Snakes Can't Run

by Ed Lin

  “I still have to finish that book about mass media,” she groaned. I didn’t know how she worked her day job as a low-level manager at Martha’s Bakery and still studied at night. Actually, I never really knew how people studied at all. But hey, I made it through high school without trying too hard.

  I got up and walked out with Lonnie, intending to see her to her parents’ door. “Paul,” I said, “I expect to see you back at the apartment soon.”

  “Don’t worry about me, man!” he said, leaning on his broom. If that kid weren’t a genius, I would have straightened him out by now for that attitude of his. I had to face facts, though. That kid was going to be a sophomore in high school and was already way smarter than me. Paul was living with me because his dad, who was also Lonnie’s dad, had been beating him. He had also been hanging out with wannabe gangsters in the streets. Lonnie’s stepmother was Paul’s mom.

  The midget had his head down and was writing something on a shipping receipt. “See you two later,” he said without looking up.

  As soon as we were on the street, a spry old man grabbed my shoulder.

  “Robert Chow,” he said, “I’m so sorry, I tried to get here sooner.”

  “Hey, that’s all right,” I said.

  “Do you remember me?” he said. The man was dressed in a tan linen suit and fancy penny loafers that should probably be holding quarters. His beard and mustache were trimmed cleanly. His tan cap was probably covering mostly bare scalp.

  “I don’t know who you are,” I said.

  “I’m Mr. Tin. It’s ‘T’ien’ in Mandarin, but you knew me as ‘Tin.’ You went to school with my son Don.”

  I felt one of my hands tighten into a fist.

  “Sure,” I said. “I remember you and Don.”

  “Well, he’s been having problems, Robert. Could you please just go talk to him? Ever since he came back from Vietnam a few years ago, he’s had trouble readjusting. We’ve had him at our home upstate, but things haven’t been working out. I got him a place back in Chinatown, hoping that being back in the Cantonese environment would help, but, well, we haven’t heard from him in a few weeks.”

  I looked into Mr. Tin’s eyes. I remembered him as the furious dad who pulled me off of Don’s moped even though he said I could ride it. Now he looked tired and in need of help.

  “You basically want me to check in on him, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Have you gone to the apartment?”

  “Yes, just now. I have the keys, but the door is chain-locked. I hear him moving around in there, though. Maybe because of your common experience, he would be more amenable to seeing you.”

  “Sure, I’ll go.”

  “Here is the address,” said Mr. Tin, handing me a card while flashing a look of concern at Lonnie.

  “Pardon my manners, Mr. Tin, this is my girlfriend, Lonnie.”

  “How are you, Mr. Tin?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Very, very pretty!” was all he could say.

  “This is your phone number on the back?” I asked Mr. Tin.

  “Yes. If I’m not there, leave your name with the secretary, but don’t say any more.”

  “I’m on my way,” I told him.

  He tipped his cap at me and then at Lonnie. A black sedan pulled out from the curb and a rear door opened. Mr. Tin stepped inside and the car tore away.

  “Were you friends with his son?” asked Lonnie.

  “I was. Sure I was.”

  “You don’t sound like you were.”

  “The thing about Don was that he was the richest kid in class. He was a nice kid, but he got a lot of breaks in life.”

  “You sound jealous.”

  “Yeah, I was.” Especially after my first girlfriend, Barbara, left me for him.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve got this one. This is guy talk.”

  “Did you see him in Vietnam?”

  “No, I didn’t. He was discharged early for some reason. He wasn’t even wounded. I think his father pulled some strings.”

  “His father is that influential?”

  “Lonnie, his dad is officially a representative in the Kuomintang government. You know—the KMT. He flies back to Taiwan to vote a few times every year.”

  “He doesn’t even live in Taiwan. How can he be a representative?”

  “He’s actually supposed to represent a district in China that the KMT hasn’t controlled since they lost the civil war in 1949.”

  “He lives in America and legislates in Taiwan for a district in China?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be a real job, then, does it?”

  “Anything is a real job if you get paid for it.”

  A tourist would think that the KMT had won the Chinese civil war by the way their flags flew in most of Chinatown.

  When the KMT lost the mainland it retreated to the tiny yam-shaped island Taiwan, also known as “Free China,” which was ironic because the people were caught in the grip of martial law. The KMT also held sway over Chinatown.

  It was no secret that the KMT backed the Greater China Association, an umbrella group for Chinatown’s many smaller family and district associations. Greater China was historically the unofficial government of Chinatown, and mediated between groups and between the Chinese and New York City.

  The KMT also owned the largest newspaper in Chinatown and kept a steady drumbeat of anti-Communist features and editorials. Much of the content was aimed at the small but growing community east of Bowery that was loyal to the mainland.

  Together Chinese Kinship, a rival umbrella group comprised of Communist affiliates, was growing quickly. After years of enduring KMT dominance in Chinatown, these parties lashed out earlier this year. A bunch of rabble-rousers disrupted Greater China’s New Year’s Day parade with a protest urging the United States to switch diplomatic recognition to the People’s Republic from Taiwan.

  The switch was the KMT’s greatest nightmare and yet it also seemed inevitable. Nixon merely shook hands with Mao, but Carter—a farmer and therefore a communist—would embrace him like a fellow pinko.

  Carter was killing Ford in the polls, too, so the KMT could only root for Mao to die before Carter could be sworn in. Word was Mao was lingering on his deathbed and couldn’t last much longer.

  I think they needed to consider that the New York Rangers have managed to soldier on in a semiconscious state since 1940.

  I walked Lonnie to the apartment where she lived with her dad and stepmother. The building entrance on the south side of Bayard Street was a battered door with sheet metal riveted over it. The ground floor storefront was a souvenir shop that made a lot of money selling cheap ching-chong crap to tourists.

  I dropped her off and walked down to the forlorn Park Street address that Don’s father had given me. Park Street, which is a long way from Park Avenue, is a steep one-block street between Mott and Columbus Park. Most Chinese people tried to stay off of it not only because it was a bit run-down—even by Chinatown standards—but also because it was right around the corner from three funeral homes by the park.

  The ground floor of Don’s apartment was the Chinese Longevity funeral home. Through the window all I could see were flowers and closed curtains. Names of the deceased were taped to the glass front door to inform potential mourners without troubling them to actually step into the home and jinx themselves.

  Step into a funeral home and you’ll die, they think.

  I glanced at the names, admiring the calligraphy. It had been a bad week for Lees and Wongs. The building was originally a bank to serve what was then the local Italian immigrant community. The claws of a busty granite eagle clamped the arch above the funeral home’s door, its steadfast gaze fixed to a faraway time and place.

  Off to the side was the building entrance to the apartments above Chinese Longevity. I pressed the button next to “2R.”

  I heard a crackle come over
the speaker.

  “Don?” I asked. “It’s Robert. Robert Chow. From Seward Park High. How are you, man?”

  Shards of white noise ripped through the speaker. I was about to press the button again when the door lock buzzed. I pushed my way in. The lobby smelled like fried garlic. It was a pleasant note that offset the lobby’s smashed tile floor and crumbling plaster walls. Some broken pieces of furniture were neatly stacked at the side of the stairwell.

  I walked up to the second floor, wondering why Don’s father couldn’t have gotten him a better place.

  I was about to knock at 2R when Don swung the door open. He was dressed in flannel pajamas and a camouflage jacket. Don’s long, lean face dripped with sweat. He obviously hadn’t slept in days, yet he managed to look alert enough to drive a trailer truck cross-country.

  “Don,” I started. “How have you been?”

  “Don’t you know?” he said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You haven’t heard about my father?”

  “No.”

  “It’s in the fucking news every day, Robert!”

  I looked into his wild eyes.

  “Can I come in, Don?”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have anything to hide. Anymore.”

  I walked in with caution. The apartment seemed to be completely empty except for a sleeping bag on the floor.

  “Robert,” said Don after he closed the door. “My father is part of a conspiracy.”

  “What kind?”

  “He’s trying to use me as the sacrificial lamb to justify invading China.”

  “Whoa! What do you mean?”

  “He’s trying to have me kidnapped and murdered to make it look like the Chinese Communists targeted me. They broke the news on the radio.”

  “Don, you don’t seem to have a radio. Or a television.”

  “I got rid of them. They had microphones hidden in them.”

  “How come you don’t have any furniture, Don?”

  “There are men hidden behind the walls. If you listen closely you can hear them talking. They were planning on coming in through a hole and hiding in my furniture. Then they were going to surprise me and take me away.”

  I looked closely at Don. He believed every single word with all his heart. I briefly considered slapping him.

  “There’s nobody behind these walls, Don.”

  “Shhh. Listen.”

  The only thing I heard was the creaking of the floor as I shifted my weight.

  “Hear that?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “One guy just said, ‘Robert Chow likes to suck cock.’”

  I had to call Don’s dad. This man needed help. Professional help.

  “Don, I have to go right now. Can I bring you any food or anything else?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Are you taking medicine?”

  “I’m taking Chinese medicine, but it makes me sleepy. I don’t like it. Robert, you have to stop the conspiracy. You have to stop my dad!”

  “I will. I promise I will.” I walked out of the apartment without turning my back on him, but I didn’t go down the stairs until he closed the door and I heard his chain lock rattle into place.

  I wanted to do something right away for Don. But I wasn’t a doctor, so what could I do but feel anxious? I knew a drink would have calmed me down right away. But I also knew a single drink would send me spiraling off into the abyss. I was an alcoholic on my third month of sobriety, three months into the rest of my life.

  I walked east on East Broadway. Apart from Don, it wasn’t such a bad day, considering that most of it was spent walking through shit. It was uneventful, so that made it a good day. It’s not like we had found bodies or anything.

  My apartment was about an eight-minute walk from Bowery, if you walked in the street to avoid the crowded sidewalk. No Chinese people lived where I did, by the southeast corner of Seward Park. It used to be a Jewish neighborhood and plenty of the elderly were still there, mixed in with Spanish-speaking immigrants. Everybody largely avoided me, for a variety of reasons, including my race, my profession, and my past instability due to alcoholism.

  The slouching walk-up building that I called home was a lot nicer than anything in Chinatown. The faceless management corporation that ran it and several other buildings had lost a major court battle and made sure to maintain the cleanliness of the stairwells and spray for pests regularly.

  I could tell that Paul was home already because my mail wasn’t sitting on the radiator. The residents’ battered wall-mounted mailboxes, most with the lids torn off, stuck out of the wall like shrapnel from an exploded bomb. They were too daunting for the mailman to deal with. He would simply slap the entire building’s mail on the lobby radiator and let us sort it all out. When the heat kicked in, it was probably a major fire hazard.

  I went up the four flights to my apartment. I could hear that Paul was watching the 7 P.M. American news with Walter Cronkite. I fished around my pocket change for my door keys.

  Then my radio went off with the code for possible dead bodies. Found between the bridges.

  I folded my arms over my head and took a deep breath. I had trudged through tunnels all day and had had an extremely disturbing high-school reunion. Didn’t that at least call for a mandatory Yoo-Hoo break?

  I looked up at the ceiling, a multicolored splatter of cracked and chipped paint with the taped leftovers of torn-down red paper ornaments from Chinese holidays past. A pattern stretched diagonally into the corner—the outline of a lopsided face, sad and bloody.

  I turned around and hopped down the stairs. I got on my radio and told Dispatch I was responding now.

  2

  BY THE TIME I GOT TO HENRY STREET UNDER THE MANHATTAN Bridge overpass, one black-and-white and one unmarked police car were already there.

  Peepshow was standing at the edge of the crime scene, twirling his baton, the one thing he could do without fucking up. “Keep moving, keep moving!” he yelled to the murmuring Chinese people. He touched his cap when he saw me. I nodded back.

  Two bodies, Asian men in their twenties, lay on their sides. Both had their hands tied behind them with wire. They didn’t look fresh, and one man’s tattoo behind his ear stood out in sharp contrast to the white bloodless flesh of his neck.

  I walked up to English, but before I could say anything he put a hand on my shoulder.

  “These fucking bag monkeys won’t let me past the tape,” he said, pointing out the forensic team collecting samples around the bodies.

  “They’re just trying to do their job right.”

  “I’ll do their job for them right now. These guys died from gunshot wounds and the bodies were dumped here. You can analyze for blood type all you want, but you can’t find the criminals looking down a microscope.”

  “I hear you.”

  “You know what solves crimes?”

  “What?”

  “Shoe leather. Walking around and asking questions.”

  “All right.”

  “Chow,” he said, coming in closer. “You see the guy in the crowd in the red knit shirt smoking a cigarette?”

  “Yeah,” I said, knowing better than to look immediately.

  “I don’t like his face. Too smug.”

  “I’ll follow him.”

  “Where’s Vandyne?”

  “Coming back from Queens.”

  “How were those drains today?”

  “Some people had been down there, but there isn’t anything down there now but shit and rats.”

  “Well, it sure beats having to pose for pictures at the Chinatown Girl Scouts banquet, doesn’t it? I’d take shit and rats over that any day. I knew you would, too.”

  English was referring to my old footpost of walking a tame beat and making with the smiley smiles for the cameras. He used to try to wind me up just for the hell of it. But now that I was on detective track, he was my best friend in the world.

  English was the nicknam
e for Detective First Grade Thomas Sanchez. He was a light-skinned Latino who looked Italian. English was as tall as me, but he had a meaty, pockmarked face, like a raw steak after being pounded by a tenderizer. He had gotten his nickname because he didn’t know how to speak Spanish despite being the son of immigrants from Puerto Rico.

  We walked away from each other without saying anything more. I glanced back at the bodies and rubbed my hands on my legs.

  I crossed the street and walked until I was almost in back of the smoking guy in red. I switched my radio off.

  I was about ten yards away from him, standing near a stone trestle stained with rust. He looked like he was about my age, mid-twenties, and stood at about five and a half feet. His posture was perfectly straight. That told me something. There wasn’t an honest job a man could have in Chinatown that wouldn’t crimp his spine by that age.

  The man flicked his cigarette away and walked west. I didn’t get a good look at his face until we got to Bowery. He had deep-set eyes above a thin nose that bent to his right. The chin was squat and his lower jaw was shifty. He was a hardhead and I could bet that he was packing something to make up for his relatively short stature.

  A few steps above the intersection with Pell Street, a taller man peeled off the wall and seemed to cut him off in an unfriendly kind of way. But they were talking and then the smaller man slapped the other guy’s back. They laughed a little and then continued north on Bowery together.

  I didn’t attract as much attention as I used to on this street. My old footpost in uniform included Bowery, and thousands recognized my face from my pictures in the Chinese papers. But sobriety had caused major physical changes, all for the better. My face had slimmed down and my skin reverted to a dirty ivory color. I let my hair grow out, not crazy by seventies standards, but longer than it had ever been.

  In my street clothes I looked like another ABC asshole in the neighborhood for some cheap eats.

  I put my hands in my pockets, stepped behind a short couple, and continued to follow the two men.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned to myself when I saw them swing open a door at Jade Palace, Willie Gee’s restaurant at the southwest corner of Bowery and Canal Street.