by Henry Chang
Jack remembered the beat-up metal desk in the second-floor squad room where he’d worked the Uncle Four murder, and later, the Ghost Legion shoot-out.
Both cases were still open, investigations continuing.
Captain Salvatore “Big Sal” Marino was the CO, commanding officer of the Fifth Precinct. Jack remembered well all five months of the troublesome tour he’d previously served under Marino, during which more things went wrong than right.
In spite of that, Jack had gotten the job done, and the captain had personally quashed a subsequent Internal Affairs investigation. Later, Marino had quietly pushed for Jack’s promotion to Detective Second Grade.
In his stuffy office, the captain stood beside his big wooden desk, nodding his white-haired head as he said, “Homicide-suicide, open and shut. That’s what the watch sarge said.”
“Looks that way,” agreed Jack. “The ME’s got them now.”
“When they’re done, wrap it up. You can use your old desk in the squad room.”
Great, thought Jack sardonically, thanks a lot.
The captain gave Jack a puzzled look, grinned, then said, “You’re wondering why you, hah? It’s not like we didn’t have homicide cops available, right?” He straightened up from the desk, let his bulk loom toward Jack, and spoke in a confessional tone. “The call came down from Manhattan South.” He took a breath. “A PBA rep phoned the night watch. Then an accommodation came down the chain, capisce? They need a Chinese cop? Sure, why not? This group, wassit? The Nom San? Made a generous donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund last year. Some of their members are auxiliaries, volunteer police. So why not? They’re good fellas, right?” He put a hammy hand on Jack’s shoulder, saying, “So here you are.”
And here I am, thought Jack. Back in the ’hood.
“It’s not the usual procedure,” Marino continued. “But if the community feels a Chinese detective might be more sensitive to the investigation, I’m inclined to be accommodating.”
Jack mused, Always alert to an opportunity for some good PR. Of course the precinct was ready to cooperate with the skeptical community, especially for street information relating to the safety (gangs and guns) and security (extortion and gambling, drugs and prostitution) of the people of Chinatown. Always ready. CPR. Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect.
“Accommodating is good,” Jack agreed, fighting off a sneer.
“Exactly. Survivors don’t want bullshit finding its way into the newspapers.” He paused. “Especially with the Chinese press being what it is.”
“How’s that, Captain?” Jack asked, sensing racism. Jack remembered Vincent Chin, editor of the United National, Chinatown’s oldest newspaper. Vincent had assisted Jack in past investigations.
“Look, just be sensitive, hah?” Marino warned. “Obviously, they didn’t want to talk to a gwailo, a white cop.”
Sensitivity, Jack thought, was like diversity, affirmative action, and equal opportunity: convenient catchwords that people in command used to cover their asses.
“You work the paperwork any way you want,” Marino advised. “But I’m gonna be reading in between the lines. And you better be sure everything’s straight, by the book. You get my drift?”
“Right, Captain,” Jack answered. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that,” the big man said, checking his watch. “And stay in the neighborhood. ADA Sing’s coming by at nine thirty.”
Jack knew that prosecutor Bang Sing, a rising young star in the DA’s office, was also a friend of Alexandra’s.
“You’ll need his updates on the Johnny Wong case,” said Marino, tilting his head dismissively toward the open door.
“Nine thirty, yes sir,” acknowledged Jack. There was an hour and a half in between.
Jack went right on Bayard, left on Mott, thinking of Billy Bow and the Tofu King, which was across the street from the Golden Galaxy club where May Lon Fong had worked. He continued past the dingy storefronts of his childhood, toward the billowing cloud of steam that rushed forth every time a customer exited the Tofu King. It had once been Chinatown’s biggest tofu distributor, but in recent decades, it had seen its fortunes decline in the face of cutthroat competition and rising costs. The Bows had resorted to promotional gimmicks to stem their loss of market share. Half-price early-bird deals for senior citizens. Leftover “value packs” after 6 PM. Three generations of a longtime Chinatown family, the Bows were hanging on against fierce Fukienese competition from East Broadway and the growth of the health-foods industry.
Billy Bow, the only son, was Jack’s oldest friend, his last hingdaai, brother, in the neighborhood, the one who hadn’t cut and run for the suburbs, who hadn’t fallen victim to gangs, drugs, or to the shakedowns that came from the tongs, or to the various taxes imposed by municipal thieves as well. Jack had worked in the Tofu King for three years, lost years, between the military and college and his job with the NYPD.
Billy was Jack’s extra ears and eyes on the street, and had a merchant’s insight into the tribal and political workings of the neighborhood. More than a few violent incidents had led back to business deals gone bad, and merchants were known to be involved with gambling cash and contraband deals.
Jack stepped through the steam into the humid shop and saw Billy in the back area with the slop boys. He scooped up plastic containers of dao foo fa, tofu custard, and bok tong go, a gelatinous dessert, and headed for the cashier, but Billy noticed him right away.
“Wai waiwai!” Billy yelled to the cashier, waving off Jack’s dollars. “His chien’s no good here!”
“Come on, Billy.” Jack shook his head. “You gotta stop doing this.”
“Fuhgeddaboudit, hah? Start the new year off right.”
“Thanks,” Jack said resignedly, “like always.” He pocketed his money and glanced out the fogged window to the other side of the street.
“What happened?” Billy grinned. “You back in the shit?”
“Nah,” Jack frowned, “just wrapping up a case.” He nodded in the direction of the yellow Golden Galaxy karaoke sign. “What’s going on down there these days?”
“Karaoke?” puzzled Billy. “Same buncha kids hanging out in front all the time. Noisy as hell. Leave their garbage all over the fuckin’ street. And you know I can’t sing worth a shit.”
Jack laughed, letting Billy run on.
“So I only been down there once or twice. But five bucks for a beer and ten dollars for a lo mein? Fuhgeddaboudit. Rip-off. But then I heard the Ghosts are dealing bags and pills out of there. Probably you-know-what-else, too.”
Jack understood that to mean heroin, China White. “What kind of crowd?” he asked, thinking of May Lon Fong.
“They’re like a young Hong Kong crowd,” Billy pondered, “but they got snakehead nui, smuggled girls, hustling off the big beers, brandy, and bar food. Probably got tong cash backing the place.”
The Ghosts, thought Jack. He considered paying a visit during the late hours but knew the Ghosts would make him right away, even if he played his way in with Alexandra on his arm. Two romantics out for a singsong.
“Ghosts,” sneered Billy. “Fuhgeddaboudit. The girls don’t last long there before getting dirty.”
Exactly the kind of innuendo that the victims’ families didn’t want, thought Jack.
Billy was another bad influence, another brick in Jack’s protective wall around his feelings, fortifying his skeptical view of relationships, pushing him to keeping Alex at a distance.
“That’s how bitches are,” Billy complained. “They fuck around when they think they can get over.”
Billy, the bitter divorcé, was protective of his heart, but was a weekly regular at Angelina Chao’s pussy palace, where only matters of his cock were involved.
“Why?” Billy asked. “Somebody kill somebody with their sorry-ass singing?”
“Nah.” Jack laughed. “I just need some background for the paperwork.”
Billy lit up a cigarette. “This kid, Jing Zhang, moo
nlights down there, after slopping beans here.”
“I might need to speak to him,” said Jack.
“Too early. He’s probably splitting some young Fukienese flower right about now.” He checked his beat-up Swatch watch. “Come back after ten.”
“Thanks,” Jack offered as they pounded fists.
“Later.”
Jack left the Tofu King, swinging his little red plastic bag of Chinese desserts, and went toward Division Street, a freezing winter wind tunnel. He lowered his head to the steady, relentless wind, until he passed beneath the Manhattan Bridge onto Allen, leading out past the Chrystie Street park where the local needleheads once ruled, sharing shots and hatching up their junkie schemes of the day.
The Loisaida side streets blended into NoHo, until he came to a big yellow banner over a storefront that used to be a bodega. The yellow banner proclaimed ASIAN AMERICANJUSTICE ADVOCACY, or AJA, pronounced Asia.
AJA had begun as a grassroots activist organization staffed by young lawyers and law students fighting for positive change, paying back the community with pro bono time. The gritty feeling of the neighborhood made him wonder if Alexandra had visited the pistol range he’d suggested. He’d helped her to get a pistol permit when she’d been spooked by phone threats the AJA had received for aiding runaways smuggled in by the snakeheads. Alex had purchased a .22-caliber revolver, a Smith & Wesson Ladysmith.
Pausing at the door, Jack viewed the storefront operation that was a jumble of used office furniture and donated equipment. It was too easy to see inside, and because of AJA’s proximity to the avenues of Alphabet City, there were groups of homeless men loitering nearby who appeared sinister and threatening.
There was no one at the reception desk. He saw Alex through the small pane of glass in the wood door. She was in her late twenties but could still pass for an undergrad. She was sitting and watching some news footage on the little color TV by her desk.
Alex saw Jack enter, nodded, and resumed watching the TV. He knew it was a tape when she rewound the images back across the screen before turning off the set. Jack remembered that the same crime scenes and follow-up footage had been shown by the media extensively during the week.
Four days earlier there’d been a shooting in Queens: an officer had responded to a call and encountered a teenager playing with a pellet gun. In the ensuing struggle, the teenager was shot in the back of the head and died.
The Chinese teenager was an honor student and the officer was a second-year rookie. The case had taken an abrupt turn when the report from the Medical Examiner’s office concluded that the path of the fatal police bullet didn’t support the NYPD claim that it was an accidental shooting.
Internal Affairs was all over the scenario now, as was the Queens DA’s office.
The media was having a field day with it.
“The funeral’s today,” Alex said quietly, “but one of the uncles is screaming ‘wrongful death.’”
Jack knew that to mean a lawsuit was imminent but remained quiet because he’d seen the controversy coming. Wrongful police actions made him feel awkward, but he knew it was inevitable; on a force of thirty thousand men and women, there was bound to be some unfortunate incidents. It wasn’t the first time Alex had taken the Chinese side against the NYPD, and although she didn’t direct any of her contempt for bad cops toward Jack personally, he still caught her negative thoughts directed at his gun and shield.
“And I can’t do it,” Alex added.
Jack gave her a puzzled look.
“I’ve got two cases already,” she continued. “Plus I’ll be in Seattle during the hearings.”
“Seattle?” asked Jack.
“The CADS are invited to ORCA’s annual awards gala,” Alex said distractedly.
CADS was the Chinese-American Defense Squad, Alex’s clever little acronym for her group of eight Chinese lawyers, a judge, and a half-dozen paralegal misfits who nevertheless knew how to make the system sing. They’d taken on some police brutality beefs and a few controversial discrimination cases, and had won convincingly.
ORCA was the Organization for Rights of Chinese-Americans, a civil-rights organization that had eighty-eight chapters nationwide. They’d supported legal actions following the much-publicized “mistaken identity” murder of a young Chinese man in 1982 in Detroit.
“Death by cop,” said Alex, frowning. “They kill you for pulling out a wallet. Or a cell phone, or a hairbrush. Everything looks like a gun.”
“From what I’m hearing, it was a good shoot,” Jack reluctantly offered.
“Good?” Her eyes narrowed. “He shot the kid in the head while restraining him. How can that be good?”
“You know what I mean,” Jack said evenly. “They say the arrest was textbook, just—”
“Only the ‘gun’ didn’t follow the textbook, huh?” She looked away.
Jack shrugged. This was an argument he didn’t want any part of.
“He was a straight-A kid, Jack,” said Alex, unrelenting, “the kind of kid every parent wishes their child could be.” She sighed, and there was an awkward silence between them.
He’d chosen a bad time to visit but was glad he was able to bring something sweet into Alex’s frustrating and melancholy morning. He surprised her by setting the bag of Tofu King desserts on her desk, and saw her face brighten momentarily.
“I’m not sure how to take this,” she said, opening one of the plastic containers of bok tong go.
“How’s that?” puzzled Jack.
“Well, the only time you come out here,” she said as she bit into one of the spongy white sweets, “is when something bad brings you to Chinatown.”
Jack took a deep breath. He was silent a moment while the images of a dead Chinese couple did a jump cut in his mind.
“What is it this time?” Alex asked, her big eyes cautiously looking up at him.
Abruptly, Jack asked, “What do you think about postpartum depression?”
“Excuse me?” she said as she leaned back in her chair.
“I mean here, in Chinatown,” Jack explained. “Among Chinese-speaking immigrants? Do they believe in it? Or get treatment for it?”
Alex realized Jack wasn’t kidding. “Well, the younger generation knows about it. The health clinic distributes brochures in Chinese. And they have outreach programs.”
“And the older generation?” He watched her finish off the sweet. “Do they dismiss it? Like it’s a myth?”
Alex leaned forward and folded her arms across the top of her desk. Jack glanced away to avoid staring at the soft curves of her cleavage.
“The old folks have a traditional spin on it,” she said. “They use herbs and soups. Certain foods to rebalance the mother’s body, knowing how the body and mind are linked.”
“Right,” Jack realized. “An unbalanced mind explains why a mother might hurt her own children.”
Alex studied Jack’s face before asking, “You’re here on behalf of dead children again?”
“No,” he answered. “Just looking for some clarity….” He wanted to change the subject. “So, you ever make it down to the pistol range?”
The thought of guns sobered her, brought her back to the realities of crime on these Lower East Side streets.
“Twice,” she answered.
“How’d it go?”
“I’m a regular Annie Oakley now, okay?”
“Yeah, right.” Jack grinned.
Her desk phone rang and Jack waved good-bye to her as she took the call. He was thinking about the big police captain, the Chinese prosecutor Bang Sing, and the disposable camera in his pocket as he left the storefront.
When he got back to Chinatown, Ah Fook’s Thirty-Minute Photo had just opened. Jack gave the camera to Fook junior, who would print the film before processing the other orders of the morning. Jack would pick it up later, after checking in with Billy Bow.
Law and Order
ADA Bang Sing reminded Jack of a younger Chow Yun-Fat, Hong Kong’s John
Wayne. He wore a black coat over a black suit and had a well-traveled, cosmopolitan air about him. Captain Marino leaned back in his big chair and let him talk.
“The judge set bail at a million dollars,” Sing said in an urbane voice, “because of the flight risk. But he’s really interested in seeing who’s going to step up for Johnny.” Sing paused for effect. “So far, no takers.”
Jack and Marino traded glances and the ADA continued, “So far there’s no action on his remand. He’s cooling his ass at Rikers and there’s no requirement of a ‘speedy trial’ in a murder case.” Again, he paused for effect. “Sheldon Littman’s the lawyer for Johnny, and he waived the grand jury. They’re claiming they need time for discovery as to who this woman of interest is, because she turns up in your testimony.”
Again Jack flashed back to the running shoot-out across the San Francisco Chinatown rooftop, and the petite woman with short hair who was squeezing off .25-caliber slugs at him.
“Meanwhile,” Sing continued, “Johnny’s had visitors. Chinese men who claim to be Hong Kong affiliates of Littman’s. They said Johnny’s testimony needs a better translation than that of a regular court appointee, because of his limited English. And Littman’s trying to get Johnny moved to softer digs. Maybe an empty federal squat.”
Jack remembered Mona’s tape-recorded words, implicating Johnny.
“So here’s the deal,” Sing said as if in a summation. “When we go to trial, the existence of this woman is going to create doubt about Johnny being the lone shooter. They’re going to work you over on cross-examination. And we need to limit the damage.”
“Bullshit,” Jack said quietly.
“Minimum, we still get him for conspiracy to commit murder, aiding and abetting a homicide. Littman’s going to paint Johnny as a hapless fuckhead who fell for this missing woman. And then got suckered.” Another pause. “With your testimony, there’s enough he can play on to support that.”
“More bullshit,” said Jack with a sneer.