Hop Sing’s All-Night Dumpling House was three things at once: a restaurant, a crime scene waiting to happen, and the best place to ruin your life after 2 a.m.
Before Eddie Cardone could make his move, before he even slid one foot out of the red leather booth where the soy sauce turned every elbow into flypaper, Jimmy Tong slapped a hand to his chest and said, “Don’t.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow, halfway to cocky, halfway to stupid. “Don’t what?”
Jimmy tilted his head toward the bar. “Her.”
Lillianne Wong. Twenty-seven. High cheekbones. Jet-black bob that framed her face like quotation marks. And eyes—almond-shaped, ink-dark. She looked like punk rock dressed as a fortune cookie. She was sitting at the bar, laughing at something a waiter said, while her finger circled the glass rim like she was summoning the devil.
“That’s Lillianne,” Jimmy said. “You don’t want that kind of beautiful. That kind of beautiful gets you followed, folded, and FedExed to your mom in a jar.”
Eddie smirked. “She got a boyfriend?”
“Had. Tommy Huang.”
Eddie blinked. “The Tommy Huang?”
“Yeah. That Tommy Huang. Boss of the Mott Street Dragons. Collects fingers like baseball cards.”
Eddie tilted his head. “So… she’s single.”
Jimmy looked like he wanted to slap the optimism out of him. “You’re outta your league. West Side white boys come down here every weekend with Yellow Fever and no exit strategy. You work for me, but that doesn’t grant you a passport.”
Eddie shrugged. “What’s it gonna take, then?”
Jimmy snorted. “More brains than God gave you. Look, I could introduce you to a million other girls. But not Lillianne Wong. Not unless you like funerals. Besides, she’s got health issues.”
Eddie leaned back. “What, like STD or something?”
Jimmy stared. “Are you seriously asking if she has an STD?”
“I mean, you said health issues—what else am I supposed to think?”
“She took a bullet to the head.”
Eddie sat forward. “Come again?”
“You didn’t read about it? It was all over the papers. The bullet was meant for Tommy. Missed him, ricocheted, hit her. Right in the back of the skull. .35 caliber.”
Eddie let out a low whistle. “Jesus. That was her?”
“Spent a month in a coma. Woke up thinkin’ she was in third grade. Had to relearn the alphabet. Cantonese and English. Couldn’t hold chopsticks. Didn’t know her own name for six weeks.”
Eddie glanced back at her. “Well, she looks good now.”
Jimmy glared. “She’s a walking miracle. And the bullet’s still in there.”
Eddie blinked. “The bullet’s still in where?”
“Her fuckin’ head, Eddie! They couldn’t remove it! Doctors said takin’ it out was like trying to defuse a bomb. One bad move, boom—she’s wallpaper.”
Eddie grinned like a guy who only hears what he wants. “Wow. That’s too bad. So you’re saying no headbangin’ sex?”
Jimmy closed his eyes. “Are you seriously being stupid now or what? I’m sayin’ don’t go near this girl; first off, you got no cache in Chinatown. And even if you did, you’re setting yourself up for a fall. Lemme ask you a question: you ever date a Chinese girl?”
“No, I haven’t. But I got to start somewhere,” Eddie said. “Figure she might wanna have a little fun with a guy like me.”
“A guy like you? Who the fuck are you?”
“Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck is anybody, Jimmy?”
“Well, I know who the fuck I am. Do you know who the fuck you are?”
“I got an idea.”
“I don’t think you do. I don’t think you’re even listening to anything I’m saying, Eddie. I’m trying to explain! Jesus Christ, even looking in her direction is dangerous! Unless you wanna be charged with involuntary manslaughter.”
“What’d ya talking about—manslaughter?”
“The bullet, Eddie! In her head—is what I’m talking about! All the bullet has to do is move a fraction of a centimeter, and it kills her.”
Eddie finally took a moment to let it all sink in. “Like walking on eggshells. I get it! But … no different than any other woman.”
“What if she dies in your arms, you dumb prick?! Say you wanna do something romantic with her, right? Dancing’s out of the question. One little bump on the dance floor and her brains are splattered all over the ceiling. Moonlit drive down the FDR? Forget it. One pothole is all it takes. Bam! She’s a ghost. Say she falls for you, right? You’re ripping each other’s clothes off, and she gnaws on your ear lobe and whispers something like, ‘Give it to me rough!’”
“Aw right, aw right, aw right, I get the picture.”
That’s when Lillianne turned, caught Eddie staring, and locked eyes with him. Just a flicker. But it hit like static electricity and bad decisions.
Eddie smiled, already doomed. “How do I explain love at first sight to you?”
Jimmy tossed up his hands. “Look, I said all I can say. You’re on your own.”
Eddie slid out of the booth like a man who knew the odds were against him and liked it that way. His leather jacket creaked with every step. Sleeves rolled to show off knuckle bruises he wore like cufflinks.
Lillianne didn’t move. Just kept twirling that straw like she was deciding which kingdom to burn next.
Eddie eased up beside her. “How are you? I see you sitting alone. Thought I’d come over and introduce myself. Name’s Eddie Cardone. Friend of Jimmy Tong.”
She didn’t even look. “I’m not interested.”
“Jimmy warned me not to come over. But I’m thinking I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to introduce myself to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Did you hear me the first time? I’m not interested.”
“I figured. Anyway, my name’s Eddie, like I said. Not from around here. I’m from Columbus Avenue. Uptown. Known Jimmy for years. I’ve done all kinds of jobs for him. Uptown, downtown. He calls me his Swiss Army Knife. So, Jimmy’s like: ‘Hey, let’s go down Chinatown, family restaurant, a little chow mein, fried rice.’ And here I am.”
“So you think because you know a low life like Jimmy Tong, you have some kind of credibility with someone like me?”
Eddie bobbed his head, pursed his lips, and delivered his next pitch.
“No, not at all. But lemme buy you a drink and earn that credibility. And, just for the record, Jimmy’s my friend. And we couldn’t be more different. But I’d do anything for him. So, what’d ya say about that drink?”
That earned him a glance. Half-lidded. Sharp. Like a scalpel dipped in whiskey.
“You always this persistent?”
Eddie smiled. “Only with women who can kill me with a look.”
Pause. Her eyebrow lifted.
He went on, lowering his voice. “Look, I’ll be upfront. I heard all about you. I know what you been through. You took a bullet. You went through hell. But got back up. Stronger. Smarter.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So what? I took a bullet. People take bullets all the time, and some of them stay dead. So, thank you for noticing I’m still breathing. You got anything else to add?”
“I think you’re the bravest person in this room. And, to repeat myself, the most beautiful. And if you were with me, nothing like that would ever happen again.”
She studied him. No smile. Just silence. Then: “Bullet’s still there, you know. One wrong move, and poof. Dead on the barstool. That’s not romantic. That’s physics.”
“Then I’ll be the gentlest man in New York,” Eddie said. “Ask Jimmy. I once robbed a guy and zipped up his jacket after.”
A beat.
“You’re stunod,” she said—dragging the word like a knife across marble, giving it that perfect Mulberry Street bite.
Eddie blinked. “Ah. So you know a thing or two?”
Lillianne shrugged. “More than that.”
“I don’t hang around them ginzos on Mulberry Street if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m from uptown.”
“You said.”
“We have a little more class.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I can smell it. That soft-boy swagger like you got nothing to prove but everything to lose.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“You’re stunod,” she repeated, softer now, seductive. “But at least you’re not boring.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She looked at him for a long time. “Not by me.”
And that was as close to a green light as he would get. She turned away. Then turned back. “One drink. Not because I like you. Because I like your jacket. And I’m curious what I would look like wearing it with nothing else on.”
Eddie grinned. “Okay. That’s uh … a cue I’m willing to entertain.”
“I’m Lillianne. Your half-wit friend probably already told you.”
“Nice to meet you, Lillianne. Chante.”
“So what’s your story, Eddie Cardone from Columbus Avenue?”
Lillianne’s Doyers Street apartment was a tiny studio above a shuttered seafood joint, and the hallway reeked of boiled crab—thick, permanent, like the walls had been marinated in it. But neither she nor Eddie cared. Not tonight.
They both knew what was coming the second they burst through the door, tangled in each other’s arms. Lillianne, vodka still on her breath, yanked Eddie by the collar of his leather jacket and kissed him like it was revenge and he owed her interest. By the time the door slammed shut behind them, they were half-naked.
Eddie was fast, but he was thrown off his game by Lillianne, who was even faster. Before Eddie had a plan, before he could even think about a condom or a safe word or what to do if her skull detonated mid-thrust, his hands were on her hips, his breath ragged, and all he could think was, Don’t hit her head. Don’t rock her skull.
But Lillianne? She moved like she wanted to die—or be reborn. She clawed at his shoulders, bit at his jaw, yanked his hair with fingers that didn’t tremble. “Don’t be gentle.”
Eddie tried.
Lillianne stopped and looked Eddie dead in the eye. “I don’t need a sympathy fuck. I need somebody who’s not scared of me. Are you scared of me, Eddie Cardone?”
Eddie blinked, swallowed hard. “No, I’m not scared of you.”
“Why you lying to me?” She stepped closer, toe to toe, her breath hot. “Are you lying to me?”
“No, I’m not lying to you,” he said, his voice rising an octave against his will.
“Tell me you’re not lying to me.”
“I’m not lying to you!”
Her hand slid up his chest, resting just below his collarbone. She paused like she was checking his heartbeat for dishonesty.
“If I find out you’re lying to me,” she said slowly, “you’ll never get a second chance at this. And I mean anything. Not the sex. Not the chance to stand in this room. Nothing.”
“Okay, okay,” Eddie said, nodding wildly, eyes searching hers like he was trying to find the escape route in her pupils. “But what was I supposed to be telling the truth about again?”
Lillianne laughed—a short, cutting sound with no joy in it.
“You better step up your game, Mister. I don’t know who you’ve been with before, but if you don’t even know the difference … ”
“Shut up!” Eddie said, cutting her off.
She smirked. Leaned in, lips brushing his cheek as she whispered: “Not bad for a beginner.”
And then, without warning, she shoved him back onto the bed like a cop frisking a suspect. Climbed on top of him like she owned the deed.
Eddie stared up at her, stunned, breathless, turned on, and terrified in equal parts. Lillianne straddled him like a dare, grinning like she knew he’d already lost. But somewhere between the burn in his chest and the blood in his teeth, something shifted.
He flipped her—fast, hard, primal—catching her off guard and loving the flash of surprise in her eyes. Her back hit the mattress with a thud that twisted his gut, but her smile only widened.
Eddie moved in, no more hesitation, no more politeness—just raw want. He gave her what he had, hips grinding, hands gripping, mouth on her neck like he meant to leave a mark. She clawed at him, laughing, moaning, breathing like a sinner who finally found religion.
But then her head knocked the wall—just a bump, a hollow thud—and panic punched through him. The bullet. Shit. He froze mid-thrust, his hand flying to cradle the back of her skull like it was made of blown glass.
She snarled—actually snarled—and yanked him back down with her legs like a vise.
“You stop now, and I swear I’ll kill you,” she growled, voice thick with fury and pleasure. “I’ll die when I’m goddamn ready, and it ain’t gonna be from a fuckin’ pillow tap.”
Eddie blinked. Something in him snapped loose.
He bit her shoulder, growled right back, and drove into her like the world was ending. The mattress squealed. The headboard banged.
Lillianne didn’t break. She laughed. She howled.
The pounding came from the wall then. A neighbor's fist. “Some of us are trying to sleep, you animals!”
“Fuck off, you miserable piece of shit!” Lillianne screamed back without missing a beat.
Eddie almost laughed. But her nails were in his back now, dragging, raking. His rhythm picked up, not from confidence but surrender. If she wanted to burn, he'd be the match. He stopped aiming for perfect, and that’s when it clicked. His body moved without permission. No choreography. Just instinct and heat, despite the surreal images flashing through his mind of Lillianne’s brain matter exploding at any given moment.
Lillianne came like a riot. Screaming. Loud. Messy. Glorious.
Afterward, Eddie collapsed beside her, sweaty and shaken, cradling the back of her head like it was an unexploded mine. His breath trembled against her temple.
She lay still. Silent. Then turned her face toward him and said, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to go again.”
His eyes slid towards her.
She pulled the sheet over her chest, eyes on the ceiling. “Next time, don’t baby me so much.”
Eddie stared at her, half in awe, half in horror, and realized something bone-deep and irreversible:
He was in love with a woman who treated death like foreplay.
And he was all in.
end of part one
© Michael Arturo, 2025
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Michael Arturo writes contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, and satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.
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