“Still have time to meet with the little people?” I asked Vandyne as he settled into the booth. We were at my favorite Szechuan restaurant.
“Oh, yeah, always time for you. This is the place that has a section with Chairman Mao’s favorite dishes, right?”
“You bet. Chicken and potatoes got your name on it.”
“That’s good. They don’t have iced coffee here, do they?”
I shook my head.
The waiter came over and I ordered for us. I said to Vandyne, “So I understand you talked to Wang.”
Vandyne nodded and bit his lip. “Talked to him. He’s working at a hardware store now called ‘Good Lock.’”
“He told you about the coffee grinder, right?”
“He did, but buying and returning a coffee grinder isn’t a crime.”
“Something’s funny with it. I just don’t know what.”
“The key to solving a murder, if it is a murder, is to find the motive. That’s the most direct path between the killer and the victim.”
“I guess I’m not privy to the kind of training you get,” I said.
Vandyne shifted in his seat. “Hey, come on, now. We’re both on the same side. We solve crimes.”
The chicken-and-potatoes dish swooped in and landed on our table. The scent of hot chili jabbed at the soft roofs of our mouths.
“You have to exercise better judgment,” Vandyne said, licking some sauce that had spilled onto his thumb.
“What are you getting at?”
“Well, look at Wang for instance. Maybe you know him well and all, but you also have to realize that any information he has is limited in its usefulness. He’s a guy who drifts from job to job, probably doesn’t pay taxes, and probably isn’t a legal immigrant.”
“Even if he isn’t legal, that doesn’t mean he can’t testify.”
“That’s true, but from what I understood from the translator, Wang doesn’t have any records of the sale. He can’t prove he sold Yip anything. It’s going to be his word against Yip’s.”
“Yip could be getting away with murder.”
“What is with you, anyway? You were tight with him before and now that he’s been cleared, you want to hang the guy.
I think you might be displacing issues with your father onto Yip.”
A vegetable dish came in and clinked plates with the chicken and potatoes. Two bowls of rice landed on the table with dull thumps.
“I’m not displacing anything. I think there’s something funny about Yip, but apparently the NYPD doesn’t care enough about this old woman Wah to make a more thorough investigation.”
“Hold on, Chow. You’re saying that I didn’t care or that I didn’t do a good job on it.”
“Well, I understand you’re doing a pretty good job of taking photos of youth who are suspected of being Chinese.”
“You don’t have a monopoly on race grievances, Chow. At least Chinese kids don’t get physically harassed by the cops, like our kids do.” He took a bite and chewed while I didn’t say anything. “Okay. It’s all bad. But I still think you’re wrong on Yip.”
“What if I get him to come in and make an admission of guilt? How about that? Would that reopen the case?”
“If you can get that done, we’ll throw the book at him and it would make English consider you for investigative assignments.”
“You think?”
“That’s what this is really about isn’t it? It’s about the detective track?”
“It’s about getting the job done,” I said.
“That sounds like a damned lie. Now, you asked me here to eat, and if you don’t eat already, you really are a liar.”
I tilted the entree dishes and scraped food onto my empty plate with my chopsticks.
“What are you working on now?” I asked.
“I thought I’d be shadowing gang bosses with this new Asian gang unit, but for now they just have me taking more Polaroids of kids in the playgrounds. English said some bigger things were going to happen real soon, but it hasn’t come yet. The biggest challenge I have now is keeping those kids in focus when they move.”
“You want more challenge? Try living with a troubled but gifted teenage boy.”
“I’m glad you’re showing some responsibility by taking Paul in. Interesting way to get in good with his sister. How’s it going with Lonnie, by the way?”
“Smoothly.”
“Well, all right. Paul isn’t getting too much in your hair, now, is he?”
“I told him he had to get a job to stay in my apartment.”
“Taking care of you and your place must be a job in itself. The midget told me Paul even cleaned your bathroom. He bought the cleansers and everything.”
“My apartment isn’t a dump.”
“Your bathroom had to be in pretty bad shape if a teen- age boy felt the urge to clean it up. Must have been gunk all over.”
I set my chopsticks aside. “Please, Vandyne,” I said,
“I’m eating.”
“I’m sorry. Say, I need a favor from you, Chow.”
“What is it?”
“I need to get a collector’s stamp at the post office.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I didn’t have time to go to the post office today and I’m not going to tomorrow, either. This is for a nephew on Rose’s side. He’s a little stamp collector.”
“You want me to go for you tomorrow? It’s a swing day for me.”
“Aw, man, you’re a life saver. Okay. It’s the 13-cent Telephone Centennial Commemorative Stamp. It has something about Alexander Graham Bell on it. It should come on a souvenir page stamped for the first day of issue. Unless it’s sold out.”
“You owe me one, now.”
“I sure do. Man, thanks. Hey, I’m eating everything. Don’t like the food or something?”
“Naw, I’ve just been cutting back.” We left it at that.
—
Chinatown has two post offices. One was in the district controlled by businessmen loyal to the KMT in Taiwan. The other was on East Broadway, in the part of town controlled by businessmen loyal to the communists.
The KMT had been established in Chinatown ever since Sun Yat Sen himself had set up an office on Mott to solicit money to topple China’s Manchu rulers. KMT money went into a huge community center that ran Chinese school classes on Saturdays, set up lion dances, and generated anti-communist propaganda.
The center also provided translation services for letters, since all mail was required by law to be addressed in English in addition to the Chinese. The younger people could handle the English, but not the older people. Early in the mornings, elderly Chinese clutching onion-skin envelopes would be lined up at the center.
The post office in KMT Chinatown on Doyers usually became crowded as old people ambled in with their newly addressed mail. Sometimes you’d see a bent-over man leaning on someone younger for support. It was heartwarming.
The communist community center was younger than the KMT one, but it was so bogged down with immigration cases that there were no letter-translating services. The problem was that the KMT center refused to address mail ultimately destined for China although they would make an exception for Hong Kong, which was under British control.
The post office in communist Chinatown on East Broadway was about twice as big as the one in KMT Chinatown, and luckily it had two large desks in the back. For a few hours a day, a man would sit there, writing out addresses in English. That man was Moy’s dad, and he’d been at it for about 20 years.
—
When I got to the East Broadway post office, people were lined up to see Moy’s dad, who was sitting at a side table on a seat that folded out from a metal walking cane and formed a stool. He was addressing envelopes, filling out international mail forms, and sometimes even writing letters. People paid him five cents, no matter what services they needed. When they were done, they waited in another line for the clerk windows.
I stood in line for a clerk and waved to Moy’s dad, but he was stooped over and intently writing.
“Old Moy,” someone was asking him, “Have I gotten a letter from my mother?”
“I already checked my post-office box,” Moy’s dad said without even looking up. “Nothing for you.”
“It’s just that she’s very old. I’m a little worried. It’s been some time, now.”
“There was nothing for you! Now please, there are other people here to see me.” Moy’s dad waved the man away. He caught sight of me and nodded his head once. Then he toyed with his glasses and put his head back down.
I looked down at the piece of scrap paper in my hand. “Souvenir page of the 13-cent Telephone Centennial Commemorative Stamp.” I had written it down because
I didn’t want to get some other commemorative stamp by mistake.
When I got to a window, I looked at the stamp that was mounted on a presentation page. The main design was a line drawing that looked like bad abstract art.
“You’re the first to ask for one of these in a while, mack,” said the clerk.
“No wonder,” I said. “They’re so ugly.”
Then I went to Martha’s to see Lonnie. It was amazing how the dynamic had changed ever since Lonnie had stood up to Dori that day. Lonnie was behind the counter mixing up hot batches of Horlicks and Ovaltine — British drink mixes that a lot of Hong Kongers had grown up drinking and now were hooked on. The batches were going to be chilled overnight and served cold.
Dori was dejectedly pushing a mop around. Moy was in a seat by the garbage can, reading a newspaper.
“Hi, Lonnie,” I said, putting my arms up on the counter.
“Robert, how are you?”
I looked over at Moy. He put his hand up and I nodded my head at him. We didn’t do lunch on Mondays anymore. Funny how people change when they get girlfriends. Dori didn’t bother to look at me.
“Robert, I’m worried that you’ve been losing a lot of weight.”
“That would make most women happy, Lonnie.”
“Weren’t you the one forcing me to eat before?”
“That was a state of emergency. I’m doing fine.”
“You never take the pastries with your coffee anymore.”
“I don’t need them. They keep my body from absorbing the coffee.”
“OK, Robert.”
“What do you mean, OK?”
“Hey, I have to study tonight, but let’s go out after my exams next week.”
“All right with me.”
—
I wasn’t hungry exactly, but I felt like I should eat to keep Lonnie happy. I didn’t want to stop at any of the food carts or go into a restaurant, so I stopped at the Hong Kong market and picked up a frozen dinner that bragged about having “Half a Pound of Meat!” I picked up another one, too.
When I got back to the apartment, Paul was there, on the phone.
“Um hm,” he’d say into the phone every few seconds.
I took a butter knife and cut the foil from around the potatoes. I popped both trays into the oven and set the heat to 400. I opened the fridge. Paul had been out grocery shopping. I reached around a bag of apples for a beer.
“Um hm, okay. Bye,” Paul said into the phone. I put my beer down and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Hey! What was that for?” he yowled, rubbing himself.
“That’s for not saying you love her,” I said. I waited a few seconds and then I smacked him again.
“Now what!”
“That’s for not hitting me back.” I went back to the beer.
“Keep punching me and I won’t be able to carry the groceries up all those stairs. I don’t think you’ve ever eaten fruit in your life, have you?”
“There’s fruit in the TV dinner. Tomato sauce. Tomato’s a fruit, not a vegetable. You know that?” I put the empty bottle behind the kitchen garbage can that Paul had bought.
“Wow!” Paul mocked. “Tomatoes are fruit? You must be a nutritionist!”
“Hey, Paul, don’t get like that with me. I’m cooking tonight. Sit down and relax.” I went over to the couch.
“Those TV dinners don’t taste very good.”
“You can eat whatever and whenever you want.”
“You’re lucky I don’t drink your beer.”
“No — you’re lucky you don’t drink my beer. Speaking of which, would you grab me another one?” He went to the fridge and passed it over. “Thanks.”
“Your problem only gets worse the more you ignore it.”
I checked my watch. “My only problem is that I gotta wait 45 minutes to eat.”
“I’m going to boil some frozen dumplings, instead. They only take about 10 minutes. I can make some for you, too.”
“Naw, I’m good,” I said, popping the beer open. “Since you’re forcing me to eat two TV dinners, the least you could do is tell me more about the girl.”
“Nothing to say,” said Paul, who was fishing a pot out from under the sink.
“This the girl you had the note from, right? Lei?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, you really don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Nothing to say.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“What’s she doing with you?”
“She likes me.”
“When do you see her?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“You bring her to the movies?”
“Don’t have enough money.”
“Get a damn job.”
“I’m working on it, I told you.”
“Then get me another beer.”
“That was the last one.” I pulled off my shoes.
“You don’t want to do me another favor, do you?”
“I’m not going to buy you some beer. That’s what you get for hitting me.”
“C’mon, we’re just being guys here. Like how friends slap each other around.”
“I’m not going. I have to watch this pot.” I went over to the window and looked down into the street. I was feeling hot and the window was closed. The one that was supposed to be left slightly open at all times.
“The problem with you, kid,” I said, fiddling with the window latch, “is that you lack respect for your elders.”
—
Paul went out to wherever he goes and I threw my foil trays into the garbage and the fork into the sink. At about 0100 I put my shoes on and went to a Spanish place to get a six-pack of Bud. You can’t be too choosy at that time of night. All the places in Chinatown that sold beer were already closed.
I was going to head back to the apartment, but then I got worried Paul might walk back in and give me more shit about drinking. He should really just shut up. I decided to find someplace else to go.
I headed to Seward Park. Lotsa benches and trees to hide behind. City parks were supposed to close at dusk and drinking is never legal there at any time, but I could be alone.
I found a bench mostly hidden by the branches of an overgrown maple tree. It smelled like rotten leaves, but the seat was dry and I took it. I popped open a beer. I felt happy.
I poured the first one down and it felt so cold and honest, it was like God breathing life into me. The second one was even better. I became aware that I was making loud slurping noises. I could hear sounds from my drinking echoing back from the chipped wall of the handball court.
I got up and went to the park’s men’s room. The door was locked, so I kicked it in.
I was washing my hands when I heard something rustling in one of the stalls. I approached the stall door with caution and swung it open slowly. On the floor was a pigeon. He seemed dazed.
I picked him up and carried him outside. By the light of the park lamps, the filmy coat of grease on his feathers reflected every color of the rainbow, red and purple in particular. I put him down by a bush and he winked at me. I went back into the bathroom to wash my hands all over again. When I came out, he was gone.
I left the park and braced myself against a streetlight. I looked up and saw a sign that read, “Littering is filthy & selfish so don’t do it!”
I didn’t want to be filthy.
I didn’t want to be selfish.
I couldn’t remember if I had thrown my empties into the garbage. I swung back into the park to check, but somehow I ended up on the path for home.
—
The next morning the Brow wanted to see me. I walked into his office, put my hands in my pockets, and coughed. He was sitting, with the back of his chair swiveled to me.
“Hello, sir. You wanted to see me?” I asked.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Chow. Have yourself a seat.” He turned around slowly. A pipe wriggled in his mouth. “Do you smoke?”
“No, I don’t, sir.”
The Brow nodded. He struck a match on the sole of his shoe and lit the pipe. He blew out the match and dropped it into a wastebasket filled with paper.
“We’ve got a problem on our hands, Mr. Chow. There’s this older Chinese gentleman who’s been operating a bit of a business in the post office on East Broadway. It’s something we can’t have.”
“Sir, I think I know who you’re talking about. He just helps people address envelopes in English.”
“There’s no need for him to be there. There are already a number of community agencies that provide that service.”
“But none of them will address mail destined for the People’s Republic, sir. They only send mail to Hong Kong and Taiwan.”
The Brow took a good hard puff and said out the side of his mouth, “Are you a postman, now, Mr. Chow? Or are you a policeman?”
“Sir, this man is providing a service to the community. He’s not hurting anyone.”
“This man is conducting business on federal property. He takes nickels.”
“He’s been there since the 1950s, sir, why do we have to remove him now?”
A grinding sound came from the Brow’s clenched mouth. One eye clamped shut and the brow went up.
“Listen, mister, I don’t care if he’s been doing it for five minutes or a hundred years. We’re putting an end to
it now.”
“Sir, this action is going to be bad for the community. It’s going to alienate everyone aligned with the People’s Republic.”
The Brow stomped his foot and I heard everyone in the Five hold their breath.
“Don’t tell me anything about community! I suppose you think the bars and the pross houses are providing community services, too!”
“Sir, this isn’t about drinking or whoring. It’s about sending mail.”
“Now I understand what you’re talking about. You don’t want to arrest him because he’s another Chinaman. I suppose if it were some mick in there selling potatoes or some wop bastard selling sausages, then you’d be fine about putting them in cuffs! Sending them to the guillotine, eh?”
“Sir, there’s going to be an uproar, maybe a riot, if they see a white cop arresting this man.”
That seemed to calm him down.
“That’s where you come in, mister. You’re going with Peepshow Geller. Take one of the sector cars. Make sure everyone sees you. Better yet, handcuff him yourself. Bring the Chinese gentleman back here and book him. He’s not going to understand a simple warning.”
“We should really reconsider, sir.”
“I’ve already reconsidered.”
—
I slouched in the passenger seat as Peepshow drove.
“Go down Mott,” I said.
“What you want to do there? We hafta go get this guy, Chow.”
“He might be at the toy store. I’m just going to tell him to not go to the post office anymore. End all the bullshit right here, Geller.”
I went into the store, but Moy said his dad had already gone.
“I’m going to level with you, Moy. I’m taking him out of the post office.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got orders. He’s doing business on federal property.”
“Can’t he get a license for it?”
“You can’t get a license for something like that.”
“But he’s been doing it for so long. Why are you stopping him now?”
“It’s illegal. He shouldn’t have been doing it in the first place.”
“He doesn’t do it for the money, you know? He just likes to help people,” said Moy, his voice jumping an octave.
“He’s been doing this since we’ve been kids, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay. It’s a crime. My job is to stop crime.”
“My father’s helping people. That’s your job, too!”
“Don’t tell me what my job is, fatso!” I said, planting my feet. I didn’t really expect anything from Moy, but getting ready for a problem was second nature.
“You were born here, so you think you’re better than my dad and me!”
“I don’t think I’m better than anyone! Your English is perfect.”
“That’s so condescending! Do I say, ‘Hey, your Chinese is so good! Who could have known you’re not a real Chinese?’”
“You’re a real Chinese and I’m not?”
“That’s right! You don’t help the Chinese people. You’re only looking out for yourself! My father let you work here at the toy store! All he ever did was help you! Did they promise you a promotion for this?”
I stepped away to the door. “I’m wasting my time here, Moy.”
“This is the last time you come in this store. You understand? If I’m being held up, I’m going to ask for an American policeman!”
I got out of there and hopped back in the car with Peepshow.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He’s not there. We’ve got to go to the post office on East Broadway.”
“Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I saved one of these hot-dog doodads for you from lunch.” He held up a bag from Martha’s. “I started eating these things because I saw you doing it. Good call!” I looked at him in the face.
“Hey, Geller, have you been taking that food on the arm?”
“No, I paid for it! Well, sort of. I try to pay. I give a five and they count out five singles and give it back every time.”
“Who do you think has to pay for it when you take stuff on the arm? The girls at the counter!”
“Well, I goddamn tried, Chow! You want me to force them at gunpoint or something?”
“No, but you could just drop the money on the counter.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do that! Don’t take it out on me just because some people want to be nice.”
I pulled my hat over my eyes when we pulled up to the communist post office and said, “Geller, listen, you go in there and get him, and I’ll be right here.”
“You’re not coming in with me?”
“Can’t handle an old man by yourself?”
“All right, all right. Jeepers creepers, you’re lazy.”
Peepshow got out, fixed his belt, and went in.
I put my head in my hands. I wanted to crumple my face up and throw it away. This man had taken me in and given me a job when I was back from Nam and had nothing going on. I rocked a little bit in my seat.
Peepshow came out of the post office, dragging Moy’s dad by the arm. The old man could yell. It wasn’t long before people were gathered there.
“Look what the police are doing to Old Moy!”
“He’s hitting Old Moy!”
“Leave Old Moy alone!”
Peepshow wasn’t hitting Moy’s dad, but the old man was making a show of flailing his arms and legs. I watched the two of them do an awkward do-si-do on the sidewalk for a little bit. His folding stool fell to the sidewalk.
People from the fruit-stand groceries came running up. Some of them had baseball bats. When you have a sidewalk business, you’ve always got some weapons handy. Bats and 2 X 4s. And knives.
Now it was time for me to get out and help.
“Officer Chow!” said Chi, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. “You have to help Old Moy! He’s being attacked by that white motherfucker!”
I stepped through the crowd.
Moy’s dad broke Peepshow’s grip and stood up.
“Robert!” he said with an air of indignity. “I’m going to sue the damn police department for harassment if you don’t straighten this foreign bastard out.” He brushed off his arms and let out a heavy sigh. “Robert, pick up my stool and come back inside with me. I still have a lot to do.”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t do this anymore,” I said to him.
“What’s wrong with you, don’t you call me ‘Uncle’ anymore?” he asked, with a smile. “I was just kidding about suing the police. Please don’t worry about it. Just tell this white boy to leave me alone.”
“You have to leave. You can’t transact business here anymore,” I said.
“Business? This is no business,” said Moy’s dad, looking at me like I was going out of focus. “I’m just helping people with their mail.”
“They pay you for writing the addresses down. You’re doing business on federal property.”
“I’ve been helping write people’s mail since you were just a kid!”
“I don’t personally have a problem with you doing this, but it’s illegal. You shouldn’t have been doing this from the beginning.”
“I never wanted to charge money, but everyone gives me a nickel to show their appreciation. Their respect. Even you have to show me respect.”
“I have respect for the law, and my job is enforcing it. Please, let’s go.”
“Okay, I don’t care about the money. I’ll just do it for free! That make you happy?”
“It doesn’t matter. You have to leave.”
“You can’t tell me to go if I’m not doing anything!” he yelled, crossing his arms.
“If you’re not using the postal services, you have to leave the premises, or I’ll arrest you for loitering!” I said. My throat hurt as I went from talking loud to shouting.
“Look at all these people here!” Moy’s dad hollered, swinging one arm in a crazy arc. More people had come and black hair was pressing in on us. Peepshow stayed close to me, invading my space. “If I wasn’t here,” Moy’s dad continued, “who would help with their mail? How could they write to China?” “They’re in America now, so they have to learn English!” I said. It was the wrong thing to say.
“Not everybody here grew up with as much money as you, Officer Chow! Okay? They weren’t as fortunate to be born here, go to school, and learn English like you! Okay? They work for a dime an hour, sleep 10 people to an apartment! Okay? They can’t be like you and drink themselves drunk every night! Okay?”
He made an indignant face and reached for his stool. I grabbed it before he could and folded it under my left arm. With my right I grabbed his arm and pulled him along. It was pretty easy handling the old man.
Moy’s dad screamed. “You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!”
“I’m not hurting you, and you know it!” I yelled.
“Officer Chow, Officer Chow, what are you doing!” Chi was shouting to me through the crowd. “That’s Old Moy you have there!” I walked on, determined but not rushed. I pushed Moy’s dad into the back of the car and slammed the door. I got in the passenger’s seat and Peepshow hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Let’s get out of here! They’re going to kill us!” said Peepshow, panting.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I said. I looked back at the crowd as we pulled away. Most people were looking more disgusted then mad. Everything they had ever suspected about me was true. Chi was shaking his head at me.
I glanced back at Moy’s dad. His eyes were tearing.
“Robert, don’t you get it?” he asked in a soft voice. “They hate us here. We have to help each other. Even the black people have their own politicians. We don’t have anybody. We’re all so helpless. I can’t even go home to be buried in the family graveyard because the U.S. doesn’t recognize China. It’s my last wish, but the Americans stole my body from me! My own body!”
“If you go back into that post office, and you don’t have a letter to mail or a package to pick up or your own stamp to lick, I’m going to handcuff you,” I said.
I stayed in the car and let Peepshow bring Moy’s dad into the Five. They booked him and fined him $100. I let Peepshow put in his own name for the paperwork and the credit.
—
When the shift was over, I walked in a big spiral through Chinatown back to my apartment. I felt like a big traitor. I had rounded up another gook for interrogation. Some people I knew came up to me, but I looked away and kept going.
The worst thing was that maybe the Brow was right. If it were an Irish guy or an Italian in place of Moy’s dad, I would have had no problem yanking them out. But if I hadn’t been there, Peepshow would probably be in intensive care right now.
Moy’s dad had taken a lot of shit from the pro-KMT community for doing what he did. In the early days, Moy told me, people would leave death threats under the store door, calling him a “communist sympathizer.” But Moy’s dad was one of the few people who truly worked for the benefit of all Chinese people. He co-sponsored a float for the KMT Chinese New Year parade and also helped send mail to the People’s Republic. He didn’t let politics tell him he couldn’t help someone. He was a brave man. I was a rat.
I slowed my walk down. I looked down a street that the Continentals used to own. Where were they all now? The world seemed so small back then. Central Park was as distant and vast as Canada in our minds.
I thought about people like Paul, Lonnie, Dori, and even Barbara who were trying to get by in Chinatown because they couldn’t get out for whatever reason. I knew people like my mom who dreamed of owning a place far away from the tenements, and people like my dad who had lost all hope.
I looked up and saw an old Chinese man squatting outside a restaurant. He must have been one of the cooks on a break. An empty bowl lay at his feet and he was smoking. His arms were folded over his bent knees as if he’d been told that was all the space he was allowed to take up in America. How many years had he been here in the same shitty job? I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look up.