The night that the whole mess had started had begun so innocently, Mike reflected later that night when it became apparent that sleep was not going to come.
Dragonman had not, it turned out, been the owner of the Chinese restaurant where the trouble had all begun. The real owner—a soft-spoken older man named Jo Liang—had been held prisoner until the Monkees had finally brought Dragonman down. Mike could still hear Mr. Liang’s trembling voice when he called them three days later, asking—almost begging—them to come to the restaurant so he could thank them properly . . .
~~~~~
They entered the restaurant cautiously, remembering all too well what had happened the last time they’d been within the establishment’s gaudy walls. Mr. Liang was there, waiting for them, bowing to each of them while thanking them profusely for saving him and his restaurant. He was several inches shorter than Davy and wore not the brightly colored pajamas of Dragonman, but a simple tailored black suit, a long, nearly white braid hanging down his back.
“It was nothing,” Peter said, bowing in return.
“Nevertheless,” Mr. Liang said. “Please, eat. As much as you want.”
“Are you sure you have enough food to spare?” Mike said, looking at Micky, whose eyes were already gleaming.
Liang smiled. “Quite sure. Come. You have earned it.”
The meal was one of the best of Mike’s life. Egg rolls, rice, chicken, spare ribs, stir fry—every conceivable kind of food was spread over two tables, with more brought out from the kitchen, promply replacing the plates and bowls they’d emptied.
Mike was the first to lean back in his chair; his hand reached down, loosening his belt to accomodate his full stomach. Peter and Davy were next, and together the three of them watched as Micky continued eating for another thirty minutes before finally having to admit that he was full.
Mike glanced down at his watch. “You’re nowhere near your personal best, Mick. I’m surprised.”
Liang, who had stood nearby the whole time, supervising the flow of food from the kitchen, smiled. “Boy eat good,” he said, his grammar faltering as he laughed. “I might go out of business with him as customer.”
“Yeah,” Davy laughed. “It’s a good thing we don’t have money very often, then.”
Liang sobered. “You don’t need money here. You boys eat free from now on.”
Mike started to get up, protesting, but Liang quickly waved him back down. “Please. Is least I can do. You saved my life and my restaurant. I am in your debt.”
Shrugging, Mike sat back down. No sense arguing with him—especially since it meant not going hungry the next time they had a long stint of unemployment. “That’s very generous. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Say ‘thank you’, Mike,” Micky said. “‘Thank you’ and ‘we’ll be back tomorrow’.” Mike reached over and swatted Micky over the head.
“Can you answer one question?” Liang said, sitting down between Micky and Davy.
“Sure, anything,” Peter said.
“How did you defeat Dragonman?”
“Uh, well,” Mike said as the others all looked to him. He explained as best he could how he and Davy had come in—however, he decided to leave the Monkeemen out of his explanation. “ . . . and we used that big gong over there to keep them at bay until those CIS guys finally showed up.”
Liang sat back in his chair. “You mean . . . you did not fight him?”
“You mean like this?” Micky said, leaping from his chair and striking what he thought was a very effective martial arts pose.
Liang nodded. “Yes.”
“No,” Micky said, returning to his chair. “We don’t know how to do that kind of stuff.”
“But . . . Dragonman was most dangerous! If you not warriors then how you beat him?”
Mike shrugged, idly toying with the plate of fortune cookies that no one wanted. “I don’t know. Just lucky, I guess.”
Liang stood up quickly and bowed to them. “Excuse, please. I will be right back.”
~~~~~
The cooks working in the restaurant’s small kitchen looked up curiously as Liang quickly shuffled by, paying them no mind as he headed straight for a small door at the far end. He slipped inside, closing the door and bolting it behind him, his hand reaching for the string that trailed up to the room’s single bare bulb.
The room—little more than a closet with shelves, really—was lined with jars of all kinds. Some were lavishly decorated to resemble dragons or tigers, some were just plain glass preserve jars, covered with what looked like centuries of dust. He grasped along the shelves, his searching fingers leaving trails in their wake. He pushed aside several jars, finally unearthing a tiny white ceramic one from the back. Unlike the items surrounding it, its surface was pearly white and free from dust; it was plain and round, decorated with four Chinese characters in black ink.
“The jar of the Four Winds,” Liang murmured, cradling it carefully in his hands. It had been a perfect omen, one that he hadn’t ever expected to see in his lifetime. Peter was the North Wind; Mike, with his slow Texas charm, was the South; Davy, from England, was the East, and Micky, who’d lived his life with the California sun on his shoulders, was the West. The likelihood that all four winds would be brought together . . .
Liang opened the jar and pulled out four small, plainly wrapped white envelopes. Inside each was a dark bluish-green powder that gave the faint scent of graveyards and the sea. Liang took the objects out into the kitchen, where he ordered the nearest cook to bring four cups of hot water. “Quickly!”
When the water was set out he carefully poured the dark powder into each cup. He didn’t worry about spilling it; the powder seemed drawn to the water. It steamed and bubbled before calming, leaving an equal portion of dark liquid in each cup.
“What is that?” the cook asked.
“Ssh!” Liang snapped. He took a clean white linen napkin and carefully wrapped the jar in it. Taking one of the mallets used for cooking, he smashed the jar, hitting it several more times before unwrapping it. He carefully weeded out the larger pieces until all that was left was a fine white powder; taking a small spoon, he poured a little bit into each cup. The cook—a young man whose traditional queue had been cut off long ago—watched silently.
“There,” Liang said, setting down the spoon. “Is ready.”
The cook nodded. “But what is it?”
“My boy,” Liang said, carefully setting the cups on a tray, “this just tea.”
“Tea?” the cook said, watching curiously as Liang carefully carried the tray to the dining room.
“Yes,” Liang said. “Very special tea.”
~~~~~
Mike looked up as Liang reentered the room. For a few minutes he’d thought that Liang wasn’t coming back and that it was his way of telling them to scram. But Liang was smiling as he set a tray with four teacups in front of them.
“What’s this?” Peter said, taking a cup and staring at it with interest.
“Is very special tea,” Liang said. “Give strength and power to those who drink it.”
Mike sniffed his cautiously. It gave off an odor that, while not unpleasant, was very strong.
“I’m not really a tea drinker,” Micky said, shoving his cup away.
“Micky,” Mike said sternly. “Don’t be rude.” He lifted the cup to his lips and took a long drink. The hot tea burned down his throat, leaving a thick, slimy aftertaste in his mouth that made him want to gag. With something of a make-do expression on his face, he downed the rest of the tea. This time, however, it didn’t burn, and it left a warm, delicious taste in his throat, almost as if he’d just drank the world’s richest coffee.
Next to him Peter released a deep, contented sigh. “That was great,” he said.
Davy set down his cup. “What did you put in it? Honey?”
Micky shook his head. “More like oranges.”
“Oranges?” Mike said. “That stuff tasted like coffee.”
“Coffee?” Peter said. “It was just green tea to me.”
Liang held up his hands, smiling. “Is special tea. It tastes different to people, like what they like to taste most.”
“Oh,” Mike said. He felt funny . . . full and sated and drowsy. “I think we have to go, Mr. Liang. It’s been a long day and we have a gig to play tomorrow.”
“I understand,” Liang said as they rose. “Please. Come back soon. You always welcome here.” He bowed and shook hands with each of them, crossing his hands quietly as they left. When they were gone he leaned over the table, looking into the bottom of each cup. The last few drops of tea had coalesced into four shapes that Liang recognized immediately. They were exactly where they should have been.
“Ngo, than, thin, dan,” he mused.
The Horse, the Monkey, the Dragon, and the Tiger.
On to Chapter Three
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