I TOOK A SLOW WALK TO THE TOY STORE.
I could feel my father around me, which was a little strange because the old man and I hadn’t been close in years. When he came home, tired and cranky, I used to wonder where the other guy went. The guy who used to bring me candy, dried mango, or squid jerky. The guy who discovered that I was allergic to seafood because of how violently ill I became after eating squid jerky.
When he died, I couldn’t feel anything for him. It was after I was back from Nam, so that wasn’t surprising. He had given me shit about going to the police academy, so I just sort of regarded him as an annoying papa-san.
The mind is a funny thing. After I got on the wagon and fell in love with a girl, I started seeing my father out in the streets. I didn’t literally see his ghost walking around, but I’d see his nose in profile on another guy’s face. Sometimes I’d be walking behind someone who had his slouchy shuffle, his spotted ears, or the back of the head that looked like an elderly porcupine with spikes gone soft and white.
One time a hand reached out to my shoulder and touched me exactly where he used to touch me from his chair after dinner to ask me to get him a beer from the fridge.
Of course it wasn’t my father. It was an older guy who wanted to know if I was the guy whose picture used to be in all the Chinese newspapers. The man was almost completely bald and had two light brown spots on the top right of his head that looked like an imprint from a woman’s high-heeled shoe.
He called me the Sheriff of Chinatown. I tried to get away from him as soon as possible, but he was one of those people who liked to say good-bye and then ask another question just when you’re about to part. The guy ended up grabbing both of my hands twice before I was able to make the corner and get away. I checked that my wallet was still in my pocket, though, just in case he had been working me with a partner. I guess he was genuinely glad to meet me.
I get recognized less now.
My father died before he ever saw my face in the papers. I wonder if he would have been proud of me. Maybe he could have come to see that I made the right choice in becoming a cop. Then we could have been buddies. We could have gone to the father-son bowling tournament and chucked gutterballs.
I knew, though, that that never could have happened. The few years that my father was kind to me used up the last bits of humanity he had left. Dad couldn’t even be nice to Mom by that point.
That smiling, hopeful teenager in the photo was long forgotten. Dad’s spirit looking to pocket paper money and eat a meal during the Ghost Festival might not have recognized his picture. I can only hope his spirit was less bitter than the man. Working long hours at menial jobs to pay off his smuggling debt must have been like trying to save up for a new house with a paper route.
What it all came down to was that the smugglers made money from cheap labor to work in restaurants and factories owned by associations—maybe more money than they got from the people they brought over. The laborers made up a reliable workforce even after their debt was paid off and until the day they couldn’t work anymore.
My dad was dead long before he fell off the roof. I really don’t think he was holding out hope for me to make all his sacrifices worth it, like my mother said. If he was, then that was as foolish as taking that first step on the gangplank back in China to come here.
When I was drinking I used to be mad at everything that didn’t come in a can or a bottle. I was focused now.
Stop the snakeheads.
Maybe, only now, years after my dad had passed, I was ready to do something for him and find some sort of resolution between us. Maybe my father’s spirit had entered me and we were going to stop the snakeheads together.
Maybe I was just losing it.
Soon I was in front of the toy store. I went in and carefully scrutinized the two paintings behind the counter and felt my jaw tighten up.
The Guan Gong portrait was typically terrifying, with his bloodred complexion, war paint, and Green Dragon crescent moon blade weapon. His two-foot-long beard flowed into a point in his left hand. Guan was a real general during the Three Kingdoms period and is deified as a symbol of loyalty and righteousness throughout the Chinese community.
Yet Guan was also an outlaw, because before he rose to military greatness he had killed a corrupt official. Naturally the Chinese underworld felt a special bond with this aspect of Guan’s life. They believed that Guan’s story proved that criminal deeds are justified as long as you stay true to your brothers.
New members of associations and Hong Kong triads drank blood-infused drinks in front of his portrait, promising to be destroyed by knives and lightning if they betrayed their group.
The midget’s other painting was a landscape of a series of lakes and rivers that looked like a Yes album cover.
“See something you like?” asked the midget.
“I see something I don’t like,” I said. “Why do you have Guan Gong hanging up there?”
“I like to remind people the consequences of shoplifting. Not only will you have to pay twice the sticker price, but this guy will kill you in the spirit world.”
“You know a lot of gang members take oaths in front of Guan Gong?”
“Sure. We should take note of all the places that put up Guan’s portrait for being potential gang hangouts. By the way, can you name even one restaurant that doesn’t have a Guan Gong portrait or altar?”
“Can you explain the lakes and rivers portrait?”
“Explain?”
“Lakes and rivers. That’s what members of the underworld refer to as the lives they live.”
“Well, Robert, the phrase generally refers to a fantasy bohemian world, sort of like a Taoist Lord of the Rings or the Dungeons and Dragons crap that I sell. The gangsters misappropriate the term for their own purposes.”
“But you know what people will think when they see that painting.”
“They’ll think, ‘Gee, that little guy sure has great taste.’”
“All right, I’m going to just come out with it. Are you in an association? You are a highly visible guy in Chinatown. I just should have realized it before.”
The midget slipped off his stool and came around the counter until he stood at my chest.
“First of all, I want to make it clear that the great majority of members of associations are just regular lonely men who want a place to socialize with like-minded people with the same family name or from the same village or province. They pay their membership fees and they get to come up and play mah-jongg and drink tea any time they want.
“It’s the dozen or so people within any association who have ties to criminal activity. They use all the innocent members as a shield.”
“Have you joined an association?”
“Yes, I recently have.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t want to tell you the name, Robert.”
We spoke at a conversational volume as the kids around the store ignored us.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to join Golden Peace!”
“I didn’t. This is another group entirely.”
“Is your association involved with illegal activities?”
“Some people may be, of course. I personally am not.”
“Are they smuggling people into this country?”
“I don’t know. They might be. I didn’t specifically ask.”
“Why did you want to join this association?”
“About a week ago a couple of guys came into the store and kindly asked me to join. The filmmaker doing the documentary on me thinks of himself as a bit of an artist. Naturally, he ran out of money. This group is one of the potential investors and would like to see one of their members in a high-profile role.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“Well, I’m sure they would not have taken ‘no’ as an answer very lightly. Trust me. It was easier to join without protest.”
“What are you getting out of this association?”
“We have some common interests.” The midget shrugged. “Not everything, but many things.”
“Is this one of the big associations?”
“No, definitely not. I would never have joined one of them. It’s a little one.”
I stared at him in silence.
“All right, Senator McCarthy,” he asked, “do you want to see my membership card?”
“Yeah, I do. Are you sure this won’t break any vows you took in front of Guan Gong?”
“Maybe, but the rest of the guys will get over it.”
He opened his wallet and handed me a business card upside down. I flipped it over and read, “Little People of America, Inc.”
“Oh, ha-ha!” I said.
The midget leaned against the counter and slapped his thigh.
“You know, Robert, I’ve got a bridge I want to sell you, too! I’ll throw in a tunnel free of charge!”
“That’s not funny. Stop laughing. C’mon, stop laughing! I’ll see you later, all right?” I had to chuckle at myself. He had played me for a fool. It was easy to see why no one had beaten the midget at anything ever.
Vandyne and I sat in the Con Ed van parked in an alley off Henry Street. We had a big five-dollar bag of baked pork buns from a place on Canal. It was close to midnight and the streets were deserted. The area where the bodies were found was lit by lights hanging from the underpass above.
“I’m still thinking,” said Vandyne, “that we maybe should have gone to Burger King instead. You know it was right next to the Con Ed facilities.”
“I know. I was there, too. Remember? I guess these pork buns aren’t doing it for you. You want to ‘have it your way at Burger King now.’” I sang it out badly enough to make him cringe.
“Naw, I just think maybe I wanted some fries.”
“I think barbecued shredded pork stands on its own. With the bun and chunks of fat, that is.”
“How come these aren’t light and fluffy like those other ones you got before?”
“Vandyne, these are baked ones. You’re thinking of the steamed ones.”
“I like them both, but these baked ones are sticky on the outside. They put a glaze on it that gets all over your fingers.”
We both watched a guy shuffle to a phone booth, check the coin slot, and walk on.
“That glaze,” I said, “makes them look better in the store. Shiny and new.”
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense to coat finger food with shit that gets all over your fucking fingers,” he grumbled. “I don’t suppose you grabbed some napkins.”
“What do you need napkins for? Just lick your fingers when you’re done.”
“That’s how Chinese people wash their hands, huh?”
“We like to stay neat, you know. Anyway, what do black people do when they eat finger food?”
“We bring some goddamned napkins and hand wipes, that’s what! We ain’t fools!”
“Well, right now we’re both fools, sitting around and just waiting. But you know what? This is part of the job. One of the many sacrifices we have to make.”
“If we can just stay motivated, we’ll do fine, partner.”
“I’m motivated, all right,” I said. “Motivated like a motherfucker.”
I reached down to my two insulated bottles, making sure to pick the one without the cracked lid, the empty bottle you always have to take on a stakeout. I drank a cup of coffee and screwed the lid back on.
“That coffee smelled good,” said Vandyne.
“Lonnie mixed it up for me back at the bakery.”
“Want to trade a cup?” he asked, holding up one of his two bottles. “It’s Blue Mountain.”
“Not yet, thanks. Say, where are you with that café idea you had?”
“Hell, this recession has to end before that really gets off the ground.”
“I get it. Grounds. Coffee.”
“Damn, how can you be this fast this late?”
A black sedan pulled in from Henry Street and slowed down. The driver then pulled a sloppy U-turn and scraped the car against the curb twice, front end and rear end. Vandyne and I both winced at the crunching sounds. As the driver’s side rolled by we saw that the driver was Chinese.
“Damn! Chinese people are just the worst drivers in the world!” said Vandyne.
“We’re good drivers. White people don’t know how to lay out roads!”
“Hold up. Here comes another car.”
A tan two-door came slowly up Market Street and stopped at Henry Street. The driver killed the lights. Someone got out of the passenger side and walked over to where the bodies had been found. It was a woman.
“What are you doing here!” I gasped.
“You know her?” asked Vandyne.
“Yeah, she’s Ng’s sister, Winnie. She works at the foundation he made by converting some old office and warehouse space.”
She was dressed in a pants suit and walked stiffly, as if her platform shoes hurt. Every few steps, she lifted her right leg and picked at something at her heel.
We watched her walk up to the yellow tape and turn on a penlight.
“I’ll take the woman,” I said. “You stay here in case the driver tries to take off.”
Vandyne nodded.
I jumped out and ran up to her.
“Police! Freeze and put your hands up!”
She screamed and dropped her penlight.
“I didn’t do anything!” she yelled.
“You were looking for something. What was it?”
“Nothing! I was just curiosity-seeking!”
“You’re interfering with a crime scene!” I said.
I heard the car start up. Vandyne hit the sirens and cut the car off. He leapt out with his gun drawn.
“Exit the vehicle with your hands up!” he yelled at the car.
“Get the fuck out with your hands up, asshole!” I yelled in Cantonese, in case the driver didn’t speak English.
The door opened and Brian, the lion dance instructor, meekly held his hands up.
“Do not shoot, Officer!” he said in English.
“Looks like the gang’s all here except for Ng,” I said, turning to Winnie. “Where’s your brother, Andy?”
“Jesus, please don’t get him involved! He’ll kill me!”
Vandyne was patting down Brian, who had his hands on the car roof, his legs spread. I grabbed Winnie’s arm and walked her over to the car.
“This is a big misunderstanding!” Brian said. “We’re just fooling around!”
“Fooling around a crime scene?” I said in a mocking voice. “That was really fucking stupid! You want to get your kicks, go to Coney Island! Winnie, put your hands on the hood and spread out your legs.”
“This isn’t fair, Robert,” she wailed. “I didn’t even do anything!”
“Well, you were going to! What was the penlight for?”
“I thought I was going to trip!” Then, looking over my uniform, she added, “You work for Con Ed now?”
“We’re moonlighting,” I said. “They don’t pay cops enough.”
Vandyne came over to me and said, “Maybe we should let them off with a warning. Driver’s license is valid, they haven’t been drinking, and all he had in his pockets were a couple of condoms.”
“I say we drive the girl home and leave him hanging. Maybe she’ll talk some more.”
“You got a mean streak a mile wide,” said Vandyne, smiling.
“And a mile deep,” I added. “Brian and Winnie, we’re going to let you guys off with a warning. Where do you live, Brian?”
“I live in Brooklyn,” he said in English.
I looked at Vandyne, who nodded.
I said, “Now go straight home and we’ll forget about all this. We’re going to take Winnie home.”
Brian gave a half-grin grimace and sank into his car seat. Winnie was completely silent as we walked her to the Con Ed van.
“I get it now,” she said as she climbed into the backseat. “You guys are working undercover. You’re just wearing Con Ed uniforms to fool people.”
“To fool bad people,” I said. “Like you and Brian.”
“We’re not bad people. But anyway, I’m glad you got me away from Brian. I didn’t like the energy he was sending over. He’s a distant relative, so that makes it even more disgusting. This is the first time he’s asked me out and he makes me do this.”
“Why did you go out with him?”
“He just wore me down. So I let him take me to dinner and a movie.”
“Which movie?”
“Midway. God, that movie took forever to finish! That’s the wrong movie to take a girl to.”
Vandyne jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
In English I said, “Winnie, let’s just talk like this to be polite to my partner.”
“What is your name?” she asked Vandyne.
“My name’s John. You’re Winnie?”
“Yes. Hello, John.” She reached up and shook his hand. “You’re the first Negro I’ve ever met.”
“Just say ‘black,’” said Vandyne as he eased us away from the curb. “Once you go black, you never go back.”
“You’re not a Negro?”
“Listen, Winnie,” I said. “When you call someone a Negro, it’s like someone white calling you a Chink.”
“White people do call me Chink. Is that bad?”
“When did this happen?”
“Well, you know I live with my brother in an apartment on Central Park South.”
“I saw by your driver’s license.”
“Well, one day I was coming in and the doorman asked me if I lived there and the concierge said, ‘That’s one of the Chinks who live in 33 F.’”
“I’ll kill that guy,” I said involuntarily. “I’m sorry, that just came out of me. Did you grow up in Hong Kong, Winnie?”
“No, I was born in Singapore and lived there until I came here.”
“I thought you spoke English with a little bit of an Australian accent.”
“My English tutor was from New Zealand, actually.”
“Vandyne, would there be repercussions if I walked her in and sapped the concierge?”
“Let it go,” he said. “Sticks and stones, man. That jerk can throw around names, but he’s Winnie’s servant, basically. She pays his salary. She has power over him and he resents it.”
“Winnie, did you live with your brother in Singapore?”
“Yes, with our mother, too. But he was born in Hong Kong. You know about our family situation, don’t you, Robert?”
At this point, Vandyne made a small circle with his index finger, indicating that we were going to take the scenic route to give us more time to talk.
“I don’t really know, Winnie. Tell me about your family situation.”
“Well, Beautiful Hong Kong was started by our great-grandfather. He was an infamous triad member who was involved in a number of shady activities. Yet he also had a patriotic sense of duty to the Chinese. Nobody was more anti-Manchu than him! He gave a lot of money to Sun Yat-sen. We have a picture of him with Dr. Sun.”
“Dr. Sun didn’t mind being seen with triad figures?”
“Robert, you should know that the triads were founded by the Chinese originally to help bring down the Manchu regime. You know, ‘Destroy the Qing, Restore the Ming!’”
“I know,” I lied.
“God, Andy is obsessed with revolutionary slogans like that. Always has been. Anyway, so by the time Dr. Sun was organizing, the triads were already a couple hundred years old. They were key to financing the war on the Manchu. But then after the Manchu were finally brought down, the triads were suddenly at a crossroads. Many of them joined the new government of the young Republic of China. Others, they just went into full-time criminal operations.”
“I guess your great-grandfather did the latter.”
“No, my great-grandfather did the former. My grandfather did the latter and refined the triad into a worldwide association while making Beautiful Hong Kong sort of a front for many activities.”
“I see.”
“So my grandfather continued with the family enterprises, mainly in opium and prostitution. When my father came of age to take power, threats were made against his young son and wife, so he sent them to Singapore for safety. I was born shortly after.”
“How clean is your association now?”
“It’s still a little dirty, I’m sure. Just a little bit. But Andy is changing everything and getting rid of things that can’t be, ah, reconfigured. He’s making everything into a legitimate business. He’s also very community minded. The lion dance group is just a start. He wants to start a program to send American-born Chinese like you to go back to Taiwan or Hong Kong to understand their history.”
“Hey, I’m a Chinese American, not an ABC.”
“What’s the difference?”
“‘American-Born Chinese’ means that I was born in America, but I’m still really a Chinese national.”
“You’re not Chinese?”
“Chinese American!”
“Aw, shit,” Vandyne moaned out loud.
“Vandyne, how would you like it if I called you Kenyan?”
“I might be, right?” he said. “What I mean is, I’m not sure if I am.”
“Even if you are of Kenyan descent, you’re still an American by birth.”
We came rolling up to the address. “One-eight-eight Central Park South,” I announced.
“You still want to get out and sap the concierge?” Vandyne asked me.
“I’m giving him one free pass because it would leave the lobby undermanned.”
“This isn’t the entrance,” interrupted Winnie. “It’s just a little farther down the block. This is the nigger door.”
“What!” both Vandyne and I shouted.
“I came in through it before and the concierge told me to come in through the revolving door, not through the nigger door.”
“I’ll kill that guy!” thundered Vandyne.
“That’s a bad word, Winnie!” I said. “Please don’t ever use it again!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”
“How come you know so much about Chinese history, but you don’t know anything about American culture?”
“Because,” she said slowly, “I’m Chinese.”
A Triumph Spitfire suddenly swung in front of us and stopped at the main entrance to Winnie’s building.
“That’s Andy’s car!” she said.
“Let’s sit tight, everyone,” I said. “You, too, Winnie.”
“I will sit still,” she said.
Two men got out. Andy and the man who Willie Gee told me was King Lam. Andy came around from the passenger’s side and they did a two-arm embrace.
“Do you know that man, Winnie?” I asked.
“No, who is that?”
“A guy your brother seems to hang out with.”
“Andy never tells me anything.”
Lam jumped back into the car and eased toward Broadway.
“We’ve got to get on that one,” said Vandyne.
“Jump out of the car, Winnie. We have to chase that guy. And don’t tell Andy what we talked about tonight.”
She jumped out.
“Don’t worry, he never wants to hear anything from me. I’m a girl.” She shut the door and we pulled away.