This Is a Bust

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This Is a Bust Page 5

by Ed Lin


  Things started changing when I was around 10. The older kids were shoplifting, smoking, and ripping off dusty bottles of gift booze their parents had forgotten.

  Two gangs set themselves up in different parts of Chinatown. You had to be in one or the other. The group I was in was the Continentals. We used paint scrapers to hack off the metal emblems from Lincoln Continentals. You had to get eight to join. The rival group was the Darts. I joined the Continentals only because those cars looked cooler. Moy was in the Darts, but he was still my friend.

  I guess the Continentals and Darts weren’t really gangs, because when they met up in Columbus Park, something like a softball game would break out. It was tame. Fellow group members were as likely to come to blows (for striking out or missing a catch) as people from rival groups. The only fights we had were against the Italian kids from across Canal Street and the Spanish kids on the east side of Bowery. They’d come into Chinatown and try to steal stuff from stores, or maybe eat in a restaurant and run out on the check.

  The Continentals would hang out in Cathy’s, this soda joint on the south end of Mott, right by the fancy Port Arthur restaurant. The Darts hung out at Rocky’s, which was down at Chatham Square and Bowery. The two hangouts were about two blocks away from each other, but we stayed away from each other’s hangout.

  After Cathy’s closed to become a hair salon, the Continentals and the Darts both shared Rocky’s and the rivalry died. The older kids had gone off to college, and new kids were coming over from Hong Kong. The American-born kids were finding themselves in the minority. Me and this other guy started going to the Police Athletic League events for the free McDonald’s meals and ice skating.

  Then in 1969 the draft came to Chinatown. I didn’t care about getting out of it. I had finished high school and was drifting. But I knew how bad it was in China, and how we should be grateful for the better life we had in the U.S. I knew that serving was the best way to prove how much I loved America. We had to stop Communism.

  Some other guys I knew were making up crazy stories to get out of the draft. They were now Buddhist vegetarians who believed that ending another creature’s life was against their religion. One guy took a post teaching English in a Navajo school out west. Fuck them, I thought. If you’re not willing to fight for the freedoms of this country, you shouldn’t be allowed to live in it. Hell, your parents shouldn’t have been allowed to come over.

  I was real stupid and innocent back then. That was before we were in basic training and the instructor pulled me out of line, faced me to the company, and said, “This is what a gook looks like. He’s the complete opposite of you, and he’s out to kill you. What are you going to do about it?”

  —

  After I got my shield and piece, I ran into an old buddy of mine from the Continentals, this guy named John Lo who was also in Nam. He told me that some of the vets were getting together at Rocky’s on a regular basis and that I should come to the next meeting.

  I went to a meeting and John Lo pulled out some pictures. Vietnamese girls in short skirts. Street kids flashing peace signs. A smiling John Lo in a ricepicker hat, tied up on the ground with a bunch of white GI’s pointing bayonets in his face.

  “John, what the fuck is this?” I asked him.

  “What? That’s just having fun with the guys. Tell you a story, I got the hat from a boom-boom girl.”

  “They tied you up like a VC and that’s funny?”

  “What are you getting so worked up about?”

  “What kind of fucking idiot are you?”

  “You need a shrink, Robert. The war’s over.”

  “Too bad for you. You wanted to dress up like a dink some more.”

  “It was just a joke!”

  “Why don’t I go into your house and rape your mother and shoot your father and say it was a joke because I thought they were VC?” I stopped myself there, because I was getting to be known with my press photos. It didn’t look good for me to be talking like that. I kicked my chair back and left.

  —

  I understand that the group only met a few times more. Guys dropped out one by one.

  Chapter 4

  After two days on the 0000 to 0800, I was on the day tour again. The turnaround was always tough. If the job duties alone weren’t bad enough, there was always the interruption to your sleep cycle to sprinkle more sand in your shell.

  It was three days before Chinese New Year on January 31 and I figured I should be drinking more to get me loose enough for the holiday.

  I was feeling kind of carefree after my morning beer and a Tic Tac chaser, so I decided to drop in and have a little talk with the Brow.

  “Mister Chow,” said the Brow, folding his hands into a pile of dry twigs. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Hello, sir,” I said.

  “Something on your mind? Please. Have a seat.”

  I looked down at the only other chair in the room. The varnish was rubbed out of the seat from people squirming in it. I sat in the center of the light spot.

  “I understand,” said the Brow, “that you have another one of your events to attend tonight.”

  “Chinatown Girl Scouts, sir.”

  “Do they sell Girl Scout fortune cookies?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I want to thank you once again, as always, for your help. The Department congratulates you heartily.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, sir. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “What is it, mister?”

  “Sir, I don’t want you to think that this is all I can do. I could really contribute in a lot of other ways.”

  “Mister Chow. You don’t think we’re limiting you by having you attend these little gatherings, now, do you?”

  “I understand how the Five wants me there for the photographs in the Chinese papers. . .”

  “Not just the Five, Mister Chow. You represent every policeman in the city. When the Chinese people pick up the newspaper, they don’t just see someone from our house. They see a member of the Police Department of the City of New York.”

  “Sir,” I said slowly, thinking of how to put it. “It’s not a hard thing to do.”

  “But Mister Chow,” the Brow said, putting his thumbs on the edge of the desktop. “You are in fact the only one who can do this.”

  “Sir, I want to be on the detective track. I want investigative assignments. Think of how my language skills. . .”

  The Brow was shaking his head.

  “Mister Chow. We are in a fight right now for the hearts and minds of the people. We’re slowly winning them back. And we’re winning them back because of you. The trust is once again, ah, rising between us and the community because of you.”

  “There are other ways we could help rebuild that trust, sir.”

  “This is the best way. Through the press, in their own

  language. They need to see how integrated we are with their people.”

  I thought about how sick I was of going to see Chinese people get awards for being smart, rich, or beautiful. A Chinese cop in the background was just another prop in

  the play.

  “We’re not providing enough of a challenge for you, are we Mister Chow?” the Brow asked, leaning back so he could look down at me.

  “I just think I could do more, sir.”

  The Brow nodded and chewed on the inside of his left cheek.

  “Mister Chow, do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how many blueshirts would trade places with you

  if they could?”

  “Why would they want to, sir?”

  “You’re getting your picture in the papers. You’re getting free food. You’re getting attention from your people. And you’re getting extra money.” He held up his hand immediately. “I know you’re getting money from these things, and it’s only fair that you do.”

  “But I’d rather spend the extra time on investigative assignments, sir. If I keep doing these events, I’m never going to get
a gold shield.”

  “And so what if you don’t? Who wouldn’t want to walk a beat, make friends, and get their pictures taken? Think of all the people you meet and the goodwill you spread. The Chinese people love you, the police administration loves you — you have the best of both worlds. You’ll have the

  easiest 20 years of anybody. You’ll retire and you’ll have a department pension and probably be named to several community boards.”

  “I was thinking that I could be more than a 20-and-out kinda person, sir.”

  “My boy, please be practical about this. Think of all the detectives and lieutenants who grow bitter and end up hating the people they’re supposed to protect. And that hate is mutual! The community here admires you! In a few years, you could practically be the mayor of Chinatown!”

  “That’s all fine by me, sir, if you want me to keep attending community events, but I don’t want to keep walking a beat.”

  “You realize that with the cutbacks, we’re understaffed and underbudgeted. We don’t have the luxury of letting people do what they want, Mister Chow. Everybody has to do what is best. But I’ll let Mister Sanchez know that you’re ready for any investigative assignments that happen to be available. Not that there are any.”

  “I appreciate it, sir.”

  “In the meantime, I don’t want you slipping in your duties. I expect at least 30 movers or parkers a month.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Now consider yourself dismissed without prejudice, Mister Chow.”

  I left the house and got onto the footpost. I looked down at my feet. If I had been born smarter, instead of stupid, I wouldn’t be stuck like I was. I could have had a lot more options. America was all about living out your dreams, but I had blown it and it was all my fault. There was nothing I could do now, except 17 more years. Then I could get my stupid pension.

  —

  I went up Bowery. When I hit Canal, I had to wait before the light changed. There were about 20 people on the corner waiting with me, but that didn’t stop them from spitting and jaywalking. I could fine them for crossing against the light, but that law was practically unenforceable in New York. I might as well write up people for being Chinese.

  To the right was the Manhattan Bridge, which connected Manhattan to Brooklyn. The entrance to the bridge was

  forever under construction. Canal Street traffic poured directly into an assortment of plastic mesh fences, concrete bunkers, and orange plastic barrels. This week, the lower roadway was shut off. Next week, the upper one would be closed.

  To the left, Canal sloped down past Broadway into the Holland Tunnel. Shadows from taller buildings cut the sunlight into diagonal strips. Jewelry stores glittered on the northern side of the street. They looked a little trashy because the floors were littered with crumpled strips of newspaper, which functioned as a sound alarm in case someone got the idea to tiptoe behind the counter when

  the store was crowded.

  A large tractor-trailer going up into the Manhattan Bridge entrance grunted like it was hungry. It blew out exhaust that passed through us at about eye level as we stood on the corner. No one even blinked. The light changed and a stray car shot through the crosswalk at the last second. I looked at the decals on the rear window and let it go. It was an off-duty cop.

  I continued north, passing grocery stores and giving a few limp waves to the storeowners. Soon, I was under the awning of one of the four movie theaters in Chinatown,

  the Music Palace. The other theaters were the Pagoda on East Broadway by Catherine, the Rosemary on Canal, and the Sun Sing under the Manhattan Bridge overpass.

  All of them ran double features for two bucks, and you couldn’t argue at that price. Sometimes it would be Bruce Lee. Sometimes the movies bordered on nudicals. Lonely Chinese guys went there to disappear in the dark. I didn’t do it too often.

  My favorite theater was the Sun Sing. Its lobby had a virtual shrine to Linda Lin Dai, an actress who had killed herself at the height of her popularity. She’d always played the woman who was betrayed by the man. A lot of Chinese women could relate to that. Linda took a lethal dose of sleeping pills before her last film debuted. Then she truly became that woman in the movie poster behind the glass case that no one could ever touch.

  By contrast, here at the Music Palace was a poster advertising yet another iron-fist-themed slapfest. I could tell by the bad photography alone that it was one of those movies where you could see the guy receiving the pulled punch clap his hands or slap his thigh to make the sound effect.

  I turned away from the theater and almost stepped on a toy dog on a plastic tube. It yapped at me, then flipped back into the ranks of cheap Hong Kong toys in the street stall.

  Holding the pump end of the dog’s tube was a dusty old man sitting in a dirty plastic chair. A portable heater on an extension cord hummed at him. He smiled at me and nodded his head. A wind-up toy dolphin wriggled frantically against the edge of a half-filled tub of water. I leaned over and saw a smaller tub in the shadows filled with baby turtles.

  I pointed at the turtles and shook my head.

  “You can’t sell those,” I said.

  “They’re just my own pets,” the old man said, laughing. “I’m not selling them, officer.” He picked up the small tub and set it down behind his chair.

  I turned and left. I bet I wasn’t more than five feet away before he brought out the turtles again.

  I got to the corner of Grand and Bowery, one of the smelliest intersections in the world. Slime runoff from ice-filled racks of seafood dripped into a sewage drain already clogged with soapy restaurant grill grease poured in the night before. Homeless white men piled up on the sidewalk like bleached driftwood between seafood stands. On a hot day, you could pass out from the smell. Luckily, it was still winter.

  I was done for the day, but I still had time to kill before the Girl Scouts thing. I went back to Columbus Park to see the midget. He was sitting on his upside-down bucket as usual, smoking and chatting to an old male fortune-teller. The midget flipped the cigarette around his fingers like he wanted to make sure the smoke got into every knuckle.

  When he saw me, the midget screwed up his face and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Officer Chow. I’m looking for one more win for today. That would make it 25!” I smiled and sat down on the bench across from him. I nodded at the fortune-teller. He returned the gesture but remained silent, waiting for the midget to introduce him first. He stroked the part of his face that was trying to be a beard and stayed quiet.

  “How about some checkers?” I asked the midget.

  He nodded his head. “Yes, officer. Anything you say, officer. Are you going to arrest me if I win?” He reached into his knapsack on the ground and pulled out a bag of black and red checker pieces. He knew how to play every board game, Chinese and American. He even played steeplechase with plastic horses. Two crushed plastic bottles of herbal tea bowed at his feet. I subconsciously willed him to throw them away before he left the park.

  “You want to be black or red?” I asked the midget.

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “What’s your favorite losing color?”

  I snickered. The midget liked to dish it out, but he wouldn’t do it in English. Even an old friend like Vandyne would only get, “Good move,” “I’m sorry,” or “Play again?” The fortune-teller smiled some more and shifted in his seat, but the midget ignored him so I did, too.

  The midget grabbed fistfuls of checkers and planted them around the board. He gave me the reds so I moved first. I tried to make a bridge with two columns of pieces, but he cut it apart like a sword through straw. He toyed with me a little and I ran out of captured pieces to crown him with. It was as if he had a bonus move every turn.

  He was having trouble holding all the captured pieces or maybe he was rubbing them against each other to annoy me. The midget tapped his foot three times and tilted his head up at me. I looked him in the eyes and he tapped his foot again.


  “Okay, I give up,” I said.

  “Twenty-five!” the midget yelled. Then he chuckled and swept the pieces back into the bag. He folded up the board and put it into his knapsack.

  “This is Wang,” he said, finally introducing the fortune-teller who I’d seen around doing odd jobs, but whose name I hadn’t known. He didn’t need me to introduce myself. I was famous from the Chinese newspapers.

  Wang looked about 70 years old, but seemed to be in pretty good health. His skin had shrunken and was taut against the bones in his face, wrists, and elbows. Wang’s peppery hair was thick and clumpy and looked like an art project with cat fur.

  “Let me tell your fortune,” he said, taking my hands.

  “I don’t believe in that kind of thing,” I told him.

  “Just let him do it,” said the midget with faked irritation.

  “Give this old man something to do.”

  He noticed a mahjong game breaking up at the benches by the water fountain. “Hey, ladies!” he yelled, “Come and hear the fortune for Officer Chow! Maybe he’ll marry one

  of you!” They cursed the midget, but they still came over to listen.

  “You have a very lucky face,” Wang said to me. “Luckiest I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys,” I said.

  “This is going to be a very lucky year for you. I can tell.” He placed my hands together in a finished clap and shook them three times before opening them. His moist eyes flitted as he looked at the lines in my palms. “When were you born?” he asked without looking up.

  “December 2, 1950.”

  Wang reached inside his vest pocket for a pile of sticks and singled one out.

  “You’re married.”

  “I’m not married.”

 

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