Snakes Can't Run

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Snakes Can't Run Page 11

by Ed Lin


  “All the time?”

  “Yes. There could be bad guys out to kill me any second.”

  “What would you do if you saw a bad guy?”

  “Well, you can’t tell by sight if it’s a bad guy or not. Maybe you can get a gut feeling, but you still have to watch him and see if he does something bad before you can move in.”

  “Would a bad guy do something like try to force you to hire somebody?” Lonnie looked a little timid.

  “You were forced to hire somebody?” I asked. “I guess that’s one way you can beat unemployment.”

  She sighed. “I didn’t want to bother you and I know you have other things to deal with.”

  “Lonnie, what happened?”

  “This guy came into the bakery with two women and tried to get me to give them jobs.”

  “Was he mean?”

  “He wasn’t mean, but he was forceful. When I told him we didn’t have any openings, he said these two women didn’t want to be prostitutes anymore and that I could help them out and give them both better lives.”

  “Why couldn’t these women just ask for jobs themselves?”

  “They didn’t know Cantonese. The guy spoke to them in Fukienese and his Cantonese was pretty bad.”

  “What did the guy look like?”

  “He was wearing jeans and a buttoned shirt. Not really anything that looked outstanding. His face would blend into a Chinatown crowd. But his teeth were kind of gray. You know how people from the mainland all have dark-colored teeth?

  “I said I wasn’t the boss, but I don’t think he believed me. Then before they left, he actually tried to get me to give them free coffee and food! What nerve!”

  “You told Shelly about this?” I asked, referring to Lonnie’s boss.

  “I called her right after. She said that this has happened a few times already at some of the other bakeries.”

  “Were those two women really prostitutes?”

  “I could definitely believe it. They looked like they would do anything for money.”

  10

  LONNIE WENT TO GO HIT THE BOOKS AND I TOOK A STROLL DOWN Mott to where it ended at Bowery, which was essentially the dividing line between the part of Chinatown loyal to the KMT and the much smaller community east of Bowery that was loyal to Communist China. Nearly all Fukienese lived in the latter.

  The Communist-affiliated family and affinity associations were banded as Together Chinese Kinship and rivaled the KMT-affiliated Greater China Association.

  Together Chinese funded two arts groups that featured mostly left-leaning Chinese Americans from all over the country who streamed into Chinatown after college to “find themselves” or “get back in touch with their roots.” Greater China accused Together Chinese of spreading Communist propaganda through art, but Together Chinese said it was simply giving space for artistic expression, which by definition did not have political aims.

  The two umbrella groups had had a major confrontation in early July when Chu Teh, the legendary Communist marshal, had died. Together Chinese flew a Communist China flag and blared out “The East Is Red” in tribute. Greater China demanded that they take down the flag and turn off the speakers. There was no response. Someone threw a lit gasoline-soaked rag in a wine bottle at the flag and nearly set fire to the entire building. Together Chinese took the burned flag down and turned off its speakers, but the song continued to play from several unknown points on the Communist side of Chinatown.

  I walked up to Together Chinese’s offices on East Broadway close to Catherine Street. The building was made of one-hundred-year-old brown crumbling brick. A blackened scar above the second floor marked where the fire had done its damage.

  I pressed the buzzer and heard a door slam inside. I looked casually around and tapped my right foot. The men’s bodies had been found only a couple blocks away. I got my right hand ready to grab my gun if I had to.

  The door swung open and a thin girl in a tank top who looked about sixteen stepped out.

  “Hello there,” she said in English. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi there,” I said. “Are your parents home?”

  “Very funny, big boy. I know I look really young.”

  I showed her my shield and said, “Can I talk to somebody regarding the Fukienese community?”

  “You can come in. I’ll find someone for you to talk to.”

  I stepped in and she shut the door behind me. The wood-paneled walls were bare with the exception of three portraits: Mao, Sun Yat-sen, and George Washington.

  “You know, you guys couldn’t have possibly existed even ten years ago,” I said to the girl, who was still struggling with the locks.

  “Times change, and attitudes change, you know,” she said. “When we replaced Taiwan in the U.N., so many things opened up for us. Now that we have the momentum, we’re threatening the status quo in Chinatown.”

  “What are you guys threatening to do?”

  She shrugged. “Some people think the fact that we exist is a threat.”

  “Stephanie!” someone shouted in English from the second floor. “Who was that guy?”

  “It’s a policeman!” she shouted up. “He’s inside now!”

  Someone said something in Fukienese and I heard some scuffling and a door slam. Footsteps slowly came down the staircase. A man appeared on the landing. He wore blue twill shorts and a white short-sleeved buttoned shirt. I could see the outline of a sweaty V-necked T-shirt on his chest. He was about fifty, but he still parted his hair like a teen.

  “Hello,” he said in English. “How are you doing today, Officer?”

  “Hi, my name’s Robert. Do you have a place where we can talk?”

  “Robert, I’m Mr. Song. I’m the chair of Together Chinese Kinship. Let’s sit in here,” he said, opening a side door to a small meeting room. We sat down at a nice worn-out walnut table that wouldn’t be out of place at one of the upscale thrift stores in the city.

  “Would you care for some tea?” he asked.

  “No thank you, Mr. Song. I have to say, you seem to be working pretty late. It’s almost seven o’clock.”

  “But that means eight in the morning in China. Sometimes we have affairs to talk about on the phone.”

  “You ever talk about illegal immigration?”

  “Robert, are you implying that we have anything to do with smuggling people into America?”

  I took notice of Stephanie, who took a seat at the far side of the table from Song and me.

  “Mr. Song, I’m not trying to imply anything. The vast majority of illegal immigrants coming into Chinatown are Fukienese. Most Fukienese in Chinatown belong to groups under the umbrella of Together Chinese. Just tell me what you know about it.”

  “I personally don’t know anything about the smuggling. But yes, I have also noticed the influx of Fukienese. I also concede that they likely are illegal entrants.”

  “Who are the snakeheads who are bringing them in?”

  He breathed in deeply.

  “Stephanie,” he asked, “could you please boil a pot of tea for our guest?”

  She got up, smiled at me, and left.

  “She’s a little new here, so she’s still a little too curious,” said Song. “Stephanie is a student at Yale, planning on going to law school.”

  “I could tell you didn’t rescue her from a life of prostitution.”

  “She’s my daughter, Robert.”

  I wiped the entire bottom half of my face with my hand.

  “I’m really sorry, Mr. Song,” I said. “It was an inappropriate joke. Is she getting relevant experience here?”

  “You’re Robert Chow, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Mr. Chow, our biggest issue right now is finding Fukienese people legal representation to establish refugee status and apply for asylum. Most lose their nerve early on and disappear, but more people are coming in every day.”

  “How can I find these people?”

  “They’re kept in safe
houses guarded by the snakeheads. Could be anywhere. They go back and forth from work to the safe house until their debt is paid off. It could take a year. Maybe two or three, even.”

  “You’ve met illegal Fukienese and you can’t tell me where the safe houses are?”

  “Chinese people are reluctant to reveal personal information even to people who could help them.”

  “Welcome to my world!”

  “I’m not foolish enough to even ask. That would only arouse suspicion in the community. Together Chinese represents the people and we have to be able to earn their trust and keep it.”

  “Do you know anything about people asking bakeries to hire illegals?”

  “I don’t know anything about that, but I think we’re reaching a saturation point in terms of employment. Look at our economy.”

  “Mr. Song, just be straight with me. Do you know who the snakeheads are?”

  “I don’t know, but I can say for sure that Together Chinese and all its affiliates have nothing to do with smuggling people over. For one thing, who owns the ships to bring all of them over? Nobody Fukienese, that’s for sure. You should go look for who has the money! Who owns the transportation lines to bring them all the way here? Who has ties to the Taiwan government, because these smuggling ships fly the KMT flag? It’s the Greater China Association, Robert!”

  “You don’t know for sure.”

  “Like hell I don’t! A ship from Taiwan faces less customs scrutiny than any other from Asia!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Well then, think about this! Who benefits from bringing in these particular illegal immigrants who are so disadvantaged, they’re barely literate and can’t speak or understand Mandarin or Cantonese? What’s better than a workforce that’s effectively deaf and dumb?

  “It’s those Greater China Association bastards and their cronies who are behind it all! After the workers at Jade Palace went on that embarrassing hunger strike, they’ve been looking for an effective replacement.”

  “That’s a serious allegation, Mr. Song.”

  “I’m not alleging anything, Mr. Chow. And don’t say I said all these things, because I’ll deny it up and down. But you know it’s true. It’s the KMT continuing to systematically exploit the underclass Chinese instead of helping them!”

  I stood up.

  “I am not a Communist,” I said. “I don’t buy into socialist propaganda.”

  “In fact, you might say this sort of talk puts you to sleep, right?” Song stood up also. His smile gave me a creepy feeling.

  “How did you know my name right off the bat, Mr. Song?”

  “Do you remember a few months ago, you appeared for a restaurant opening on Division Street?”

  “That was probably me.”

  “You were certainly there. In fact, I was one of the speakers that night. I looked over at you and you had fallen asleep on your upraised hand, elbow on the table. I didn’t know that such a thing was possible.”

  “At the time I probably had a long day.”

  “I’m sure you did, Mr. Chow. A long day of long pulls at the bottle. A Mrs. Sun next to you remarked afterward on how you reeked of alcohol.”

  “I am an alcoholic. I’ve been sober almost four months now.” My right palm hurt a little bit. I looked down and saw that my hand was in a tight fist, the fingernails digging in.

  “Then we have something in common, Robert.” Song put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been sober twelve years now. Some days are as hard as the first.”

  I shook his hand. “Twelve years,” I said. “Congratulations. The next time I see you, it might be for a personal matter.”

  He nodded.

  I opened the door and Stephanie jumped away. “You know, a pot that’s never put on a flame never boils,” I told her.

  “Good-bye for now, Mr. Chow,” she said, winking awkwardly.

  I came home to see Paul watching the worst TV show in the world, M*A*S*H.

  “Didn’t we talk about this, Paul? They’re trying to brainwash you and this whole country! They’re trying to make you all forget about Vietnam!”

  “Robert, it’s a funny show! Maybe you ought to sit down and actually watch it sometime.”

  “Well, when I see them laughing and shit, I know that show isn’t for me! If that was Nam, that entire fucking cast would have been dead, maimed, or insane by the end of the first season!”

  I went over to the set and switched it to the Taiwan channel for the news.

  “I don’t want to watch this crap!” said Paul.

  “You hate being Chinese that much, huh?”

  “I’m Chinese and I live in Chinatown. I don’t have to pretend to love everything that has someone Chinese on it.”

  I gave the show fifteen seconds. It was a feature on the cultivation of tung flowers.

  “Okay, this is crap,” I admitted. The Communist channel was just as bad, a blatant propaganda piece about the Taiwanese hero Koxinga, who had driven out the Dutch from Formosa. Only the show called him the Chinese hero Koxinga.

  I shook my head. I used to flip between the two channels for hours, but I was less discriminating back then, because I was usually drunk.

  “Let’s just watch PBS,” I said. “It’s got to have something good for you.”

  A few seconds after I tuned it to channel 13, the Nova logo came up. “It’s science, Paul. You like science.”

  The voice-over pondered loudly, “Why are sex drives strongest at certain times of day?”

  “I’m not going to watch this show with you, Robert,” said Paul.

  “Maybe we should talk about, you know, human reproduction.”

  “Not in my worst nightmare do I want to talk with you about sex.”

  My phone rang.

  “Thank you,” Paul said to the ceiling.

  I looked at the collapsible travel clock Paul used for his wake-up alarm—8:05.

  “I’m coming,” I said as I headed to the phone in the bedroom. When people have bad news, they’re reluctant to call, so they set a time—usually on the hour or half hour. Those are times I never pick up the phone. But if the call is casual and spontaneous, it comes in at odd times. That’s when I answer.

  I picked up the phone and listened.

  “Hello?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Robert there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Robert, this is Don.”

  “Don! How are you doing?”

  “I took my medicine. But I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Like I’m on drugs!” Then Don laughed and I remembered the kid he used to be. “I’m sleepy, but my thoughts are more connected now!”

  We decided to meet at an over-rice place off Bayard that was once one of the burger joints that the Darts gang hung out at.

  “It’s like all that history never existed,” said Don. “The counter used to be there surrounded by all the stools. The jukebox was there. Even the floor and ceiling are different.”

  “I didn’t come here much,” I said. “Because, you know, I was in the Continentals.”

  “Didn’t you have a good friend in the Darts, Robert?”

  “Who?”

  “His name was Moy.”

  “Ah, Moy. I don’t know where he is now.”

  “His dad used to run the toy store.”

  “Yeah, I wonder where they went. We didn’t stay in touch.”

  “Because he wasn’t a Continental?”

  “No, I have no idea where the former Continentals are now, either.”

  “You guys were just bullies, you know that? We were always a much smaller group, but you guys kept pushing the Darts around!”

  “It was tough love. I’m sure you got some of that in Nam, too.”

  “Do you know what happened with that, Robert?” He smiled. “Did you know that I enlisted?”

  “You weren’t drafted?”

  “No, I
just signed up,” said Don with a small, wistful laugh. “It was the first time I ever really defined myself. As Don Tin, an American. Not as Old Tin’s son. My father just went fucking nuts. He had this whole college thing set up for me in Taiwan. I would still be there now, allegedly pursuing a Ph.D. from my penthouse condo.”

  “Don, you didn’t have to prove anything.”

  “You don’t know what it was like. He wouldn’t let me be friends with Cantonese people, including you, Robert.”

  “I thought he had something personal against me.”

  “That might be true. Anyway, he kept telling me that we were really Shanghai Chinese, not these lowly, uneducated Cantonese who do manual labor. We were just living here in Chinatown temporarily, rebuilding our support base. After the KMT defeated the Communists our family was going to take back our mansion on the Bund.”

  “Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”

  “He hates speaking Cantonese.”

  “He’s not that good at it.”

  “My Cantonese is pretty good, though, right?”

  “It should be. You were born here in America.”

  He smiled. It was a nice thing to see. “Thank you, Robert.”

  “Don, your dad pulled something in Nam, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he had connections that got you discharged after you enlisted, right?”

  “He didn’t. What happened was that during basic training I started hearing voices talking about me. I would look around, but there wouldn’t be anyone there. The weirdest thing was that the voices would be next to me in the cafeteria, but I would know they were coming from outside the building. I’d go outside to try to follow the voices, but they kept moving.”

  “What did these voices say?”

  “They would make fun of me, saying I wasn’t strong enough, my cock was too small, or I was just ugly. The voices would also say horrible things about people right next to me and it made me feel embarrassed.

  “I went to see a doctor about it, but he thought I was just trying to get out of the war, you know? Jesus, I wanted to go so badly! It was the first thing I really wanted to do on my own. I wanted to fight for democracy in Vietnam and win my own independence, as well.

  “Can you believe that they originally were going to make me a combat photographer because they didn’t want me to have a gun? They said it would be for my own safety, otherwise I might be mistaken for a Vietnamese.”

 

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