This Is a Bust

by Ed Lin

  Yip paid him and we left.

  “This is for you, Officer Chow,” he said. “It’s a present.”

  I took the cardboard and stamps. I knew from years of accepting presents I didn’t like or want that it was best to show outright gratitude and then dump them in the garbage later.

  “Thanks so much, Yip.”

  “These are stamps from all over the world, not just China. You can look them up in a book at the library and find out all about them. There’s a whole world you can hold here in your hand. Then you have the book to preserve them.”

  “Wow, that sounds great,” I said. “Thank you, again.”

  I stuck the envelope into the cardboard book, which I turned over and over in my hands.

  “Tell you what, Yip. You’ll have to allow me to buy dinner.”

  “You’re younger than me, I would have no shame if I allowed that to happen! Besides, I asked you out for dinner.”

  He was steering me to a popular Shanghai restaurant when we ran into Wang, the fortune-teller and liquor-store salesman.

  “Wang, how are you doing? How’s the liquor store?” I asked.

  Wang shook his head. “Didn’t pan out. Business slowed so they let me go.” He looked at Yip and nodded his head. “Hello, sir.”

  “Hello,” said Yip, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Wang, this is Yip, an old friend.”

  “Yes, we’ve met, right?” said Wang.

  “I don’t think so,” said Yip.

  “Well, we’re about to go to dinner. Would you like to come?” I asked.

  “I have to get back home,” said Wang. “Some other time.

  I’ll see you later.” He nodded and left.

  We walked on and Yip picked up the pace.

  “You two seem to know each other,” I said. “Did you guys have some sort of argument?”

  “It’s just that, you know, I don’t respect someone like him. I know him. He’s never had a steady job and he’s very irresponsible. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him collecting cans and bottles. I don’t want to associate with his kind. No self-respect.”

  I was getting fed up with Yip. Not only was he a drag to be around, but he was a jerk to other people, too. People I liked.

  My mind raced as I put my hands in my pockets. There’s

  got to be a way I can get out of having dinner with this guy, I thought. I could fake a stomachache or a headache.

  A migraine.

  “You know, officer,” Yip said slowly, “the black man said they cremated my wife’s body. I complained to the translator that nobody had even told me. But the translator said that this way, I wouldn’t have to pay for anything. Otherwise, it would have been a lot of money for a burial.”

  “That’s terrible, Yip,” I said. “Are you going to keep her ashes?”

  “No. They’re going to find a place for her ashes in one of the city plots. It’s probably best that way.”

  I felt bad for this lonely old man and that made it too late to try to get away from him.

  We went on to the restaurant and the food was great, but I couldn’t help but grind my teeth all the way through it.

  —

  I was getting ready to go on the 0000-to-0800 shift, but Paul wasn’t around to cook something for me. Where the hell could that punk be? I couldn’t really get on his case, though. He had done my taxes way before the deadline and had gotten me a pretty big refund.

  I jogged over to Market Street by the Manhattan Bridge overpass. There’s a restaurant there that I like with no English name that’s built into the southern trestle. Outside, crumpled paper and soot collects around the doorframe. Inside, the low rumble of traffic feels comforting, as if you were in a hidden chamber behind a waterfall. The sun never made it in, but at around 2000 the streetlamps would shine into the windows and everything inside would turn yellow. It was nice.

  The three square tables in the tiny dining room had uneven legs. You had to eat with your elbows on the table or slip a folded newspaper down there to even things out.

  Tourists weren’t welcome or even tolerated. The only English in the joint was the “Thank You” printed at the bottom of your check. There weren’t any menus, only a list of a few dishes written in marker taped to the walls and the front windows. They might also have some specials that your waiter might tell you about if you didn’t piss him off.

  I climbed the three uneven concrete steps into the restaurant and slouched into a chair by the doorway to the kitchen. My watch said 2012. Chi, the cook whose apron had given me nightmares, came out looking mad. Then he saw me and smiled.

  “Oh, it’s you, Officer Chow! When I heard the door, I thought those foreign Chinese had come back.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. He came over and put a dented metal pot of hot tea in front of me. A few seconds later, he slid a scratched ceramic cup by the pot.

  “Hah, a group of foreign Chinese came in with their devil friends, acting like they owned this place. They couldn’t even speak Chinese.”

  “What’s so bad about not speaking Chinese? A lot of the kids don’t learn Chinese these days.”

  “It’s disrespectful to our people. When they look in the mirror, do they see an American or a Chinese? Who do they think they are? Also, they were making fun of me to their devil friends.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I know when people are laughing at me.” Chi crossed his arms.

  “But you should take it as a compliment that they want to eat your food. At least they like genuine Chinese food.”

  “I made them go across the street, down to Long Life Noodles.” That noodle place had become hot after it had been reviewed in the New York Times. It had been praised for being authentic while accommodating the Western palate. But the menu priced out anyone who actually lived or worked in Chinatown.

  “They’re making a lot of money over there,” I said, pointing out the window. A line of tourists snaked out from the stone lion in front of Long Life Noodles — even though the dinner rush was long over.

  “Their food, that’s what those foreign Chinese deserve. They don’t deserve to eat here. They can eat that garbage.”

  “It got reviewed in the Times. It must be pretty good.” That made Chi mad.

  “Those motherfuckers don’t know what Chinese food is supposed to be like. Let me tell you something, officer. These recipes I use were developed by cooks on the battlefield who fed hundreds of thousands of soldiers. For most of those men, it was their last meal. You know how many millions of Chinese died over the centuries eating the same food? Do those foreign Chinese think they’re better than those soldiers?”

  I didn’t say anything because this was obviously a burning issue for Chi, even though I didn’t buy the storyline. I poured some tea and nodded my head.

  He went on, “Some people don’t have respect for all those men who died.” He went over to the front window and lifted a piece of paper that had “snakehead fish” written on it to get a better view of Long Life Noodles. “Some people are whores, and their parents are whores,” he muttered. “Their grandparents are whores, too. That stupid fake-Chinese restaurant even uses broccoli!” Then he crossed his arms and spat in the corner.

  “Say, can I get the beef tendons and snow-pea sprouts?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I got some of that,” he said and moved reluctantly into the kitchen. From the back he yelled out, “Hey do you want some congealed pig blood? It’s fresh and there’s lots of iron in it. Good for you!”

  “No, not today,” I yelled back.

  In a little bit, a bowl of rice came out with plates of translucent strips of flesh and sautéed sprouts.

  He sat down at the table with me.

  “You’re not closing soon, are you?” I asked. He waved his hands.

  “No just taking a break. When the late shift is over at the garment factories, more people are going to come in. How’re the sprouts?”

  “Pretty good, very fresh.”


  “Not too much sand is there? It’s tough to wash out.”

  “It’s good. Real good. Very clean.”

  “How come you never come in with the black man anymore?”

  “We used to be partners, but we got split up. Actually, he just got promoted.”

  “I like him. He’s always very respectful of Chinese culture. Very quiet. Much better than the foreign Chinese. I see him in the park playing chess with the midget, too.”

  “He’s getting better, too. Someday, he might be the first person to beat the midget.”

  Chi laughed and then folded the bottom of his apron over.

  “So officer,” he said. “Tell me what you’re working on now. What kind of cases are you investigating?”

  “Nothing. No cases. I’m not a detective,” I said. I pushed my elbows onto the table and leaned on them. “I’m just the face the police send around the neighborhood for public relations.”

  “Ha! I heard you were looking into the old woman who died. I heard it was food poisoning.”

  “It wasn’t my case, and it’s closed, anyway.”

  “What do you mean, not your case? Aren’t you a policeman?”

  “It’s not my area.”

  “Chinese people aren’t your area? Then why are you here?”

  I didn’t know if he meant in his restaurant, in Chinatown, or on the planet. I just kept eating.

  Chapter 13

  Thursday night I came in and found Paul sitting on the couch, his face in his hands.

  “Come on, it can’t be that bad, champ,” I said. I was holding a paper bag with a Hungry Man dinner in it, and I was the hungry man — too hungry to risk coming home with nothing if Paul wasn’t there to cook for me. I wanted to pop it into the oven right away, but I felt that I had to cheer up Paul first.

  “Paul, I would’ve brought some ice cream if I knew you were having it tough. Girl let you down?”

  Paul raised his head. He was squeezing his nose shut with his two hands. There was dried blood on his neck. One eye was swollen. He wiped his upper lip, checking for blood. There was a dark band on his forehead that looked like it had been made by a crowbar.

  “Who the fuck did this?” I said.

  “Couple of guys,” he said. It didn’t sound like any teeth were missing.

  “Tell me who they were!”

  “You don’t know them.”

  “Why’d they do this?”

  “Because of you.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Some of my old friends jumped me because they thought I’d given them up to you. Cops were taking Polaroids of them while they were playing handball in the park. They said Vandyne was one of the cops.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with that. That’s the detective bureau. They’re trying to keep track of juvenile delinquents.” Problem was, all the bad apples looked like all the other kids. You couldn’t tell by the way they dressed or how they acted.

  “They didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

  “Look what they did to you! Nice friends there, Paul.”

  “This isn’t too bad. Anyway, I think they’ll leave me alone now.”

  “How do you know they won’t come after you again?”

  “They have other things to do.”

  “Lemme show you something,” I said. I ripped a small piece of cardboard from an empty box of corn flakes I’d been meaning to throw out. I folded it into a tiny wad. “Put this between your teeth and your top lip and press down on it. It blocks the blood vessels to the nose.”

  “I’m not putting that thing in my mouth. They teach us in school to squeeze our nose shut.”

  “This works in combat conditions,” I said. He took the cardboard and stuck it under his lip. “You get bloody noses in school a lot?”

  “You gave me the last one,” Paul said glumly.

  “I’m sorry. That was before we were friends.”

  He shifted the other hand onto his nose. “We’re friends?”

  “Sure we are.”

  “Then let me tell you something. I hate being smart.”

  “What?”

  “I hate being smart! I fucking hate it!”

  “You’re lucky, Paul! You know how many people are born stupid?”

  “I wish I were stupid. And strong. Smart doesn’t mean anything here.”

  “Paul, you can go to college and really make something of yourself.”

  “How am I going to pay the tuition? I’m going to end up at some stupid community college like Lonnie!”

  “Don’t call it stupid! A lot of really great people went through community college!”

  “You didn’t even go to college, right?”

  “I was too stupid to go to college. I ended up getting drafted.”

  “How did you get stuck in Chinatown?”

  “I’m not stuck in Chinatown!”

  “If you had a choice, you wouldn’t be here, would you?

  If you weren’t a cop and you had money and a good job, you’d be living uptown. You’d only come in for dim sum on the weekends.”

  “Aw, bullshit, man!”

  “Did you choose Chinatown, or were you assigned here?”

  “I was assigned. You can’t choose where you want to go.”

  “Out of all the precincts in the city, why were you assigned to the one with one of the lowest rates of crime? Because you’re Chinese. The police are using you as a token yellow face.”

  The kid had taken potshots at me before, but now, saying it straight out without trying to give me grief, he had put it to me hard. It took me a little while to think of something to say.

  “If I wasn’t here, where would you be, Paul? Out on the street, that’s where. Maybe even dead.”

  Paul took his hand away from his nose.

  “I wish I were dead,” he said. Paul tried breathing through his nose a little to see if the blood flow had stopped.

  “You’re talking stupid, you know that? You get straight A’s in school and you wish were dead. You’re young and smart. You know how many people would love to switch places with you?”

  “So I should be happy I’m alive?”

  “You’re damn right.”

  “What’s so good about living in Chinatown?”

  “It’s not the greatest place in the world, all right? But you’re here for the short term, so make the best of it for now. Take a lesson from your elders. Old people are happy here because they don’t have to go more than a few blocks for food, groceries, laundry, or the park.”

  “What if you’re not old?”

  “Well, then you got the library, you can do more reading. There’s going to be another mural painting this summer. You can do that. You know that Bruce Lee mural by the N and R stop?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They did that a few years ago, isn’t that cool?”

  Paul sat back a little bit and crossed his arms. “You yourself ended up in a gang because there was nothing to do here,” he said.

  “It was different back then, Paul. Kids weren’t popping each other.”

  “Nothing really matters if I can’t get out, anyway,” he muttered to the floor.

  “You hungry, Paul?”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t cook anything. I couldn’t get my nose to stop bleeding.”

  “That’s all right, I wasn’t counting on it. I already ate. I brought this Hungry Man dinner for you.”

  For the first time, his face brightened. “Really? I’ve never had a TV dinner before.”

  “It’s the best one, the fried-chicken one. Lemme stick it in the oven for you.”

  “Wait for my nose to dry.”

  “I’m gonna do it now. It takes like 45 minutes to bake.” I set the oven, ripped the entire foil top off the dinner, and put it in. “I’m going to take a shower now, you need the bathroom?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  I went into the bedroom, opened my sock drawer, and found two bottles of Bud near the back. I drank the warm beer as fas
t as I could and then I hid the empty bottles back in with my socks.

  —

  The next day, I saw Vandyne hanging out in the park, away from where the midget played games.

  “Let me ask you something, Vandyne.”

  “Go ahead. I ain’t stopping you.”

  “Paul tells me you were one of the guys taking pictures of kids on the handball court.”

  Vandyne rocked on his feet and took a deep breath.

  “You know I don’t like it, but there doesn’t seem to be an alternative.”

  “Where does the bureau file those pictures?”

  “We keep them in mug books for suspected Chinese gang youth. Only we’re not allowed to call them ‘mug books.’”

  “I think I’d call them a civil-rights violation.”

  “It’s necessary because of the system. When a lady in Chinatown gets her purse stolen, she doesn’t know how to describe the suspect sufficiently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She says it’s a short Chinese youth with black hair and black eyes. They all look like that. We can’t look for someone based on that. The police artists can’t do anything with that, and besides, they only know how to draw blacks and Hispanics.”

  “So basically, it’s okay to consider all the Chinese kids as suspects?”

  “It’s not okay, but it has to do.”

  “How would you feel if I was up in Harlem taking pictures of black kids?”

  “That’s been going on, partner. We’re talking years.”

  I looked out across the park. Nothing was happening.

  “Look, Chow. You think I don’t know what the average Chinese person thinks about me and my people?”

  “You know what the average black thinks about Chinese people?”

  “Well, get this. I had a toothache — this was while you and I were partners. I didn’t tell you about this, because I didn’t want you to think I was accusing you indirectly. But anyway, I went into this Chinese pharmacy, thinking I could get some relief. I’m looking through the oral-care section, and what did I find? A tube of toothpaste called ‘Darkie.’”

  That was the one thing in Chinatown that I had hoped Vandyne would never find.