The heavy bolted upright, reached beneath the lapel of his leather overcoat. Steeling himself for the sight of a gun, Finch held his breath, clenched his pecs, anticipating whatever takedown he would have to employ. But the heavy only pulled out a pager, clicked it a couple of times, grunted, and settled back into his seat.

Mr. Brownstone’s performance had sprayed a viscous satisfaction over the crowd. Everyone was smiling wanly at one another, faces glistening, happy to share in the melancholy connection found only when we sing childhood songs with strangers. Especially sad, silly songs. Finch, thirty-nine in August, had never heard “Tha Crossroads” before, but even he, forever cynic, now hardened to a seemingly impending death, could feel the joy knocking around his chest reach its tendrils out and join hands with these sappy children.

The heavy, he noticed, had craned his neck to look back at the bar, where Lionface was talking to some Asian kid in a power tie and a sturdy-looking girl whose vintage dress and hat could not quite cover up the fact that she belonged somewhere in the Marina. But before he could speculate on the identity, or, perhaps, utility of the two costumed kids, the lights dimmed.

Followed by a lone spotlight, Frank Chu trudged up the steps to the stage. Someone had put him in a beige suit, but it wore badly, loose in the ass and shoulders, dragging at the cuffs. Sweat glistened off his brow, and even from his seat, Finch could smell the unmistakable pungency of ginseng root or ginkgo leaf or one of those mediciney smells that, along with rotting fish and edible frogs swimming in kiddie pools, turn every Chinatown into a summertime horror show. At least for most of us.

His tortoiseshell sunglasses hung low on his nose, but even their opulence, squared off and clearly of the right brand, could not cover the deep lines that creased his cheeks, the gristly fat that hung down from his chin. Tightly gripped in his right hand, dented and sweating, was a can of Budweiser. Without his sign, which stood propped up against the bar, he could have been any half-cocked Chinese grandfather in any of the karaoke bars on Geary or down on Jackson, ready to sing a ballad to God knows what, probably a cherry blossom, in the preferred Chinese guttural baritone.

Good Lord, Finch thought to himself, Frank Chu looks old.

Maybe it was the oppression of the spotlight, but as Frank Chu stood at the mike, soaking in the whoops from the crowd, blinking against the flashes of the digital cameras, he cowered a bit. After the hoots and catcalls died down, he adjusted the mike stand down, and began his raspy, rhythmic speech.

“I am glad, ah, you are all here to support, ah, my fight against the 12 Galaxies, ah, and their treasons and perversions against humanity, this is a kind place where they have given me many things like checks for one hundred dollars for advertising, ah, their bar on the back of my sign and many free complimentary Budweisers. For many years, the 12 Galaxies, ah, controlling their hurricane devices, ah, have committed war crimes against humanity, ah, like turning on their wind machines, ah, to drown the population of New Orleans because of their ancestries. The 12 Galaxies have continually withheld payment from me and my family, led by President Bill Clinton, he and the 12 Galaxies have withheld payment as they, ah, turned us into movie stars, ah, and we have support of many movie stars, ah, and they agree the 12 Galaxies must pay.”

A cheer rattled through the crowd. Even the heavy managed a slow clap.

“It is the sum of three point five billion dollars, and for many years, I have notified the authorities of this injustice done to me and my family. In 1998, the San Francisco Chronicle wrote a cover piece on my protests, bringing to light the injustice done to me and my family by the 12 Galaxies, who have withheld payment for many years. I thank them for their help. In 2001, the San Francisco Examiner named me the city’s best protester, and I thank them for helping me expose the battle between the eighteen thousand galaxies and the 12 Galaxies. But tonight is about the 12 Galaxies nightclub, which, for many years, has supported me with checks for a hundred dollars and many free complimentary Budweisers. In 2002, the club opened to help me expose the 12 Galaxies and reclaim the three point five billion dollars owed to me by President Bill Clinton.”

Someone yelled, “Impeach Clinton!” Frank Chu grimaced.

Finch had no real opinion on that. He looked back at the bar, but Lionface and the kids were gone.

Instead, he opened up his cell phone and stared in again at the image of Sarah’s hairy bush. The heavy grunted, tried to slap away the phone. In one quick motion, Finch lifted up his shirt and pulled down the waist of his pants, exposing an inch of pubes and the remains of what had once been a ripping six-pack. He snapped a photo. Smoky, dark, and badly pixelated, the photo made his pubes looked like mold creepers, but the shadowy effect had restored his six-pack to some of its prior glory. Finch typed, “LET’S COMPARE???”

The heavy jammed something into Finch’s ribs. It was probably a gun.

Finch hit SEND.