Year of the Dog Read Online Free PDF Page B

the mass of shiny black hair bobbing up and down at his stomach. She tightened her lips and deep-throated him. The pressure was building in his head, ready now. She was stroking his shaft, caressing his balls with her other hand. His orgasm exploded into her mouth, four, five, six loads. The noise he heard was his own groaning, the sweet anguish throbbing in his loins.
    He was sucking in air through his nostrils, his mouth gasping like a fish, his thighs quivering as he braced his back against the door. He let his heart slow down as he came back to earth. When she turned her head he saw a sweet face, contemplating her palms. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes, then opened her mouth, and tilted her head to let the thick milky jism spill over her lower lip, her tongue pushing the spittle and saliva out into her palms. A thick translucent strand clung to her chin. She smiled and wiped it off with the back of her hand. Reaching into the nightstand, she took out a small towelette and wiped the stickiness off his shaft. There was no need for words and he watched her as she turned, still on all fours, crawling her way off with the red gown and the Prada bag in tow, giving him a rear view of her departing pussy. She stood up at the connecting door, and their eyes met a last time before she exited the room. China-cubana.
    He took a deep breath, pulled his pants up, zipped his fly, and after a few shaky steps, made his way back to the frozen night and the black car.
    * * *

    It was a short ride back from Chrystie to Mott Street, so Lucky left the window open, the cold wind on his face working with the Ecstasy, refocusing his mind.
    The On Yee always collected cash off the streets before holiday weekends, and squared up the Chinese accounts, before the crush of waiters crowded into the gambling dens, their pockets fat with Thanksgiving Dinner tip money from the gwailo white devils.
    When they reached Bayard Street, it was almost ten-thirty, early yet for the gambling crowd. Lefty parked the Riviera on Mulberry, facing north, and out , toward the Holland Tunnel or the Manhattan Bridge, a quick left or right if they needed to bust out of Chinatown.
    Lucky, Lefty, and Kongo walked onto Mott and the street was quiet except for the shrill whistle of the arctic wind.
    They went into Number Nine basement first.
    The basement was brightly lit, and Lucky saw one mahjong game underway, but otherwise there was only a smattering of the association’s cronies hanging around making lowball bets just to keep the action going. It was cold out, and anyway, the night was young for the night crawlers, he thought.
    Kongo gave the fake Marlboros to the house manager and stood to one side, overlooking the one active table of thirteen-card poker. There were no players at the fan-tan or paigow tables, and the dealers were smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and watching Chinese cable television. Lefty took the Ecstasy pills over to Number Sixty-Six basement, where other Ghosts would package them into small plastic baggies before delivery to local karaoke joints and uptown discos and dance clubs.
    Lucky dropped another hit of Ecstasy, and then chased it with a shot of Johnnie Black. He waited as the managers tallied their accounts. The players would show up soon enough so the basements would be jammed again, and he still wanted to place a hot bet with the Chinese bookie at the OTB, but the troubles out at East Broadway kept bouncing to the front of his mind and crowded out the images of blowjobs and bodacious bodies. Instead, he saw a crew of incompetent Ghosts, thought about Koo Jai—Kid Koo—and called his pager. Lefty came back with a suitcase of cash for the manager and turned it over to the house accountants. Then he swallowed an Ecstasy and stood next to Kongo by the door, watching the house take money off the card table.
    Lucky watched them all, but he was feeling impatient, thinking about face, and the far end of East Broadway.

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