Foray into fiction, chapter two

Positive feedback from SHB has led me to devote more time to the piece of work started in the last posting, much to the detriment of the part of me that wants to graduate soon. (That same part of me could only look on with envy as a friend of mine received his PhD this past weekend and his parents treated us to a lavish dinner.) But we all have to find our happiness, right? So here goes nothing:

By 10:35 Mr. Yamada had checked his watch twice more and began to wonder whether there had been some mistake. Perhaps Mrs. Ito had meant for him to come by next weekend? Or perhaps she meant 10:30 tomorrow morning? A frown passed over Mr. Yamada’s face. He had found this kind of thinking useful while he was still working, but now that he was retired he considered such fretting over detail to be annoying. In fact he was sure it was shortening his life.

In any case a walk to the back of the house seemed warranted, just in case the back door had been implied. Mr. Yamada stepped off the porch and turned to his left to take the path through Mrs. Ito’s garden. The gardenia bushes had started to bloom and the scent hung softly in the night air. Halfway down the side of the house, Mr. Yamada’s foot met something hard. He reached down, probing the dark space at his feet. His hand traced a trowel that lay stuck in the ground. That’s odd, he thought; not at all like Mrs. Ito to leave her tools out.

As Craig Bliss sped down the winding streets of San Francisco, he thought about how he was due a vacation. Even his legitimate job as a cook at the Hai Na Dumpling House, a job he usually enjoyed, was starting to wear on him. Being the only white cook in the kitchen afforded him a certain amount of autonomy: as long as he churned out tasty renditions of items C1 through C8 on the menu, no one bothered him. And he liked making those items too, pressing the balls of minced meat into potsticker wrappers and frying them in a bit of sesame oil. In a way it was too bad that he was good at doing other things as well and that those things not only paid better but gave him a rush to the head, even if they kept him up all hours.

When he finally arrived at the warehouse on the outskirts of the city, he was sure Mistress Chen was going to be waiting for him. He looked at his watch; he was running a few minutes behind but not enough to cost him. Sunlight grazed the tops of the buildings and hit him in the eyes as he got out of the car and knocked on the garage door. A flurry of Cantonese sounded from within, and the door opened.