Snakes Can't Run

by Ed Lin

  “Robert, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t try to help them. Help yourself. Get a promotion, get more money, get married, and move out of Chinatown. I can tell you one thing—nobody helped your father and me.”

  “I have a better idea, Mom. I’m going to stop the snakeheads.” I dropped my voice and leaned into her. “I’m going to put them in jail or kill them.”

  “Robert!” my mother shout-whispered. “Don’t say that!”

  “I think Dad would have wanted to see them executed after all the suffering they caused him. He wouldn’t want to see more people go through what he did. Dad was one of the luckier ones, but it’s hard to see how much worse his life could have been.”

  “Life can always be worse, Robert! Jesus, did you know that he was going to name you ‘Humphrey’? Your father loved Humphrey Bogart because he was the closest thing to a Chinese actor in the movies. Dark hair, too thin for his clothes. I insisted that you be named ‘Robert’ after Robert Mitchum. Now that was a man’s name—a good name!”

  I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. I had only seen two of Mitchum’s movies and both had knocked me horizontal on the couch.

  “Your father,” she said evenly, “would have wanted you to forget all about it and do the best for yourself. Maybe you should even think about going to college.”

  “I’ve got two dead bodies, Mom. You want me to forget about them and take a stroll around the quad? You want me to forget Dad’s struggles, too?”

  “No, don’t forget him. But remember that he would have wanted you to keep moving forward.”

  “Ignoring history isn’t very Chinese. I want to put these guys away for Dad.”

  “What are you talking about? All those criminals who did him wrong are long dead, Robert!”

  “Their work still goes on, though. They’re here in spirit and so is Dad. Or did he not show up that night for his food offering? That would be just like him to be out carousing instead of coming home, right?”

  That wound her up a little bit.

  “You don’t know whom you’re dealing with and you don’t know what you’re going to find!” she warned. “You think it’s so easy to tell who’s bad and who’s good? Let the INS deal with the snakeheads! It’s not a police matter! You’re just going to end up causing trouble, Robert!”

  “I can handle trouble, Mom. You and I both know Dad was no saint.”

  “You have a choice. You can be with this nice girl and have a bright future. Or you can slide back into the past and get trapped there, because the only thing you’re going to find is that it’s too late to save your father.”

  Lonnie came back from the restroom. They cleared our dishes and brought over a plate of cut-up oranges.

  “You two eat,” insisted my mother. “I’m going to cook later. I don’t want to get the orange smell under my fingernails.”

  “What are you cooking?” asked Lonnie.

  “Some special dishes. I had to come in to get fresh vegetables. I ran out of some sauces, too.”

  “Are you having friends over?” asked Lonnie.

  “Just one friend,” said my mother, smiling and looking down. “From work.”

  I jumped in and said, “A girl or a boy?”

  The next day at the toy store I told the midget what my mother had said about going forward and forgetting the past.

  “Chinese people live in the past,” he said. “They live in their ancestral villages and eat the same food their great-great-grandparents ate. Hell, they even use the same pots and pans!”

  “Right! It’s in our culture.”

  “But that’s also why we’re in the state we’re in. Any time there was a great invention, something that could level out society and spread the wealth, it was never broadly implemented. We invented paper, but more books have been lost than we have in print. We invented the compass, but we never explored the entire world. We invented gunpowder, but we couldn’t defend ourselves against Europe, Russia, the U.S., and Japan.”

  “What happened to China?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I should say, actually, that I don’t know for sure because there were a whole bunch of things at work here. For one thing, there’s the old Chinese smugness that everything foreign was inferior, so there was no sense to going out and having icebreaker events with barbarians. That stifled growth and the culture became more inbred and weaker.

  “Another thing is that Chinese society is cellular. The national identity is much weaker than family and village bonds. The Cultural Revolution was supposed to break those regional bonds for the sake of a stronger and more unified country, but it only sowed chaos.

  “Also, there is no such thing as advancement in Chinese society. If you’re a peasant, you’ll always be a peasant. You could go to Harvard and be a multimillionaire, but you’d be seen as a rich and educated peasant. Nobody was going to hand you the keys to the kingdom. Great minds and great ideas died in the rice paddies because of lack of recognition. That’s why when Chinatown people make it, they move out to the suburbs instead of staying and helping to build community groups to help other families. The elitist pro-business umbrella groups—both KMT and Communist—wouldn’t allow it.”

  “But you’re here. You obviously don’t need to be in Chinatown. Why aren’t you selling toys in Gramercy?”

  “There’s no good Chinese food there.”

  “Good point.”

  “But anyway, this whole thing about being stuck in the past or moving on, I think your mother’s right, Robert.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t think you should go after the snakeheads, honestly.”

  “So I stand by and just let them make people suffer?”

  “Honestly, most people in Chinatown have horrible jobs and tough lives. It’s not really that much worse for the illegals. Also, if you go after them, you might not catch any of them and they’ll only go further underground and become even more ruthless.”

  “I have to get them. I just have to catch one and make an example out of him.”

  “Let’s say you do get one snakehead. It will be taken out of your hands, anyway. INS will take over the case and someone else who is better connected than you will get most of the credit.”

  “Then that’s one I stopped, though.”

  The midget stretched his arms and then folded them across the counter. “If you really want to advance as a detective, hang out more with that guy at Manhattan South who likes you. Try to get transferred to something more prestigious than squad detective, like the Street Crime Unit. Think of how many collars you could get! After all, you’re a member of the New York Police Department, not the Chinatown Police Department.”

  “If I do that,” I said, “then who’s going to stop the snakeheads?”

  “Nobody. But if you don’t go, you might get stuck in Chinatown the rest of your life.”

  “Like you.”

  The midget smiled. “Not quite like me. I’m popular.”

  13

  I RAN INTO PEEPSHOW IN THE STAIRWELL OF THE FIVE. I GAVE HIM a quick nod and was preparing to head down to the toy store, but he put out a hand and touched my shoulder lightly.

  “I’m so sorry, Chow!” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Well, you know I’ve been working some Chinese weddings when I’m out of the bag?” Chinese weddings always involved a lot of cash and jewelry gifts. They would often hire an off-duty cop to guard the door in case some punks got the idea of coming in and robbing everybody.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I was at this wedding several days ago at Jade Palace. It was set apart from the rest of the dining room by one of those folding wall things. I had just gotten set with a whole plate of Chinese food and a Coke, but there were no forks. I had to go into the kitchen and get one from the kitchen staff.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re apologizing to me.”

 
; “Because when I came back out there was a guy sitting in my seat. Not just any guy, either. That guy Ng that you’ve been following!”

  “Yeah.”

  “I went over to him and before I could say a word, he stood up and showed me a picture of you!”

  “A picture of me!”

  “Yeah, it was a Polaroid! A little blurry, but it was definitely you. Ng asked me if you were a cop!”

  “And what did you say?”

  “You have to understand, Chow. His English was so good! He caught me completely off-guard!”

  “You told him!”

  “Jeepers creepers! He asked me point-blank! I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Geller. He already had my card.”

  “So it’s all right, then, huh?” Peepshow looked at me with sad piglet eyes. My heart went out to him a little bit. How many times had this poor bastard gotten his ass kicked in school or at home? He had earned his nickname because his street clothes had a rip in the ass that no one ever told him about.

  “Yeah, it’s all right,” I told Peepshow. “I wasn’t undercover and I’ve already talked to his sister and then to him in person.”

  “Oh, man!” he said, breathing garlic into my face. “I am so relieved! It’s a load off my shoulders.”

  “But Geller, I hope you’ve learned to shut the fuck up in the future. Unless you want me to hand you over to Internal Affairs for moonlighting at weddings that may include criminal elements.”

  “I will remember!” he said. “I will, I will, I will!”

  Lonnie had gotten a top grade on a feature story she had written about the history of Chinese Americans and how their many contributions to this country had gone overlooked in the Bicentennial celebrations.

  I had heard enough about the railroads, but the part about Chinese fighting on both sides of the Civil War was new to me. I wanted to show it to Vandyne, but I wasn’t sure I’d want him to know about Chinese fighting on the side of slavery.

  The professor liked it so much he said he’d check to see if the Staten Island Register might want to publish it.

  To celebrate, I took Lonnie out for dinner, but before a full meal she wanted to stop earlier at the Taiwan place on Mott for some turnip cakes.

  “Are you sure you really want to go there?” I asked. “The last time I ate there, the waiter was a total jerk to me!”

  “Maybe he was having a bad day,” said Lonnie. “You have to give people a second chance sometimes. People at the bakery aren’t always in a good mood, but I have to think our buns and cakes make them happier. Anyway, it’s your favorite place to get turnip cake!”

  “If he’s mean again I’ll stick a turnip up his ass,” I muttered.

  Lonnie smirked as we went down to the below-street entrance.

  Once inside, I was surprised to see that the place was busier than ever. It was only half full with about a dozen people, but that was about a dozen more than I expected ahead of the dinner rush.

  We sat down and a new waiter quickly brought over a teapot. He was in his mid-thirties and had a worried look.

  I said we were ready to order and he nodded. When I asked for two turnip cakes, he looked a little confused. I pointed it out on the menu and he held up two fingers.

  “Yes, two,” I said.

  He said, “Thank you,” and left.

  “Jesus,” I whispered to Lonnie. “That guy’s Fukienese!”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “He’s probably an illegal alien!”

  “That’s a discriminatory remark, Robert!”

  “I haven’t seen him before.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything!”

  Our waiter came back with the cakes.

  “Hey, how’s it going, man?” I asked him in Cantonese as he set the plates down.

  “Um,” he said. He clearly had no idea what I was saying. He gestured to the owner, the heavyset Mr. Chen.

  “Is there a problem here?” asked Mr. Chen, who needed to learn how to do a better comb-over. His horn-rimmed eyeglass frames made him look like a giant balding owl.

  “No, no problem,” I told the owl. “Say, what happened to your old waiter? The sourpuss?”

  “Oh, that guy!” Mr. Chen stuck his chest out. “I gave that bastard the boot! Stuck-up Shanghainese guy. Always said he was going to finish school. Always said he was a scholar, not a waiter! He can go live on the sidewalk with his books now!”

  “Where did you get the new guy from?”

  “An employment agency got in touch with me. He’s Fukienese.”

  “A-ha!”

  “Huh?”

  “You hired a Fukienese guy!”

  “I hired two Fukienese guys! They work for much less. Also, the Fukienese dialect is almost the same as Taiwanese, so I feel like I have my kinfolk with me here. But I had to lower my menu prices by five percent to bring back those customers who were turned off by that Shanghai dickhead.”

  “Hey, watch it,” I said. “We’ve got a lady present!”

  “I’ve heard you say worse, Robert,” said Lonnie.

  “Not tonight, though. Mr. Chen, are these guys legal?”

  “Of course they’re legal! They came in through an employment agency.”

  “Which one?”

  “I have a card.” He fished in his pocket a little bit. “Here. Look.”

  It read: “Beautiful Hong Kong Ltd., 220 Worth Street, sixth floor.”

  “How is the Pagoda-shooting thing going?” I asked Vandyne. We were sitting in a New York Telephone van at Worth Street and Columbus Park, keeping an eye on Ng’s office.

  “About as far as Totie Fields got on her diet,” said Vandyne.

  “Aw, man, that’s not funny! You know she lost a leg?”

  “C’mon, Chow! She’d be the first one laughing. In my opinion, she’s the best working white comedian right now.”

  “Well, anyway, about the shooting, Vandyne—Chinese people just don’t want to get involved. You have to pretty much threaten them. If you’re uncomfortable with that, let me know if you want me to lend a heavy hand.”

  “Yeah, I might be calling on you.” He shook his head. “Someone gets shot in a crowded movie theater, couple hundred people pour out onto the street, watch the punks run away, and yet no witnesses.”

  “Did I tell you about that editorial in the Hong Kong–biased newspaper?”

  Vandyne said, “No,” but I knew he was just letting me tell the story again. We were close enough so that we allowed each other to tell and retell the same stories, sometimes with key details changing to make the teller look better and better.

  “It said that these gang shootings only happen because the kids know that the police allow them to happen!”

  “The silent majority allows crime to happen by refusing to press charges or testify,” said Vandyne, shaking his head. “Say, partner, I think I will take you up on your offer. Could you talk to the kid in the hospital?”

  “Is this punk still playing tough?”

  “He’s playing quiet. Won’t tell me shit except that he’s going to square everything out himself.”

  “I’ll see if I can set him straight.”

  “Yeah, but don’t beat him up! You understand?”

  “I never get out of hand. Anymore.”

  “You’ve managed to save one gangster wannabe. Maybe you can save another.”

  “I’m still waiting for that one to pay off, but he’s on the right track,” I said. “So far.”

  After a little while, I said, “You know, I feel bad about something I did the other day.”

  “What?”

  “That guy Eddie was trying to force a restaurant owner to file a complaint against some gang kids who ate a meal and left without paying. I told him to drop it.”

  “Why?”

  “See, the guy wasn’t going to do it anyway and Eddie was running the risk of blowing his cover because he was attracting so much attention.”

  “Then when does it start, Ch
ow? When are people finally going to get fed up and file complaints, identify criminals in a lineup, and then testify in court?”

  “I don’t think it happens. Just the nature of Chinatown is that it’s built on a cycle of exploitation. You just keep your head down and try to get through it. Once you’re able to save enough money, you move the hell out. You’re not thinking about improving the neighborhood if you don’t have long-term plans to stay there. Then someone worse off moves in and takes your place.”

  “You mean new people like those illegal Fukienese immigrants.”

  “Exactly, partner. And the store and restaurant owners don’t want to file complaints because they don’t want bricks or bullets flying through their windows.”

  Vandyne rolled his neck until some bones cracked.

  “This talk is depressing, man,” he said, feeling the dashboard over. “This stupid car is outfitted with an eight-track player but no cigarette lighter?”

  “I’ll go get you some matches if it will keep you awake and alert,” I said.

  “And in a good mood.”

  I thought about what Rose had mentioned at the picnic.

  “You got it, man,” I said.

  I slipped out of the van quietly, not even closing the door, and walked west along Worth Street, away from Beautiful Hong Kong. At the intersection with Centre Street I found a small twenty-four-hour grocery run by Italian Americans. I poured a cup of coffee at the self-help station and brought it up to the counter and asked for a book of matches.

  The man looked back at me with the same cold calculation as a hunting lioness on Wild Kingdom. He was wearing a filthy apron and hadn’t shaved in a week or longer.

  “I’m supposeta give ya free matches with your coffee?” he asked.

  “You want a nickel for them?” I asked.

  “I hate chu people! Ya disgust me!”

  I realized pretty quickly it wasn’t a race thing. Instead I was meeting a big fan of New York Telephone. I was dimly aware of my right hand trying to wipe off the logo from my chest.

  “Every time one of youse come in here, ya want the free napkins, free spoons, and free matches! When are ya gonna get rid of the buzzing in my shitty phone that ya charge me for every month?”