-interest loans than housing tenants. Unlike the other associations, Auntie has started to run some big games, drawing people in from other associations and off the street.

At first, she’d kept the games small and quiet so the police wouldn’t raid them. The recently arrived triad gangs couldn’t be bothered with extorting such small fish. But higher-stakes games happen at her association all the time now, so you’d think they’d draw attention sooner or later.

But you’d probably also think her place was just another run-down house with a saggy porch and peeling shingles. This one had Leo guarding the door. I stepped up and said hello. He had a collection of bowling shirts with different name tags pinned on. Today, Leo was Joe. He was leaning against the wall, reading a Fantastic Four comic. Beside him, also leaning against the wall, was a rusty steel pipe — that was new.

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He lit a smoke and offered me one. I waved it off. Leo and I were once two of the few CBCs (Canadian-born Chinese) at Central Tech, even though, in 1977, it was the biggest high school in Canada. The FOBs (fresh-off-the-boaters) from Hong Kong always made us CBCs look nerdy. Leo and I started to connect more when I was a niner. We found each other sitting outside the vice principal’s office. He was there for fighting, me for talking back to Mr. Cameron again. Leo didn’t care about anything, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut or stay focused for long. Trevor Heywood had just come out of the VP’s office. He laughed at us and said he couldn’t tell us apart. I didn’t stop to think that he was a lineman on the bantam football team — I just got up and smacked him. Trevor shoved me hard against the wall, banging my head. It was worth it, though, because Leo and I have been cool ever since.

What’s unusual about Leo is that he’s an only child. That’s rare in Chinese families. Come to think of it, if not for Jane, who’s only a half sister, I’d be an only child, too. A streetcar killed Leo’s dad. It happened right before Mama started hanging around the Association more.

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At first, I thought Leo was a social reject, like Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird or that dense but well-intentioned Charlie Gordon in Flowers for Algernon. But he’s way smarter than he lets on. He dropped out of school after his father died. He’d never been able to hold a job until his mother made him work the door at the Association. At least Leo had found something steady that wasn’t bagging submarine buns at Silverstein’s for $2.30 an hour.

I asked him if Mama was there.

“Yeah, still. She hung around all night, played most of the night. I think she broke even. It’s bitchin’ seeing her play for the high-scoring combos.”

“Go big or go home. That’s my mother, the legend.” Mama is supposedly the only person to have ever assembled a jee moh — a thirteen orphans hand. It’s the ultimate badass hand, relying on self-drawing every tile, including the winning fourteenth tile. It means everyone loses to you and has to pay, so you triple your winnings. A jee moh shows extreme patience, self-reliance, and luck. She always said you have to be good to be lucky. She has neither denied nor confirmed she ever pulled that hand off, so it’s like everything else about her — a mystery.

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Mama has tried to teach me her “go big or go home” style of play during our family mahjong nights. Auntie has warned me Mama’s style is reckless and has tried to school me in a more strategic, calculating game. Now I understand the benefits of both.

Leo asked me, “Did you know she’s way behind on her loan?”

“What loan?”

“The five grand she took out six months ago. Your restaurant was put up as collateral. You mean you didn’t know?”

I held my breath for a second. “You faking me out?”

“It’s not a joke. Loans have to be paid back — on time.” Leo ground his cigarette with his kung fu shoe. “The elders are going to want this cleared up. They may send my mama to talk to your dad.”

“Don’t,” I pleaded. I hadn’t known about the loan, so sure as heck, Baba doesn’t either. He’d freak. That would lead to an epic fight. Baba hated two things more than anything: 1) cheap customers who lingered and 2) owing money, especially to the Association.

Baba walked out when I was a little boy. After he returned a million years later with Jane, I was never sure he would stay. When Jane turned out to be a seven-year-old pyromaniac, I thought Mama would kick them out or take off herself. Every fight since, I’ve checked to see if the suitcases were gone. Either one of them could snap and run.

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“Come on, Leo, we’re family. She’ll pay the house back.”

He scratched at his uneven moustache. “Your mama always comes with a smile and a treat, like I’m gold. If it were up to me, no problem, I’d look the other way. My mother can’t keep covering for her. It’s not personal. It’s business.”

Mama gave Leo the gold-plated treatment every time she saw him. I mean, once in a while — yes. An aunt is supposed to do that. But what about me? I’m her kid.

We exchanged nods. As much as I hated the message, I still felt like there was something good between us, something core and old.

But I didn’t have five thousand dollars lying around, and judging by the look in Leo’s squint, he knew it.

“No family discount anymore, Johnny.”

I didn’t like how his tone had shifted. “What does that mean?”

“It means you guys are in a pile of deep shit.”

Damn. “I got this, Leo, just give me some time.”

He chuckled. “Who do you think you are, Radar?”

That guy in M*A*S*H who’s always a step ahead of everybody. Leo had a point. That wasn’t me.

“I doubt you got a box full of stuffed lai see under your bed,” he said. “Trust me, you won’t be the one to make this all go away.”

Mama had put the restaurant on the line. What trouble had she gotten us into?

Wayne Ng is the author of The Family Code, finalist for the Ottawa Book Award and the Guernica Prize; Letters From Johnny, winner of the Crime Writers of Canada Award for Best Crime Novella and finalist for the Ottawa Book Award; and the new novel Johnny Delivers, published by Guernica Editions.

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