After two days on the 0000 to 0800, I was on the day tour again. The turnaround was always tough. If the job duties alone weren’t bad enough, there was always the interruption to your sleep cycle to sprinkle more sand in your shell.
It was three days before Chinese New Year on January 31 and I figured I should be drinking more to get me loose enough for the holiday.
I was feeling kind of carefree after my morning beer and a Tic Tac chaser, so I decided to drop in and have a little talk with the Brow.
“Mister Chow,” said the Brow, folding his hands into a pile of dry twigs. “Always a pleasure.”
“Hello, sir,” I said.
“Something on your mind? Please. Have a seat.”
I looked down at the only other chair in the room. The varnish was rubbed out of the seat from people squirming in it. I sat in the center of the light spot.
“I understand,” said the Brow, “that you have another one of your events to attend tonight.”
“Chinatown Girl Scouts, sir.”
“Do they sell Girl Scout fortune cookies?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“I want to thank you once again, as always, for your help. The Department congratulates you heartily.”
“Well, I appreciate that, sir. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“What is it, mister?”
“Sir, I don’t want you to think that this is all I can do. I could really contribute in a lot of other ways.”
“Mister Chow. You don’t think we’re limiting you by having you attend these little gatherings, now, do you?”
“I understand how the Five wants me there for the photographs in the Chinese papers. . .”
“Not just the Five, Mister Chow. You represent every policeman in the city. When the Chinese people pick up the newspaper, they don’t just see someone from our house. They see a member of the Police Department of the City of New York.”
“Sir,” I said slowly, thinking of how to put it. “It’s not a hard thing to do.”
“But Mister Chow,” the Brow said, putting his thumbs on the edge of the desktop. “You are in fact the only one who can do this.”
“Sir, I want to be on the detective track. I want investigative assignments. Think of how my language skills. . .”
The Brow was shaking his head.
“Mister Chow. We are in a fight right now for the hearts and minds of the people. We’re slowly winning them back. And we’re winning them back because of you. The trust is once again, ah, rising between us and the community because of you.”
“There are other ways we could help rebuild that trust, sir.”
“This is the best way. Through the press, in their own
language. They need to see how integrated we are with their people.”
I thought about how sick I was of going to see Chinese people get awards for being smart, rich, or beautiful. A Chinese cop in the background was just another prop in
the play.
“We’re not providing enough of a challenge for you, are we Mister Chow?” the Brow asked, leaning back so he could look down at me.
“I just think I could do more, sir.”
The Brow nodded and chewed on the inside of his left cheek.
“Mister Chow, do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how many blueshirts would trade places with you
if they could?”
“Why would they want to, sir?”
“You’re getting your picture in the papers. You’re getting free food. You’re getting attention from your people. And you’re getting extra money.” He held up his hand immediately. “I know you’re getting money from these things, and it’s only fair that you do.”
“But I’d rather spend the extra time on investigative assignments, sir. If I keep doing these events, I’m never going to get a gold shield.”
“And so what if you don’t? Who wouldn’t want to walk a beat, make friends, and get their pictures taken? Think of all the people you meet and the goodwill you spread. The Chinese people love you, the police administration loves you — you have the best of both worlds. You’ll have the
easiest 20 years of anybody. You’ll retire and you’ll have a department pension and probably be named to several community boards.”
“I was thinking that I could be more than a 20-and-out kinda person, sir.”
“My boy, please be practical about this. Think of all the detectives and lieutenants who grow bitter and end up hating the people they’re supposed to protect. And that hate is mutual! The community here admires you! In a few years, you could practically be the mayor of Chinatown!”
“That’s all fine by me, sir, if you want me to keep attending community events, but I don’t want to keep walking a beat.”
“You realize that with the cutbacks, we’re understaffed and underbudgeted. We don’t have the luxury of letting people do what they want, Mister Chow. Everybody has to do what is best. But I’ll let Mister Sanchez know that you’re ready for any investigative assignments that happen to be available. Not that there are any.”
“I appreciate it, sir.”
“In the meantime, I don’t want you slipping in your duties. I expect at least 30 movers or parkers a month.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“Now consider yourself dismissed without prejudice, Mister Chow.”
I left the house and got onto the footpost. I looked down at my feet. If I had been born smarter, instead of stupid, I wouldn’t be stuck like I was. I could have had a lot more options. America was all about living out your dreams, but I had blown it and it was all my fault. There was nothing I could do now, except 17 more years. Then I could get my stupid pension.
—
I went up Bowery. When I hit Canal, I had to wait before the light changed. There were about 20 people on the corner waiting with me, but that didn’t stop them from spitting and jaywalking. I could fine them for crossing against the light, but that law was practically unenforceable in New York. I might as well write up people for being Chinese.
To the right was the Manhattan Bridge, which connected Manhattan to Brooklyn. The entrance to the bridge was
forever under construction. Canal Street traffic poured directly into an assortment of plastic mesh fences, concrete bunkers, and orange plastic barrels. This week, the lower roadway was shut off. Next week, the upper one would be closed.
To the left, Canal sloped down past Broadway into the Holland Tunnel. Shadows from taller buildings cut the sunlight into diagonal strips. Jewelry stores glittered on the northern side of the street. They looked a little trashy because the floors were littered with crumpled strips of newspaper, which functioned as a sound alarm in case someone got the idea to tiptoe behind the counter when
the store was crowded.
A large tractor-trailer going up into the Manhattan Bridge entrance grunted like it was hungry. It blew out exhaust that passed through us at about eye level as we stood on the corner. No one even blinked. The light changed and a stray car shot through the crosswalk at the last second. I looked at the decals on the rear window and let it go. It was an off-duty cop.
I continued north, passing grocery stores and giving a few limp waves to the storeowners. Soon, I was under the awning of one of the four movie theaters in Chinatown,
the Music Palace. The other theaters were the Pagoda on East Broadway by Catherine, the Rosemary on Canal, and the Sun Sing under the Manhattan Bridge overpass.
All of them ran double features for two bucks, and you couldn’t argue at that price. Sometimes it would be Bruce Lee. Sometimes the movies bordered on nudicals. Lonely Chinese guys went there to disappear in the dark. I didn’t do it too often.
My favorite theater was the Sun Sing. Its lobby had a virtual shrine to Linda Lin Dai, an actress who had killed herself at the height of her popularity. She’d always played the woman who was betrayed by the man. A lot of Chinese women could relate to that. Linda took a lethal dose of sleeping pills before her last film debuted. Then she truly became that woman in the movie poster behind the glass case that no one could ever touch.
By contrast, here at the Music Palace was a poster advertising yet another iron-fist-themed slapfest. I could tell by the bad photography alone that it was one of those movies where you could see the guy receiving the pulled punch clap his hands or slap his thigh to make the sound effect.
I turned away from the theater and almost stepped on a toy dog on a plastic tube. It yapped at me, then flipped back into the ranks of cheap Hong Kong toys in the street stall.
Holding the pump end of the dog’s tube was a dusty old man sitting in a dirty plastic chair. A portable heater on an extension cord hummed at him. He smiled at me and nodded his head. A wind-up toy dolphin wriggled frantically against the edge of a half-filled tub of water. I leaned over and saw a smaller tub in the shadows filled with baby turtles.
I pointed at the turtles and shook my head.
“You can’t sell those,” I said.
“They’re just my own pets,” the old man said, laughing. “I’m not selling them, officer.” He picked up the small tub and set it down behind his chair.
I turned and left. I bet I wasn’t more than five feet away before he brought out the turtles again.
I got to the corner of Grand and Bowery, one of the smelliest intersections in the world. Slime runoff from ice-filled racks of seafood dripped into a sewage drain already clogged with soapy restaurant grill grease poured in the night before. Homeless white men piled up on the sidewalk like bleached driftwood between seafood stands. On a hot day, you could pass out from the smell. Luckily, it was still winter.
I was done for the day, but I still had time to kill before the Girl Scouts thing. I went back to Columbus Park to see the midget. He was sitting on his upside-down bucket as usual, smoking and chatting to an old male fortune-teller. The midget flipped the cigarette around his fingers like he wanted to make sure the smoke got into every knuckle.
When he saw me, the midget screwed up his face and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Officer Chow. I’m looking for one more win for today. That would make it 25!” I smiled and sat down on the bench across from him. I nodded at the fortune-teller. He returned the gesture but remained silent, waiting for the midget to introduce him first. He stroked the part of his face that was trying to be a beard and stayed quiet.
“How about some checkers?” I asked the midget.
He nodded his head. “Yes, officer. Anything you say, officer. Are you going to arrest me if I win?” He reached into his knapsack on the ground and pulled out a bag of black and red checker pieces. He knew how to play every board game, Chinese and American. He even played steeplechase with plastic horses. Two crushed plastic bottles of herbal tea bowed at his feet. I subconsciously willed him to throw them away before he left the park.
“You want to be black or red?” I asked the midget.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “What’s your favorite losing color?”
I snickered. The midget liked to dish it out, but he wouldn’t do it in English. Even an old friend like Vandyne would only get, “Good move,” “I’m sorry,” or “Play again?” The fortune-teller smiled some more and shifted in his seat, but the midget ignored him so I did, too.
The midget grabbed fistfuls of checkers and planted them around the board. He gave me the reds so I moved first. I tried to make a bridge with two columns of pieces, but he cut it apart like a sword through straw. He toyed with me a little and I ran out of captured pieces to crown him with. It was as if he had a bonus move every turn.
He was having trouble holding all the captured pieces or maybe he was rubbing them against each other to annoy me. The midget tapped his foot three times and tilted his head up at me. I looked him in the eyes and he tapped his foot again.
“Okay, I give up,” I said.
“Twenty-five!” the midget yelled. Then he chuckled and swept the pieces back into the bag. He folded up the board and put it into his knapsack.
“This is Wang,” he said, finally introducing the fortune-teller who I’d seen around doing odd jobs, but whose name I hadn’t known. He didn’t need me to introduce myself. I was famous from the Chinese newspapers.
Wang looked about 70 years old, but seemed to be in pretty good health. His skin had shrunken and was taut against the bones in his face, wrists, and elbows. Wang’s peppery hair was thick and clumpy and looked like an art project with cat fur.
“Let me tell your fortune,” he said, taking my hands.
“I don’t believe in that kind of thing,” I told him.
“Just let him do it,” said the midget with faked irritation.
“Give this old man something to do.”
He noticed a mahjong game breaking up at the benches by the water fountain. “Hey, ladies!” he yelled, “Come and hear the fortune for Officer Chow! Maybe he’ll marry one
of you!” They cursed the midget, but they still came over to listen.
“You have a very lucky face,” Wang said to me. “Luckiest I’ve seen in a long time.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the boys,” I said.
“This is going to be a very lucky year for you. I can tell.” He placed my hands together in a finished clap and shook them three times before opening them. His moist eyes flitted as he looked at the lines in my palms. “When were you born?” he asked without looking up.
“December 2, 1950.”
Wang reached inside his vest pocket for a pile of sticks and singled one out.
“You’re married.”
“I’m not married.”
“Umm. You’re not married.” Some of the women giggled. I recognized them as the second-shift workers at a garment shop on East Broadway. They all looked as if they had kids to cook for at home. “You have a girlfriend.”
“No, no girlfriend.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend.” He opened his mouth and then closed it. He nodded and then asked, “You have a boyfriend?” The women laughed and the midget kicked his heels in the air.
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend.” Wang waved his hands.
“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.” He looked at the stick and read the characters, blocking out parts with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re going to have a son this year,” he said.
“How can he have a son without a wife?” asked one of the garment workers.
Wang ignored her. “Your life will be changed.”
“Just tell me if I’m going to be rich or not!” I joked. Chinese people pray for riches more than world peace.
“I can tell you that now!” said the midget. “As long as you work for the city, you won’t be rich!”
“You’re going to have a son,” the fortune-teller repeated. “You don’t have to worry about money, just worry about your son.” I took my hands back and squeezed my knees.
“Okay, Wang. Thank you.” He nodded. After a moment of hesitation, I pulled out two bucks and gave it to him. “If I don’t pay you, the prediction doesn’t come true, right?” I asked. Wang laughed and folded the bills up. The women shuffled home to make dinner. I stood up. The midget zipped up his knapsack but made no other motion to leave.
“There’s still some daylight left,” Wang said. “Maybe there are some fortunes left to tell.”
“I’m still waiting for a good game of Chinese chess,” said the midget. “I’m going to teach you how to play, officer. It’s a shame you don’t know how to play something Chinese.”
“We’re in America, not China,” I told the midget.
—
The Chinatown Girl Scouts had their ceremonies in the Ocean Empress Palace on Bowery, down a ways from Jade Palace. One of the girl’s fathers had a hand in running the place.
It was one of the nicer large Chinese restaurants, and the menus had English translations for everything. They must have paid decently and reliably because there was almost no staff turnover. When I walked in past the tied-back bead curtains at the entrance, I saw older waiters who had been old when I was young.
A short man with crooked teeth came up to me and grabbed my right shoulder.
“You! I remember you when you were this tall,” he said, slapping his thigh and laughing. He was completely bald on the top of his head, and the white hair he had left looked like a toilet brush from my point of view.
“Hello, uncle,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“I remember when we had a going-away party here for all of you who were going off to the war. We were so proud
of all of you. Say, where did they all go? I never see any of you anymore.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, the communists couldn’t have killed all of you, right? You can’t all be dead.”
“I’m really a ghost.”
“Don’t try to fool an old man, now. I’ve seen you in the newspapers. You’re the Chinese police captain.”
“I’m not a captain.”
“You must be important, I see your picture all the time!”
“I’m only a low-level cop.”
He screwed up his face.
“Agh, you think I’m just a lousy little waiter. You don’t think I’m worth your time.” I watched him walk back to the kitchen with a slight limp. The sounds of mothers fussing over their little girls got to me and I headed to the other end of the dining room.
Freestanding wall sections on wheels separated the Girl Scout event from the regular diners. As I went around the far side of the wall, I came face to face with someone I hadn’t seen since high school.
The moment I saw her, I felt the sudden jab of a sharp childhood memory.
“Barbara,” I said.
“Robert! How are you? I was thinking you might be here.”
“How come?”
“I’ve been seeing you in the papers! You really get around!”
I did a nervous fake-laugh and looked at a freckle on her neck. She shifted and I looked up and into her bright eyes. Was this really the fastest runner in the class? Was this really the first girl I had ever kissed?
“I’m here and then I’m there,” I said, fake-laughing some more. God, how stupid did that sound? “So, you help out around here?”
“I’m here for my youngest sister. You know I have three sisters, right? My parents never did get that boy they were trying to have.”
“She’s going to win one of the prizes tonight?”
“She dropped out of the awards ceremony. This is the last thing she volunteered to help organize. I have to help out because she couldn’t make it.”
“I don’t like it when people just throw in the towel, you know? Kids today aren’t as diligent as we were.”
“She got into Barnard early,” Barbara said. “She’s already auditing classes.”
“Only Barnard, huh? She wasn’t the smartest cookie in the jar,” I joked.
Barbara wasn’t smiling.
“Robert?”
“Yes?”
“You were in the war, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.” I felt the air getting thin. Barbara grabbed my wrist.
“Hey,” she said. “I’ve got to round up the girls for their presentations, but maybe we can chat later on tonight. After.”
“Sure, sure.”
I made my way over to the front table and sat down with the Girl Scout’s head girl and a committee that was lobbying for the creation of a Chinatown YMCA.
Something really bothered me about Barbara. She was one of the beautiful people. Always had been. One of those people who never got a pimple, never got called a “chink,” never had a bad day or night ever.
She had gone to Harvard. Free ride. Everybody knew about it. People were in awe of Barbara and her three younger sisters. They walked through Chinatown like four princesses. Even in their plastic sunglasses and flip-flops, they were the best-looking things south of Canal. When those girls left for college — and of course, they would all go to college — they were leaving Chinatown and never ever coming back.
I didn’t need to hear about how rich Barbara was. How rich and white her stupid husband was. And you knew he had to be white. How she was expecting twin boys and how they were going to win the Heisman Trophy and the Nobel Prize.
Barbara and I weren’t even people to each other anymore; we were only visions of what could have been in each other’s respective worlds.
When the event was over, I got out as soon as I could, even though I knew Barbara was still tied up backstage. I wasn’t sure what I was scared of.
A waiter on the way out handed me a brown paper bag. He just missed giving me a clap on my back as I blew past him.
A few blocks later, I found that the bag held a red envelope and a bottle of Cutty Sark. It was 2215. Drinking time.