This Is a Bust

by Ed Lin

  —

  I was standing in front of the locker room’s bulletin board when English Sanchez nudged me.

  “So I heard you got pretty good legs,” he said, wearing a taunting smile. English had maybe 20 pounds on me, tops.

  “Yeah, that was some time ago, though,” I said. We both looked at the sign detailing the benefit hockey game between the police and the firemen. It was next week and our side was still short on men.

  “You skate?” I asked English.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re probably having a tough time signing up guys looking for freelance injuries. Last year, they let high-school kids from the Police Athletic League substitute on the roster.”

  “That’s how you came up, isn’t it?” asked English. “Weren’t you in PAL when you were a kid?”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  English smiled, which deepened the pockmarks in his face. “I hear things about you, these little interesting things. Like how you were a real bastard on skates.”

  “I always remembered to give the right amount of change,” I said. “I went to the PAL for a few years because there’s not much to do in Chinatown but work, study, or get in trouble. PAL was fun, like an extended gym class rather than hanging out with cops.”

  “Mike Donovan told me you used to sock the other team’s goalie when he made a save. And that was in practice.”

  “He’s a captain now, right? I remember Mike. He showed me how to skate backwards.”

  “He was a captain in the Bronx. He quit to play the stock market.”

  “How about that,” I said.

  English kept smiling. It gave me a queer feeling.

  “Enough about hockey,” I told him. “How about you give me some investigative assignments?”

  “C’mon, Chow. Everyone knows you. No one in Chinatown is more conspicuous than you.”

  “But a bunch of white guys and one black guy in plainclothes is a lot more discreet? None of them speak the language, I might add.”

  “You might add that, but it doesn’t make a difference. Those men are hard-working and they get the job done.”

  “If you’d just give me a shot, I could really do something for the bureau.”

  English shifted his stance and tilted his head. “I want you to know, Chow, that when they were laying guys off, we lost a lot of good young men. You know what I mean? They didn’t have a record in the military to count towards seniority like you did. And honestly, you’re not the most likely to succeed in this house. In fact, I’d be more willing to give investigative assignments to guys with even less experience than you.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, you’ve got a good gig going. Why would you want to give it up? Every day’s a party for you! Show up, shake some hands, pose for some pictures, then sit back, hook your thumbs into your belt. You’re using the system. Easy, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I turned to go but English put a hand on

  my shoulder.

  “So what did they call you back then?” he asked me. “Donovan said the other kids in the PAL would call you something and you’d go berserk.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Come on, man, tell me. What’d they call you? Something racial?” He stuck his elbow lightly into my ribs.

  I didn’t say anything. I kept my eyes on the flyer. Practice was tonight at Wollman Rink. I figured I’d go; it would be two free hours of skating.

  English was still at it.

  “Come on, Chow! What’d they say?” He drilled a fist into

  my shoulder.

  I turned to him slowly. “You don’t touch me like that,” I said. “Ever.”

  —

  I was a little tired on the subway ride up to the rink, but the smell of sweat on ice got my legs moving again. I skated a lap backwards, which got the boys cheering.

  I knew two guys from the academy, but everyone else was on the older and heavier side, and I hadn’t seen them before. The coach was Lieutenant George Teeter from the Seven precinct.

  “That’s real pretty, very pretty, detective. Good speed,” he said.

  “I’m not a detective,” I said.

  “You’re on track, though, right?”

  I felt my stomach quiver like a bagpipe under someone’s squeezing armpit. “Wish I was,” I said, looking at Teeter and giving a corner smile like a guy trying to cover up bad teeth.

  “Well, anyway, excellent job, officer. I’m thinking you’re a prime candidate for a right wing. Chow, from the Five precinct, right?”

  I looked around at the other blues.

  “I don’t see anyone else who could pass for a Chow, do you?”

  Teeter laughed awkwardly.

  “I just don’t want to presume or assume things. Who knows, you could have been adopted or something.”

  “I’m going to be doing the adopting. Those firemen are gonna be calling me ‘Daddy,’” I said.

  “That’s the spirit. Good attitude. I like that.”

  We started with laps around the rink, then shot some pucks into the empty net. I was getting a decent lift on the puck, but I couldn’t pull it as high as I wanted to.

  Some of the guys paired off in two’s and three’s to practice passing. I stepped off the ice to tape my stick again. It was already obvious I could skate figure eights around and between pretty much everyone there.

  I stood the stick straight up and held the handle between my feet. I cut the tape off the blade of the stick and peeled off a new roll. I wound it tight like it was a kid’s broken leg. Then my hand slipped. The stick slid and clattered a few feet away.

  It landed at Teeter’s skates. He picked up the stick and walked it over.

  “Looks like you need more tape on the handle, too, Chow.”

  “Yeah, I’m just taking it one step at a time.”

  Teeter cleared his throat and said, “I understand that your participation in the game may not be ideal in light of a little incident you had over Chinese New Year.”

  “What?” I said. “That’s supposed to be confidential!”

  “To the public. Not within the department.”

  “What does this have to do with playing hockey?”

  “Well, naturally, there’s nothing wrong with you participating on the surface of it. But families are going to be there, with kids. What would happen if word got out that we had a potentially unstable person playing in the rink?”

  “I can’t skate in a dipsy-doodle game of hockey, but it’s okay for me to walk around with a shield and a gun?”

  “You’re getting the wrong idea. Think of the PR angle. This is the 10th year we’ve been playing the firemen. You know who’s dropping the puck? Miss New York. It would be a shame if this game were marred by. . .” He waved his right hand as if trying to shake off a mitten.

  I gave the tape a vicious tug and it screamed as it rolled around my stick.

  “I’m fine,” I said, “and I’m going to score a hat trick, how does that sound?”

  He took in a deep breath. It was the sound of better judgment whistling down the elevator shaft.

  “Chow, I’m going to level with you. I got a call from someone at the Five who told me I shouldn’t let you play. He said you had a history of not being able to control your temper.”

  “I’m managing to stay pretty calm right now.”

  “Okay, but anytime you’re not feeling good, I want you to let me know. I’m telling you, if I see that things are amiss, I can’t in good conscience let you play.”

  “Who called you from the Five?”

  “That’s undisclosed. Don’t worry about it. I’m giving you a green light. I think you’re okay. You’re just the guy we needed.”

  “Thanks, coach,” I said.

  Teeter smiled. I tossed the tape away and hit the ice again. English must have called Teeter. Motherfucker. I imagined my skates running over his fingers. I scored goals, but held the stick too tightly. There were blisters
on my hands at the end of the night. I bit into my skin and drained them.

  —

  I took Lonnie to a double feature at the Music Palace. The old man must’ve been away and left his kids in charge of the theater. They were giving a Steve McQueen double feature: “The Blob” and “Papillon.”

  We walked by the Graceful Heaven Buddhist Temple on Bowery on the way up. Not too many people were inside. I’ve always held the view that most Chinese don’t go to Buddha unless they’re unhealthy or know someone close who’s unhealthy. The solution was always the same: donate some money.

  “Ever go to a Buddhist temple?” I asked Lonnie. Her hand was around my arm.

  “Only once in a while to bow.”

  “The last time I was in a temple was back in Nam.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “I had a friend who was hurt by a bouncing Betty mine. He got shrapnel in his legs. I carried him back to a chopper and they took him away. When I found a temple in Saigon, I prayed for him.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him again. His name was Roy.

  He said he was going to be a poet when he got back to the world.”

  “The world?”

  “We called America ‘the world’ because Vietnam felt like hell.”

  “I’m glad you came back.”

  “Are you crying, Lonnie?”

  “I know you’re still having a hard time fitting back into society. I read a story about veterans becoming alcoholics and drug addicts and criminals!”

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to cry.”

  We were waiting to cross the street now to the theater.

  “Are you sure you want to see these movies?” I asked.

  “I do. I’ve been so busy. We haven’t been able to see each other and do things together.”

  “You’re in school. You have to study.”

  “I can’t even go to see your hockey game. I just don’t have the time. But maybe that can be another outlet for you.”

  We got into the theater and got some dried mango strips and popcorn at the concession stand. I walked Lonnie down the aisle as far away from the smoking balcony as possible.

  We had some good laughs through “The Blob,” but Lonnie had to nudge me awake a few times during “Papillon.” Seeing a guy struggling to endure just wasn’t that interesting to me.

  Chapter 11

  I took the subway to Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn to catch the LIRR line out to Long Island. The game was going to be held at an arena where the Ice Capades practiced. I’d heard that the firemen were in better shape than us, and I wasn’t surprised. They cooked their own meals every day while we were basically forced to eat fast food.

  But I’d be damned if I was going to get beat by a bunch of hoseboys.

  I walked into the locker room with my bag over my shoulder and my stick in my right hand. A bunch of the firemen were changing with us in our locker room.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I asked the first guy I didn’t know.

  “The other room is locked and they can’t find the key,” said a white guy with curly brown hair and a bushy mustache. He was about six-two, 220. “We just figured we’d share with you guys. If you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” I said, “but we don’t have a place for

  you to plug in your curling iron.” The firemen and cops

  all went, “Whoa!”

  “I’m gonna plug you, pal,” curly head muttered, pulling on his socks.

  “C’mon, I’m only joking. I like men who play with fire.”

  “What’s really not funny is that we save more lives than you guys do,” he said, smiling. “You guys are only good

  for shooting unarmed suspects and taking drug money.” The firemen laughed uncomfortably, but none of the cops were smiling.

  “Don’t you guys have some liquor heirs to kidnap?” I asked. Last August a fireman had gotten busted for kidnapping the kid who was going to inherit the Seagram liquor fortune.

  Teeter walked in before any of the firemen could respond, but I could tell from their cold stares that I was a marked man. Teeter clasped his hands together and addressed

  the room.

  “I hope all you guys are getting acquainted with each other. My name’s Teeter and I’m the coach for the NYPD. We’re not expecting any rough stuff out there, but there’s gonna be two referees on the ice and that’s me and Art Block from the firefighters. Stand up so the guys can see you, Art.”

  Who stands up but big and curly? My head felt like I was in an elevator that was running express down to the basement. Teeter went on.

  “So I want you all to know you’re doing a great thing for the kids, and a lot of them are out there watching. We also got a few people from Newsday who might do a story and a photo, so look pretty out there. It doesn’t matter who scores more goals. It’s the kids who win. Let’s have a good game, guys.”

  Before Teeter dropped the puck, the mayor of the town made a little speech at center ice about how pleased he was to host the benefit for the Police Athletic League and some stupid firefighters organization. Spotty Spot, a Dalmatian that was the fire-safety mascot, ran around the stands. I’m sure the kids learned a lot from that.

  Then they played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” During the song, I kept an eye on Block. He had his right hand over his heart. With his left he drew a line through his neck and then pointed at me.

  “Let’s go,” I mouthed to him.

  Miss New York came out and dropped the puck in a ceremonial face-off. She was wearing an Islanders jersey and sweatpants. The centers half-heartedly dueled for the puck. We won. Then Teeter dropped the puck for the real face-off and the firemen’s captain pinned our guy’s stick and kicked the puck back to his men with his skate.

  The first period went badly for both teams. Some of the mediocre skaters slipped and fell on their own. But once they got their legs going, the firemen were pretty quick. In the interests of not killing ourselves, we were playing three 10-minute periods instead of the standard 20 minutes. Near the end of the first, there was still no score. Then I saw a lane open up for me up the right side.

  I jabbed my stick between the legs of a fireman defender to trip him up and ran up the ice with the puck. Nobody could touch me. I drew back and slapped the biscuit home. One-nothing at the end of the first.

  When I scored again at the start of the second, the going got tougher for me. I got a few stick butts in the gut and a nice rap on the back of my leg, where there was no padding.

  “Hey ref, you saw that!” I yelled at Block.

  “I didn’t see nothing,” he said. Teeter was at the other end of the ice. I bit my lip and kept going. But whenever I saw any firemen coming at me, I put up my elbows up at nose-level.

  The crowd came alive. The kids were screaming and even the parents hooted. Now this was hockey. I could feel wind in my face as I went up and down the ice. Having the option to give in to violent impulses at any time freed a primitive instinct in me.

  I shoved one guy’s face into the glass wall and when he dropped, who was sitting in the stand right there but that punk kid whom I’d given a bloody nose. Only he was cheering for me and pumping his arms. I nodded to him and Teeter came over.

  “That’s it, Chow. Two minutes in the penalty box for roughing.” I couldn’t argue. The fireman was clinging to the wall, trying to stand up. As I shuffled off to the penalty box, one of the cops swooped by and yelled, “Should’ve sent you after Serpico!” I raised one hand in triumph. I stepped off the ice and into the penalty box at the edge of the rink. I picked up a bottle and squirted cold water over my face that made my skin scream.

  A few firemen skated by and shouted stuff. I saluted them. Then Block came by, took his fingers and chinked his eyes at me. I looked for Teeter, but of course he was down at the other end again. I swatted my stick at the door to the penalty box. Then I dropped my gloves. I didn’t want them to get in
the way when I got out of the box.

  When my two minutes were up, I skated the length of the ice to get at Block. I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him down, face-first. I threw punches into his back. After a few seconds, the firemen dropped their sticks and slid over. The cops held them back and Teeter pulled me off Block, who looked like he was having a good dream.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you! This is a benefit game! We’ve got goddamned kids here!” he screamed.

  “He was making faces at me!” I yelled.

  “Head for the showers, you’re out of the game, Chow!” Teeter said. Skating off the ice, I raised two bare fists as the audience roared. I was a fan favorite.

  I sat down in the locker room, my entire body dripping with sweat and melted ice. I was by myself and that was fine by me. I threw off my helmet and screamed. Then I dug into our cooler and started drinking. I was on the fourth beer when the other guys started coming in.

  The score was two-nothing when I left and we ended up winning two-one. I got a pat on the back from two police.

  A fireman sat down and stuck his face at me. He was a white male with black hair, five-nine, 180.

  “You got a serious problem,” he told me.

  “Yeah, something ugly next to me wants a few punches in the face.”

  “My son and daughter are out there. What am I going to tell them after the game? How am I going to explain why some crazy cop out there was pummeling the ref?”

  “You tell them that the Chinese people have stood up,” I said.

  Block was waiting for me to leave before coming into the locker room. I saw him in the hallway on my way out and blew him a kiss.

  Teeter came over to me. “I’m not against having a physical presence,” he said, sounding like he was on sedatives, “But you were just out of line. I couldn’t let that go.”

  “But we won because of me,” I said.

  “There are more important things than winning.”

  “What kind of sports fan are you?”

  Teeter shook his head and rubbed his stomach. “God, I hope those fights looked staged.”

  “Fights?”

  “After I took you out, a fireman took a shot at me.”

  “Did you throw him out, too?” Teeter nodded.