by Ed Lin
“You need to call our maintenance department and set up an appointment.”
“I did! Three times! No-shows, all of them! I’m keeping track! I have a paper trail!”
I took out my wallet and threw a dollar bill on the counter.
“There,” I said. “You can keep the change. Please, can I have a book of matches?”
“You take this, pal,” he said, tossing a pack that had half the matches ripped out. “Don’t worry about it being used. Those matches work, unlike my phone!”
Damn, switching our cover from one hated utility to another only made me realize that maybe it wasn’t so bad being a cop. Or maybe people treated police better because we had guns.
I slipped back into the van and handed the matches over to Vandyne.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. “You find this in the street or something?”
“That’s the best people will do for a guy from New York Telephone.”
“I’m ready to strangle those guys, myself. Every other phone call gets crossed with another line. I’ve called the maintenance department to set up appointments, but the guys never show up! But I have to keep paying because I need a phone line! It’s blackmail!”
“It’s blackmail of a black male.”
“You know, I would laugh if I weren’t so pissed off at them.” He lit up and inhaled deeply.
“Anything happen when I was gone?”
“Well, a delivery truck pulled up at the funeral home around the corner.”
I looked at the truck that was backed up to the loading dock. “The only time you can deliver coffins is in the dead of night.”
“Damn, that’s a good one!” said Vandyne, finally cracking a smile.
Up above, probably at Beautiful Hong Kong’s office, speakers blared out some lion dance songs.
“Man, what is that racket?” asked Vandyne.
“It’s for the lion dances.”
“They need to play that now?”
“Maybe they have a show tomorrow. Lion dances are used at all sorts of celebrations through the entire year.”
“Why do they only use percussion instruments? That makes it particularly annoying to listen to.”
“You have to make loud sounds to scare away the ghosts, and what could be louder than drums, cymbals, and gongs?”
“How about neighbors yelling at them to shut the fuck up?”
“That’s no good. If you complain about the noise, these dancers will come out and kick your ass.”
“Dancers. Real tough. Like the Jets and the Sharks.”
“These guys are tough, though. Lion dancing is related to kung fu, you know.”
I saw a light go on in one of the apartments above the funeral home.
“Vandyne, do you remember me telling you about this old friend of mine who cracked up in Vietnam?”
“Something like that. What about him?”
“I think that’s his light that just went on.”
“He lives above that funeral home?”
“Yeah, and he’s fighting some ghosts of his own, too. He takes Chinese medicine because he’s paranoid and hears voices. He thinks men are coming to take him away.”
“What’s his name?”
“Don.”
“Up until this point you avoided saying his name because you were trying to disassociate yourself from him. You were trying to depersonalize your relationship with Don.”
“Did you learn that from your couples therapy?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve also been learning just a little bit about a thing called delayed-stress syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s when you are so traumatized you kind of ignore it, but then it sneaks up on you and you freak out and don’t even realize it.”
“Rose told me about you jumping in the tub in Philly.”
“See, and when that happened, I thought it was completely normal for me to do that. And I was right back in Nam when those fireworks went off. There was no doubt in my mind that I hadn’t come back to the World yet and that I was under fire.
“Maybe you didn’t notice it, but in the last newsletter from the VA there was a small thing about delayed-stress syndrome. Did you happen to see it?”
“Everything from the VA I throw straight into the garbage.”
“Are you insane, Chow?”
“Listen, man! Every time I used to open one of those letters, I’d read something that would send me into a drinking rage! I don’t want to revisit any of that!”
I looked into the lighted window, waiting to see if Don would walk by.
“When was the last time you had a flashback, Chow?”
“About a month ago, I think. I jumped out of bed and crawled under it. I just slept there because I felt safer.”
“What set you off?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I heard something. Maybe I thought I heard something.”
“At the VA hospital they have some rap sessions that may be of some use to you.”
“What’s a rap session?”
“You all get in a circle and just talk about what comes to mind.”
“That sounds more like a Tupperware party! You mean you don’t get to go anonymously and talk one-on-one with a therapist? The men there all see each other?”
“It’s a safe space. Nobody’s out to rat on the other person and you can say anything you need to.”
I shifted in my seat. “You know, I already talk to you, Vandyne.”
“Of course you do.”
“What could I say to a bunch of guys I don’t even know? They’re all going to think I’m crazy.”
“We all think we’re a little crazy. In fact, most statements begin with, ‘You’re going to think I’m nuts, but . . .’”
“Vandyne?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you been going to these rap sessions?”
“I went to one.”
“Are you going back?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it cost out of pocket?” I asked.
“Actually, they pay you.”
“They pay for this?”
“They pay you ten dollars for each complete session you do. If you get up and walk out early, you don’t get your money.”
“Is there somebody writing down everything you’re saying?”
“No, but there are doctors observing you. They have a federal grant to study the syndrome. If they get enough subjects, they might be able to upgrade it into a full-fledged disorder.”
“Why doesn’t the government just give that grant money directly to the vets? They don’t trust us, so they give the money to people to watch us like we’re animals in a zoo?”
“Honestly, if they gave us the money, a lot of it would go straight up in a lot of vets’ arms,” he said. “Now these doctors are trained to help people like us.”
“Did it really help you, though? I mean, honestly.”
“Let me tell you something. Originally I had called the number and committed to attending a rap session. At the time it sounded far off enough, but it seemed that all of a sudden that day rolled around and I didn’t want to go. But I’m glad I did. Just talking about it made me feel better. I told them all about how I shot up a tree and there was a little boy hiding inside who had been shooting up our camp.”
“What did everybody else say?”
“They could relate because there were all kinds of booby traps around. A flap in the ground would open up and a gun would start shooting at you.”
“If I start hearing stories like that again, Vandyne, I don’t know how I could stop myself from getting a drink,” I said, and looked directly in his eyes. “I swear to God, I don’t know how I could take it. I could drink a beer right fucking now.” Or cry.
“There is a risk of, uh, open containers during the meetings,” Vandyne said.
We stopped talking for a while.
After about fifteen minutes the lion dance music shut off. A few minutes later
the light went out in Don’s apartment.
“Should we wait until someone comes out of Beautiful Hong Kong?” I asked Vandyne.
“Yeah, let’s just hang here a bit.” He lit up another cigarette. “Damn, there are only two matches left.”
“When you run out, it’ll be your turn to make a run to the store. Tell him you’re giving him a credit on his phone bill to make up for the poor service.”
After about another ten minutes a group of people came out of the building. I recognized some of the kids from the unofficial and illegal mug books of Polaroids we kept at the Five. I knew some were peripheral gang members or former members. I didn’t see any hard-core members, ones who would be packing a gun.
“Interesting mix of people,” said Vandyne. “Some former rivals mixed in there.”
“I think Paul knows some of those guys.”
“They still come around for him?”
“Naw, living with me has made him kryptonite to the gangs. On the other hand, nobody wants to be friends with him anymore.”
“Man, that’s sad. But the righteous path is a lonely path. A lot of people like to drag you down with them.” Vandyne had grown up locked alone in the apartment in Philadelphia, practicing the guitar. His mother would force him to learn a new 45 every week.
“I’d rather have Paul grow up lonely than grow up dead.”
“Have you ever met Paul and Lonnie’s parents?”
“I’ve seen their dad before, but I couldn’t go up to him and introduce myself. That guy’s useless. Lonnie’s stepmother is Paul’s birth mother.”
“All right,” said Vandyne.
Some girls came out onto the street, which was a little unusual because traditionally only men and boys were allowed to do the lion dances, including playing the musical instruments. I recognized one of the girls. It was Stephanie from Together Chinese Kinship.
It looked like the group might go hang out, but it split up with a few heading east to the Communist side of Chinatown and the rest heading up Mott Street, probably to a restaurant open late.
Ng’s lion dance group was doing some amazing work in bringing different people in Chinatown together. He was doing a lot of good, especially for the young people. I couldn’t imagine any association being that inclusive.
Brian the instructor came down last and alone, holding a duffel bag. He lit a cigarette and stretched his back. Brian switched his bag to his left arm, went down Worth, and turned north on Bowery.
Without a word, Vandyne started up our van and followed. We didn’t have to go far. After a few blocks Brian hopped up the steps to Jade Palace and went in.
“What should we do?” I asked Vandyne.
“Wait until he comes out and see who he’s with. Could take a while.”
“Aren’t we just wasting time? Couldn’t we just walk up and take a peep?”
“Don’t worry about wasting time,” said Vandyne, maneuvering the van into the southbound lane of Bowery about ten yards away from Jade Palace’s doors. He killed the engine and lit another cigarette.
We got some action right away. An old woman with a disturbingly wide nose knocked on Vandyne’s open window.
“Yes?”
“Hey, you! You fix!” She pointed at the public phone we were parked next to. The phone booths in Chinatown all had metal pagoda-shaped cutouts on the top. Using them was like sticking your head into a small altar.
“No. Later fix,” said Vandyne. “I promise.” I used a hand to block my face so she couldn’t see that I was Chinese.
“Hey, you! Soul brotha! You fix!”
“Aw, shit,” said Vandyne. Under his breath he muttered, “You’re not going to help me, are you, partner?”
“It would just prolong it. If I start speaking Chinese we’ll never hear the end of it until the phone is fixed and sparkling clean.”
“We have to do something. She’s attracting way too much attention here.”
“Ask her if she saw the shooting at the Pagoda. That’ll get rid of her.”
Suddenly she slapped the hood of the van hard. We both jumped. I would have hated to be one of her kids. She disappeared up the street behind us.
“You know what?” I said. “People really are meaner these days. Maybe Eddie’s right about New York City being on the verge of collapse. We’re going to eat each other up alive before 1980. I just want to get all the snakeheads before I go. Then I could die in peace.”
“Chow,” Vandyne said slowly, “you weren’t thinking of taking the law into your own hands?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re talking about dying in peace. Sounds like you’re ready to take a few snakeheads with you.”
“I could do it, but I don’t think I will.”
“Well, don’t do it! If you shoot them, you’re playing right into the criminals’ hands. You’re going to make it easier for other criminals to continue to operate because of the backlash against the police. As defective and slow as it is, you have to allow the judicial system to work.”
“What if we arrest these guys and they get off?”
“Then we try to catch them again.”
“And then what if they get off another time?”
“That would never happen. Once these criminals get caught—even if they’re not convicted—they are convicted in the public’s mind. They pass on responsibilities to someone else.”
“That’s the same game the restaurants and garment factories play. If they get caught in labor violations, they close down and reopen ‘under new management,’ although it’s the same group of owners. And they don’t rehire the troublemakers who blew the whistle on them.”
Just then Brian came out of the restaurant and lit up a cigarette. Eddie came out behind him and said something. They chuckled a little.
Suddenly there were two loud popping sounds—obviously small handguns—from the next block over, where some of the lion dance crew had gone.
We heard girls screaming and boys yelling.
I felt something crash into us from the back. It was the parked car behind us that Vandyne had just backed into.
14
VANDYNE LURCHED THE VAN OUT AND WE SPED DOWN BOWERY and went up the wrong way on Mott. We saw some kids running in different directions.
We stopped on the sidewalk. I jumped out and grabbed a running boy.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. We were just standing in the street. I heard a gun and I just started running.” He was about fourteen and wasn’t a known gang member. Just to be sure I frisked him.
“What are you doing?” he protested.
“I’m just making sure you aren’t hit,” I lied. “Where did the shots come from?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Chow!” said Vandyne. He pointed up the street at a cook in an apron standing and smoking.
We walked up to him. The cook had come out of Jade Palace’s back doors after hearing the shots. He had seen a black car speed away to the south, didn’t get the plates.
We had just missed the car when we turned up Mott.
“Hey!” yelled Willie Gee, who suddenly popped out of a back door. “What are you doing, talking to these two cops!”
“I’m helping them,” said the cook.
“I don’t pay you to stand around and talk!” Then to us, and in English, Willie said, “Leave him alone! He doesn’t know anything! He’s a very simple man from the Chinese countryside!”
“What are you doing out here, Willie?” I asked.
“I saw that one of my kitchen staff was missing, so I went looking for him.”
“You didn’t hear gunshots?” asked Vandyne.
“Gunshots? No! I heard nothing! You guys heard a truck backfiring and it gave you one of those crazy Vietnam flashbacks!”
I pointed at the cook.
“I need to take your personal information,” I said.
Willie stomped his foot.
“If you talk to this
cop,” he said, “you’re going to be investigated as a suspect even if you’re just a witness. You will put your job and your family at risk. One slipup and they’re going to deport you!”
“That’s not true!” I said.
“Are you going to pay him?” asked Willie. “What does he get out of it? Do you even guarantee him protection?”
The cook dropped his cigarette and twisted his foot on it. “Willie’s right,” he said to the ground. “I get nothing out of it and plus I bear all the risk.”
“I saw how smart you were the day I hired you!” Willie said, beaming.
“Think about the fear people have to live in,” I said. “Shootings every week now, and it’s just going to get worse.”
“I think I was just hearing things,” said the cook.
Vandyne didn’t understand what we were saying, but he knew what was happening.
“Willie,” he said. “How would you like it if you were extorted or robbed on a regular basis and nobody helped you?”
“My association has its own preventative crime measures. You two only take action when there’s already a victim and it’s already too late.”
“What sort of ‘measures’ do you take?” Vandyne asked.
“For one thing, we make sure to provide training and employment for our people. Most crime in the community stems from shiftlessness.”
“Do you happen to provide employment to illegal Fukienese immigrants?” I asked.
Willie turned to the cook. “You see this?” he said. “They are already trying to frame me for a crime and I was just standing here talking.”
The cook nodded and went inside.
“You’re hindering an investigation,” I warned Willie in English.
“Investigation into what? Nothing happened!”
“You made sure nothing happened!” Vandyne accused.
“You know what?” said Willie. “You two have no credibility in this community! An alcoholic and a black! What a team you guys make! Hunh!” With that he stormed back into the restaurant and locked the door.
“I can’t believe he called you an alcoholic,” I said to Vandyne. He made a tight smile and shook his head.
We met with Eddie a few hours later at a twenty-four-hour Greek diner on the Upper East Side by a firehouse.
“What was going on with Brian?” Vandyne asked him.