~ Part 7 ~

Pete keeps telling me I'm a 'trouble magnet'. Harry said the same thing, when he finally found out just what it is that I do for a living. Actually, he said a lot more than that, including "You call that making a living, Bud?" He was kidding, of course, mostly. He understands why it's important, and why I'd rather do it than anything else.

But honest, they're exaggerating in a big way. The way they talk, you'd think I couldn't get up in the morning without stumbling into something complicated and dangerous. Just as an example, I've gone fishing thousands of times, but I've only walked in on a crime in progress once while I was doing it. Well, twice – three times if you count that one in Scotland – anyway, most of the time, it's just me and the fish, or me and no fish, the way it should be.

Same with buying groceries or getting gas or going hiking or any other ordinary daily routine. Or doing laundry. Just because I occasionally run into trouble doesn't mean I actually have more of it around me than anyone else. The thing is that I notice trouble a bit more easily than most folks do – and when I see trouble, I'm no good at ignoring it or walking away.

I've done my laundry about as many times as anyone else – maybe not quite as often as some, but I'd rather go fishing than do my laundry, who wouldn't? Doing laundry doesn't usually involve trouble, or criminal activity, unless you count the way people steal your dryer when you turn your back on it, or the way some washing machines eat just one of a pair of your favorite socks. That's not actually a crime, although I think it's a violation of the laws of physics.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Lurking beside the open door to the alley behind the laundromat, listening to angry shouts in Chinese and trying to figure out if this is actual trouble or just normal family dynamics. I think the loudest voice belongs to the guy who owns the dry cleaning place next door, and the sullen one is his son, but the third voice is trouble. Definitely, Trouble.

- x -

The angry shouts and curt replies weren't entirely in Chinese: most residents of Chinatown were casually multilingual, and from what Mac could make out, the owner of the younger voice was trying to tune out the current set of parental orders by pretending to have forgotten the home dialect. The languages toggled with disorienting ease, sometimes in the same sentence.

" – those are my friends you're calling – "

" – if you think 'hanging out' with that kind of – "

" – I'm over eighteen and I can do what I want – "

The voices had drowned out the sounds of traffic out on the main streets, but now a new sound drowned out the voices: a single car with a V-8 engine, revving loudly, peeling around the corner – yes, coming into the alley and making a screechingly noisy stop close to the combatants, a lot closer than Mac would've liked if he'd been the one standing out in the open.

An electric car window hummed open, and a deep, rough voice tossed another handful of hard-edged Chinese words into the angry stew. MacGyver recognized a few of the words in the newcomer's remark, and none of them were words he'd be willing to use himself. The younger voice started to answer, and was cut off by a single curt phrase from the older man.

A car door slammed and gravel crunched under heavy footsteps. Lighter footsteps started towards the car – probably the son – then a confused scuffling sound, as if the father had blocked his way.

"Shit, Lenny, you still letting your old man kick you around? Maybe I oughta come back after he stops wiping your ass for you? Thought you were past fucking kindergarten." The accent was unmistakably American. Apparently, the new voice's mastery of Chinese was limited to a few obscenities.

"I told you to keep your ugly face away from here!"

"Jesus, Dad – "

"Mind your own fucking business, grampa."

"I'm not anyone's grandfather, certainly not yours."

"You gonna listen to this old man's shit, Lenny?"

More heavy footsteps, crunching closer. The father's voice shouting "What the hell are you doing? Put that down!" A loud crash.

"Oops."

"Get out of here!"

"You need to shut the fuck up, gramps. Like, now."

Okay, that's it. MacGyver had no idea what he was going to do or say, but if he didn't interrupt, the confrontation was going to turn physical and brutal in another few seconds.

He walked out into the alley, whistling aimlessly, and looked around. He pretended to suddenly notice the trio in the alley – an older man in clean workclothes and a young man in his early twenties who was definitely a close relation – contrary to cliché, Chinese people did not look alike any more than anyone else, and family similarities were just as clear as in any other group. Facing the older man and towering over both, another young man, maybe mid-twenties, wearing a suit and expensive shoes and an ugly expression. The car behind him, a brand-new black Corvette C4, matched the suit. Shiny Shoes was massively stocky, and was holding a short length of rusty iron bar. Next to him, the rough ground of the alley was littered with broken glass.

"Howdy, folks!" Mac looked around at the tense, angry faces, and waited for inspiration.

- x -

Should MacGyver:

- Say something pointless and idiotic, to defuse the situation?

- Say something clever and intellectual, to confuse the situation?

- Say something tough and faintly threatening, to redirect the situation?

- Say something in bad Mandarin, then apologize?

- Say nothing at all until one of the others speaks?

- Change his mind and go back inside?

To participate, leave your answer in a review, or go to my Livejournal at bethinexile and vote in the poll there. The direct link is in my ff dot net profile. You don't need to have a LiveJournal account to vote.

~ Beth