I STOPPED CONDUCTING MY “COMMUNITY SESSIONS” IN THE BACK of the midget’s toy store. It wasn’t fair for me to be bringing people’s problems into a place trying to conduct business. Apart from being dangerous—if more human snakes came in, snakeheads would surely take a serious interest in the place—it was just plain bad feng shui.
I did miss doing it, though. It was a nice way to wrap up the day, fielding questions and feeling like I was making an immediate difference for the better.
One day I fought the temptation to go to the store or a bar by going to a late-night over-rice place on Division Street that nobody ever went to. I half suspected the place was a front. I ordered some steamed chicken buns and read through the newspapers.
Usually the three newspapers would run wildly divergent editorials that made readers think they were reading about Chinese people in three different parallel universes.
But today they all said the same thing: Ethnic Chinese in newly united Vietnam were catching hell.
Chinese allegedly had collaborated with American forces during the war. They were branded as bloodsuckers for controlling Vietnam’s economy and not spending any money where they made it. Vietnamese—with a newfound confidence from winning the war—were marching into Chinatowns and confiscating property, raping women, and conducting summary executions.
It sounded like the Vietnamese had picked up some things from the Americans.
Ethnic Chinese refugees, some who had been in Vietnam for three or four generations, were trickling into China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. More people had wanted to leave, but the Vietnamese government charged ridiculous “exit fees” to exploit people on the way out.
I thought about the snakeheads, who exploited Chinese on their way into America.
Chinamen were exploited around the world whether they wanted to stay put or go anywhere. How would my father have done if he had never left Canton? I wouldn’t have been born, but maybe that was the upside to it. He couldn’t have known that his own people were going to screw him over so badly and that I would grow up to let him down so hard.
I felt mad again, but the only thing I could do about it right now was chew each bite of the chicken buns well before swallowing.
A young woman came in and ordered some buns to go. When she saw me, she came over and sat at my table. Her purse made a funny clunking sound when she put it on the empty chair next to her. She had on way too much makeup and perfume.
“Stephanie,” I said. “Does your dad know you’re out this late?”
“It’s not even ten P.M.!”
“You’re not twenty-one yet, are you?”
“I’m nineteen, okay? I’m old enough to drink!”
“We’re not talking about a question of age. It’s just not safe for you as a woman to be out this late by yourself. You also shouldn’t be wearing a blouse that I can see your bra through.”
“Well, why are you looking?”
“You’re basically shoving it in my face.”
“I know you can’t help yourself,” she said, lying back in her chair to stretch her blouse tighter against her body. “You’re a man. I’m a woman. It’s a natural reaction.”
“You’re asking for trouble, Stephanie.”
“But I feel very safe with you, Robert.” She leaned across the table and tilted her head at an angle.
“Do you feel safe because I’m a cop or because you’ve got a gun in your purse?”
She jerked back and crossed her arms. “You have no right to search through my purse!”
“I don’t have to. It’s as obvious as your bra.”
“It’s not mine, okay?”
“I know. You’re just holding it for your wannabe-gangster boyfriend, right?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s my father’s gun. I took it so I could protect myself. There are gunshots all the time!”
“Because chumps like you are arming themselves. Do you even know how to shoot a gun?”
“It’s not hard. Switch the safety off and pull the trigger.”
I shook my head. This was why Chinese kids shot bystanders more often than the intended targets. They never aimed carefully, never kept their wrists straight, and fired their Saturday night specials with one hand without bracing with the other hand. I heard about a punk who broke his own nose when he punched himself in the face as the gun kicked back.
I looked hard at Stephanie.
“Look, little girl,” I said. “Don’t you know that—statistically—if you carry a gun, you’re more likely to get shot?”
“But at least I get to shoot back!”
“Why does your dad even have a gun, Stephanie? Is it because he’s involved with human smuggling and needs to protect himself?”
“He meets with a lot of illegals, but he’s not the one bringing them over. He only has the gun because he gets death threats from the anti-Communists!”
“You ever hear anyone call him Brother Five?”
“No. He doesn’t even have any brothers.”
“I see. In any case, I’m going to have to take that gun, Stephanie.”
“What! No, please don’t! My father will kill me!”
“He won’t do it with this gun, at least.” I opened up a cloth napkin and pushed it to her. “Take the gun out, put it under this, and slide it back to me.”
She sighed and followed my instructions. It was a .45 automatic. I took out the clip and put it under my right thigh. I wrapped the gun in the napkin and put it under my right elbow.
“You’re lucky I’m not charging you with unlawful possession of a firearm. If your father wants his gun back, tell him to come see me. Of course, I’ll need to see his gun permit as well. He has one, right?”
“Of course he does. Anyway, everybody knows you guys are on the side of the KMT!”
“No we’re not! If you were Chiang Kai-shek I’d still take your gun.”
“You always have representatives at the KMT events. Your captain even went to the Greater China Association’s New Year’s banquet.”
“He did?”
“Oh yeah.”
“That’s not surprising. We send representatives to all the major events in Chinatown.”
“Almost all of those are aligned with the KMT, because they’ve been here longer and they scare people with their anti-Communist propaganda. Mainland China associations are smaller, but we’re growing quickly. In a decade we’ll be a real political force.”
“What do you care, Stephanie? You won’t be in Chinatown by that point.”
“Who the hell are you to question my political conviction? I intend to be here after law school and for sure my father will be in Chinatown. By then, the U.S. will have full diplomatic ties with China—not with Taiwan or the KMT!”
“No way. That would be a slap in the face to everyone who fought Communism in Vietnam.”
“Vietnam was a huge mistake, Robert. America deserved to lose.”
“So men deserved to die?”
“You told me yourself,” Stephanie said, getting up. “If you carry a gun, you’re more likely to get shot.”
I hate it when people turn around what you said to them. They should really come up with their own shit.
I saw Paul back at the apartment.
“Robert, what were you doing with that girl in the restaurant?” he asked. “I was walking by, but you looked too busy to say ‘Hi’ to me.”
“I didn’t go there to meet her or anything. I was there and she happened to show up.”
“A girl who looks like that only shows up when she’s called.”
“Stephanie’s a decent girl. She goes to Yale. She just likes to dress provocatively.”
“For what?”
“Some women try to control men with their sex appeal.”
“Does it work?”
“Let me ask you something. If that girl had come up to you and asked you to buy her dinner, would you do it?”
“It depends on what I would get in return.”
“Whoa, tiger! You might be getting a lot more than you bargained for!” I showed him the empty gun. “Look at this. Some girls are loaded with more than looks.”
Early the next day Stephanie’s dad, Mr. Song, came into the detective squad office and conferred briefly with English. The only words I picked up were “lawyer,” “illegal search,” and “jerk.”
Then English came over to me. “Let’s just make this easy on everybody. Just give him his piece back.”
“He’s got a CCW?” I asked, already opening my middle drawer for Song’s automatic.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“But his daughter doesn’t.”
“She took it without my knowledge!” said Mr. Song, stepping over to my desk. “Sometimes she’s very irresponsible.”
I gave him back his automatic and the bullet clip.
“Mr. Song,” I said, walking downstairs with him. “I’m sorry I inconvenienced you. Could I take you to lunch to make up for it? I’d like to talk to you about some personal things, too.”
“Well, okay, but not in this part of town,” he grumbled.
He took me to a place on Catherine Street that I’d never been to. It wasn’t a fancy joint, but Mr. Song got the royal treatment on the way in and the cooks came out to shake his hand. He didn’t bother to introduce me and nobody asked him who I was.
They gave us a seat in the back booth close to a burbling fish tank filled with floating shadows. The gasping, doomed faces of the fish emerged from the murky water when they crowded directly against the glass.
“You’re very popular here,” I said in English.
“I’ve helped a lot of people and solved a lot of problems,” said Mr. Song.
“Tell me about the death threats you’ve gotten.”
“I’ve been getting them for years,” he said, enjoying a long nervous laugh. “This is not news to you guys or the police commissioner. That’s how I got the license to carry.”
“What’s happened lately?”
“Just the usual. Every few months, we get a call from a pay phone. Saying, you know, ‘Die!’”
“Who’s making these calls?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure they’re KMT backers.”
“Maybe they’re snakeheads.”
“Why would snakeheads threaten me? I help the illegal immigrants when they run into immigration trouble. Unintentionally I help preserve the snakeheads’ reputations of getting people over here safely.”
I shifted a little bit in my seat.
“Mr. Song,” I said, “can you tell me exactly how these people are brought into Chinatown?”
“I’m going to get a Coke. It cuts through the grease. You want one?” he asked. I didn’t. He made a single hand gesture to a waiter and a can appeared instantly.
“Okay, Robert,” said Mr. Song, “the story of the illegal Chinese has changed dramatically. Earlier this century, people came with fake documentation, saying they were the sons of Chinese already here. People already here would sell the fake documents and the so-called paper sons would come over. Naturally, the price was pretty steep and usually took a few years to repay.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s very interesting.”
“With that method, the worst that could happen is that you ended up being detained for a while by the American authorities and questioned constantly to see if you were lying or not. Your life was not in danger and your actual transit was safe and comfortable on a passenger ship.
“Now, the typical story is that the snakeheads bring people over en masse in freighter holds to Mexico and sneak them across the border into the U.S. A few people die on the way over, and because these ships don’t have sanitary facilities to accommodate all these people they ride the entire time in their own diseased filth.”
“That’s terrible. Why do they come up through Mexico? Wouldn’t it be easier to just land in the U.S.?”
“Ah! It seems like it, but there’s always a chance they’ll get caught by the U.S. Coast Guard. Landing in Mexico is much easier. Then once at the Mexican-U.S. border there are already-established smuggling routes and guides. Once they are brought across, it’s usually a long ride in the back of a truck to New York, or wherever the final destination is. The snakehead himself finances everything, bribes the right people, but is usually pretty far removed from the operations. The human snakes only meet the minor figures in the smuggling hierarchy.”
“They might not know who the snakehead is?”
“They know who the little snakeheads are, the ones who recruited them in China, but not the big one.”
“How much does it cost now? I’ve read that it’s ten thousand.”
“That’s about right. One thousand as a down payment and the rest is due after arriving. The illegals are under the impression the debt can be paid off gradually, but the less scrupulous snakeheads—and there are more of them now—demand immediate payment when they arrive. The human snakes will be held prisoner in a safe house until the balance is paid.”
“How are they supposed to get the money?”
“Two ways,” Mr. Song said. “If their own families and friends in China can’t scrape up enough, they have to go to a loan shark in their village and wire the money over. The callous snakehead is not in the business of sitting back and making money from high-interest-rate loans. It’s pretty much a cash-on-the-barrel-now deal.”
“How do you help the human snakes?”
“They are here illegally and we try to get them a legal status. Political asylum is a pretty safe bet, usually, especially if they’re Christian. The Communists officially ban all religions.”
“Is that why there are so many Fukienese churches? So the people can go to them and pretend to be Christian in order to stay in this country?”
Mr. Song looked at me and frowned deeply. “A lot of Americans who go to church pretend to adhere to Christian beliefs,” he said.
Just then two dishes and two bowls of soup swung in. I saw the dreaded orange patch of a cooked shrimp.
“I really should have said this sooner,” I said, “but I’m allergic to seafood.”
“You’re allergic to seafood! There’s shrimp paste in everything!”
“I know. I didn’t remember that Fukienese cooking was like that until just now.”
“Jesus, what kind of Chinamen are we? They already know I can’t have alcohol and now you can’t eat seafood! Don’t you know that wine and shrimp paste are the two pillars of Fukienese cooking?”
“Well, more for you to eat right here. Don’t worry about me, I can get something later.”
“No, that’s not right. Let’s just get you something now.”
He called a waiter over and they talked in Fukienese. The waiter was shocked, and when he looked at me his face said, “Why the hell did you guys come here to eat?”
When the waiter left, Mr. Song said, “I just got you some beef chow fun.”
“Can’t go wrong with that,” I said.
“Tell my daughter. She’s a vegetarian.”
“Your daughter’s a little out of control.”
“She has to learn and life is the greatest teacher.” He sighed and turned to me. “She never listens to me, anyway. I give her a hard time about who she hangs out with, she comes back at me with a cheap shot about being an alcoholic.”
“Please, Mr. Song, start eating. Don’t wait for me.”
“No, if we abandon our manners, we’re animals.”
“We’re just rude people, not animals.”
“I was an animal before I got dried out,” said Mr. Song firmly but quietly. “I don’t even remember the night my wife left me, but Stephanie told me I had hit her. I’m very ashamed about it.”
“Hey, you know, I used to think the best time to have a beer was right after having a beer.”
He made a sound in his throat and gave a tight smile. My chow fun hit the table and we finally started to eat.
“How did you get involved with Together Chinese Kinship?” I asked.
“My family is Fukienese, but we have been in Taiwan for a few generations. Fukienese people have very tight family connections, I think because Fujian Province is cut off from the rest of China by mountains. It’s almost easier to take a boat across the strait to Taiwan than to get to other mainland provinces. Culturally we’re very self-sufficient and eager to travel.
“I came here from Taiwan to study as a Japanese citizen, because at the time the island was a colony.”
“I know that,” I said.
“So I came here and got my law degree. After World War Two I got my American citizenship and started working at a corporate law firm. I brought over my parents from Taiwan and they reconnected with many of their old friends here in New York. They all started a Fukienese friendship organization in the late fifties—and of course, they didn’t choose to have a political stance at this time.
“You know what they say, whenever a Chinese group is launched, within a year some people will defect and start up a rival group. Then we had all these little groups. But they still had many common interests. A few years before when China was finally admitted to the U.N. and Taiwan was ejected, all the groups came together to form an umbrella organization, Together Chinese Kinship. Because I was a prominent lawyer at the time, I was made chairman.”
“What sort of lawyer were you?”
“Did you remember the farm-fertilizer business sale by Mobil Chemical? I had a hand in that.”
“I would never put my hand in fertilizer.”
“That’s very funny, but just for your information, it was a very big deal. Very big. Anyway, to continue my story, immediately after the association started, boy, the Greater China Association and their constituents really came after us. They were already biased against Fukienese, but now they organized boycotts of Fukienese restaurants. Just a few years ago they demanded that I remove the Chinese flag from our office building. Which is ridiculous, because it was already flying at the United Nations. They demonized me, too. I’ve seen posters with my picture that say: ‘Number One Chinese Communist Criminal!’ I’ve never even been to the mainland, so they don’t even know what they’re talking about!”
“But you would go if you had the chance to, right?”
“Who wouldn’t want to see China? All that history and culture staring you in the face?”
“Then why do these Fukienese want to get out so badly that they’re willing to pay snakeheads?”
“Well, that’s different,” said Mr. Song. “They want a chunk of the prosperity that America offers to hard workers.”
“And China doesn’t offer that?”
“China offers equality without as much potential upside. These people are willing to endure serious hardships for a better life, like the original American colonial settlers.”
“Don’t you worry that you might be helping criminals who are mixed in with the human snakes?”
“I would say that they would fit in nicely among the original American colonists. Anyway, you guys are effectively allowing gambling, prostitution, and extortion in Chinatown.”
“We’re not allowing it. We just need more people to come forward and meet us halfway. Nobody will do it.”
“Because they’re cowards. The KMT sanctions those activities and has all the dissenters scared like sheep. When the KMT set about to conquer the hearts and minds of the people, that meant threatening to shoot people in their chests and heads if they didn’t toe the line.”
“But there’s no gambling in Communist Chinatown, right?” I asked with an eyebrow raised.
“It’s not as bad as the other parts,” Mr. Song conceded. “We can’t afford as many tables.”
“So that’s why the groups in Together Chinese Kinship have turned to smuggling as a source of revenue. Right, Brother Five?”
He put down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Mr. Song seemed like a man who kept eating until just the bones were left, broken and with the marrow sucked out. To him, this break in eating was the most annoying thing in the world.
“I see what you’re getting at, Robert. As I’ve said before, it’s not the Fukienese who are the snakeheads. Yes, maybe at the local level in China there are Fukienese little snakeheads recruiting human snakes, but the big snakeheads are not Fukienese. It’s either Taiwanese or Hong Kong people. They are the ones with the money and the ships. We try to bring our people over in the legal and safe way—through sponsorship!”
He crossed his arms and waited for me to say something.
“Mr. Song, I don’t see how you can be so sure that you know what all your members are up to at all times. Believe me, it’s not up to you to police your own people.”
“I know for sure that no Fukienese are involved at the top,” he said. Mr. Song picked up his chopsticks again. “A Fukienese would not put another Fukienese through such a horrible, life-threatening experience! Those other people—they don’t care!
“They wouldn’t even hire Fukienese to work in their restaurants until they had those labor problems this year! They know Fukienese will tolerate worse conditions than a Cantonese would! Go ask that Tin fellow about the smuggling! He knows all about it!”
“What makes you so sure he does?”
“Because he has the means to keep tabs on nearly everything that happens in Chinatown!”
I thought of Irene. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that!” I said. “I think he’s got a blind spot under his belt.” I continued eating as Mr. Song looked at me carefully, trying to decide if I’d been drinking or not.
That night was an unusual one for me because I was at home reading a book, or, more accurately, trying to read a book.
“I’ve never noticed how dim it is in the apartment,” I said to Paul. “This forty-watt ceiling bulb isn’t cutting it.”
“You told me to get used to it,” said Paul. He was on the floor, reading The New York Times. “So I got used to it.”
“Maybe I need a floor lamp in here. This isn’t bright enough for you to study by.”
“You’ve already destroyed my eyes enough so that it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“After you go blind, I’ll buy the newspaper on tape for you.”
“You’ll probably end up getting the wrong day, too.” He leaned out on one elbow and looked at me. “Are you able to get through that or do you need a dictionary?”
“I’m fine without a dictionary,” I said casually. I had already spent more time reading the glossary in the back than the actual text to The Pentagon Papers. “What are you doing with this book, anyway, Paul?”
“I was in the Asian history section and this caught my eye.”
“I mean, why did you even want to pick this up?”
“Robert, the Vietnam War was the first time America was defeated in battle! A whole nation realized that it wasn’t invincible and even as it turned two hundred years old it was time for some soul-searching!”
“Well, not for me,” I said. I closed the book and tossed it to the floor next to Paul. “I was there. I don’t need to read about it, man. Just burn the thing.”
“Brilliant and well argued,” said Paul.
The phone rang. We both looked at the windup clock on top of the TV.
“Should be safe, by your calculations,” said Paul.
“I don’t know. I don’t like the tone of that ring.”
He shook his head.
“Look,” I said. “I’m getting the phone, all right?” I got up and went to the bedroom.
“Hello,” I said as pleasantly as I could into the receiver.
There was a brief pause before a gruff voice told me, “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Tin?”
“When I trust the care of my son to somebody, I expect that person to know the difference between right and wrong and the difference between freedom and communism! I heard you were seen dining with the head of Together Chinese Kinship!”
“Do you want me to call the New York State Office of Mental Health? I’m sure they can take great care of Don.”
“No, no. Don’t. Please.”
“You’re one to talk about right and wrong, Mr. Tin,” I said, feeling that I was gaining the moral high ground. “How about I call Irene’s husband?”
“I don’t care if you do,” he sniffed. “I’ve been very good friends with both of them for years.”
“I think you’re somewhat closer to Irene, though.”
“Hmph.” He had called to blow off steam at me, but I had doused him with cold water.
“Mr. Tin, why do restaurants overseen by your association employ illegal immigrants?”
“What! First of all, the Greater China Association does not ‘oversee’ anybody. We are pro-business advocates for our members, who all affirm that they stand for a free and democratic China.”
“I know for a fact that restaurants run by members of the Greater China Association employ illegal Fukienese immigrants!” I bluffed. “Particularly Willie Gee and Jade Palace!”
“Yes,” started Mr. Tin. “I have noticed Fukienese working there, but they are not illegals. Mr. Gee is one of our more upstanding members. I am sure he would not engage in illegal activities.”
“Mr. Tin, I think we need to talk in person.”
“You think it’s a good idea for me to be seen entertaining someone who doesn’t think he’s above consorting with Communists?”
“Hey, at least I wasn’t out with a white girl!”