Mr. Kuen sat in one of the swivel chairs and favored the girls with a smile, about which the only genuine thing was the gold in three of the front teeth.
“An account, you said?” he inquired.
“Yes, Venerable Kuen. I have one hundred and ninety-two dollars.”
Mr. Kuen nodded and held out his hand. It was not a contemptible sum. Some of Mr. Kuen’s clients made that every week, others every two minutes. Mr. Kuen paid no interest on deposits, nor did he pay attention to the Internal Revenue Service or to the currency regulations of the United States of America. The house of Kuen had therefore many customers. He counted the bills and placed them in a desk drawer. Then he got out a cheap pad and a ballpoint pen. Passing them across the desk to Lucy, he said in Cantonese, “Write your name.”
Lucy wrote the character equivalent to the sound káp in Cantonese, which means grade or rank, and then the characters for old and poetry, or teacher, lòuhsì. Mr. Kuen took a ledger from the desk drawer, made a notation in a three-hundred-year-old code, wrote some characters on the pad, tore the slip off, and handed it over. Lucy tucked it away without impolitely studying it. She knew very well that it would be honored for $192 or its equivalent in goods in every Chinese community from Penang to Panama. After some ritual words expressing the honor that the house of Kuen realized from her patronage and Lucy’s declining of that honor, instead expressing the deep obligation she felt toward the house of Kuen (which was more nearly true), the girls left.
“Would you mind telling me what that was about?” Janice demanded.
“That guy at the med school is going to pay me big bucks, and I need a place to run my checks through without going through a regular bank.”
“Why don’t you just give them to your mom to cash?”
“Because I don’t want my mom to know.”
“What! Why not?” Janice was astounded. She could imagine having secrets from her mother, but not about money.
Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. Which was true; that was the problem.
Janice dropped the subject, and they walked out of Doyers and back the way they had come. They were just past Pell on Mott, weaving through the increasingly crowded streets, when Lucy picked up the tail.
“I want something to drink,” said Lucy suddenly, and grabbed Janice’s arm.
“A soda? We can get one—”
“No, I want tea, and food, I want to sit down.” So saying, she hustled her friend down the short flight of stairs to one of the street’s many tea and bun shops. The place was sparsely occupied, a couple of old people at the counter and a few at tables. It was not a tourist place. Lucy pushed Janice into a chair facing the mirrored wall at the rearmost table, and Lucy used the pay phone briefly. Then she sat down with her back to the wall, watching. A sullen waiter came over; without being asked, he placed a steel quart pot of fresh boiling tea in front of them and departed.
“Lucy, what’s going on? Why are we in this joint?”
“We’re being followed by a couple of ma jai. Here they come. For God’s sake, don’t look around. Speak in Cantonese and play along with whatever I say.”
The two ma jai, little horses, gang members, swaggered in and sat at the next table. They called out loudly for tea and steamed pastry. Both of them wore sunglasses and black shirts worn outside dark trousers and opened to the chest, showing bridal white T-shirts. One had a broad, pockmarked face, a beefy guy in his early twenties. His companion looked younger, a teenager, thin-faced and jumpy. Lucy could feel their eyes on her through their dark glasses. She poured tea, took a scalding sip, and said, in a noticeable voice,“. . . anyway, I’ll never do that again.” She gave Janice eye signals.
“Um, no, me neither,” said Janice haltingly.
“Damn it, I was wasted! How much did you drink?”
“Oh, a lot. Four cans.”
“Four! I had six, and Mary Ma had the same. We must have finished half a case. I completely lost track of time.”
From an early age Lucy Karp had been able to make up stories, precociously sophisticated ones about little girls who slipped between the cracks in reality, and expansions of traditional fairy tales, in which Cinderella, Tarzan, and the Wolfman would visit Mars to rescue Barbie. So she had no difficulty making up a yarn in which the three of them, Mary Ma, Janice Chen, and herself, had slipped away to the West Street docks, where the bad boys and the hustlers hung out (although not in the early afternoon, as a rule) and gotten drunk on beer, and become sick, and staggered back to the Asia Mall to find there (Surprise! Horror!) the uproar of the shootings. Once Janice saw where the theme was headed, she had no difficulty embellishing the plot with many an amusing detail. The gangsters were glowering and mumbling to each other, an ideal audience for this lie. Janice was growing more nervous by the second, however, and Lucy was not confident that her friend would keep up the fiction without letting out something harmful. Janice was not a liar in Lucy’s league. What was needed now was a graceful, or at least a plausible, exit.
Lucy found it after five tense minutes of stiff, false chatter. She pointed past the steamy window to the street. “Look,” she cried, “there’s Warren Wang. Oh, God, how do I look? Pay the bill! No, give me a mirror.”
“Warren Wang?” said Janice in an astonished voice, and received a sharp kick under the table.
“My boyfriend, you idiot,” said Lucy in English under her breath, and then louder in Cantonese, “Come on, Jen-dai, let’s catch up with him.” Lucy stood and, using the mirror Janice handed her (for she did not carry one herself ) pretended to primp, after which she attempted to mime the appearance of young love, in the style of Gidget reruns. The disgusting little squeals that issued from her throat rang absurdly false to her own ears, but she hoped they would convince a pair of Chinese nogoodniks just off the boat.
Warren Wang, an eighth grader with plump cheeks, thick spectacles and a bad haircut, a Spiderman devotee and the vice president of the math club, was a well-known dweeb, and to be considered a dweeb in a Chinese-American environment is to have achieved dweebness in its most refined form. That Janice Chen, the most beautiful girl in eighth grade, and Lucy Karp, the weirdest, might suddenly accost him on Mott Street in the light of day, gripping his arms and cooing, was not something he had ever expected outside the world of teenage boy dreams. He knew Mary Ma, another math club stalwart, and he knew that these two hung around with her, but heretofore he had only gazed at her two friends from a distance. Yet here was Lucy’s bony little hip pressing in on one side and Janice’s softer one on the other, their arms linked in his, the both of them chattering gaily, how you doing, Warren, want to go somewhere, Warren, listen to records, a movie? Warren had heard about dog dates, of course, and was well informed about the boundless and inventive cruelty of in-crowd girls. He stiffened, like a hen in the jaws of a fox, waiting for the punch line.
Lucy was in contrast feeling loose and on top of things. It was a Kim moment, combining as it did the yanking of wool over the eyes of vaguely defined malign forces and impressing her peers with her brilliance and mystery. And she was enjoying talking to this boy, something she hardly ever did, would never be caught dead doing as the grotesque beanpole Lucy Karp, but now, in the urgency of the situation, she was mobilizing Claudine as well as Kim, so the charm just gushed out, delightful dirty nonsense: “Warren, I know you’re interested in sexual perversions. Have you been to the new place on Broome that caters to Asian sadomasochists?”
Blushing giggles. “You’re the only perverted one here, Lucy,” said Janice.
“More than you know, my dear,” said Lucy, “although Warren could probably both teach us something, eh, Warren? Anyway there is one.”
“There is not. Don’t listen to her, Warren.”
“Yes, it’s called Thais That Bind,” said Lucy casually, at which Warren, who took an inordinate delight in puns (in English—any fool could pun in Chinese), cracked up and fell in love, in that order. Warren’s laughter infected the two gi
rls, and soon they were all three staggering against walls, clinging to each other, convulsed by the hysteria—so irritating to the adult world—that is peculiar to the adolescent psyche.
Lucy was not entirely lost in herself, however, and had been keeping an eye on the two ma jai. They were standing a half block away, conversing and glaring at the three kids through their dark glasses. They did not like that there was laughter going on, since there was at least a possibility that some of it was directed against them. As Lucy watched, they seemed to make a decision and started to move rapidly toward the group, pushing through the Mott Street crowds, who were quick to yield the way.
Lucy sobered instantly, grabbed the two other kids by their arms, and tugged them north on Mott Street. The two gangsters now pulled close enough to nearly tread on their heels and started to talk nasty.
“Look at the three girls,” said the thin one. “Which one do you want?”
Pockface said, “Only one girl has an ass worth fucking. One is too big and the other has none at all.”
And much worse as they moved up Mott and across Canal. Warren kept mumbling out of the side of his mouth, asking for an explanation: Why are these guys following you? Why don’t you call a cop? What’s going on? Where are we going? To all of which Lucy replied with soothing words and urged them all along west on the north side of Canal Street, nearly running, Warren pale and tripping over his feet, the thugs dancing around them, poking them, calling out the colorful obscenities with which Chinese is so plentifully supplied. They collected disapproving glances from the shoppers and merchants along the way, but no one interfered.
Lucy judged her distances and nudged Warren in the ribs.
“Warren, the Pearl River Market is coming up. When we get there, cut and run in. They won’t follow you.”
“No, I’ll stay with you,” said Warren, surprising both of them as the words came out. His glasses were misted with strenuous perspiration. Lucy frowned. She had never been gazed at with devotion before, and it made her cross.
“Warren, just go! It’s a plan. We’ll be all right. Now . . . run!” She shoved him away, and he vanished into the large Chinese food store. In the same motion she spun and shouted at the gangsters, “Gou pi! Cao ni ma bi!”
It took a second for the gangsters to understand that a skinny white girl had yelled at them, in public, “Dog fart! Fuck your mother’s pussy!” In that instant Lucy (and a split second later, Janice) were off like deer, the gangsters pursuing. So intent were they on the chase that they failed to notice when they crossed Baxter Street, which marks the border, in gangland, between China and Vietnam.
Halfway to the next street, Lucy slowed; Janice looked in panic over her shoulder to see what was wrong and discovered that the two ma jai had disappeared.
Gasping for breath, hands on her knees, Janice demanded, “What happened? Where are they?”
“Someplace they’d probably rather not be,” Lucy replied, gasping. “It’s okay, we’re cool now.”
At this Janice Chen, who had been holding herself in with great effort since Doyers Street, exploded.
“Cool? What the hell do you mean, cool? What are you doing to me? What’s happening? Who were those guys and what did they want? Where did they go? I swear, Lucy, I’ll strangle you if you ever pull anything like this again.” And more in the same vein, with the waterworks thrown in. Janice finally collapsed into a heap on the pavement, leaning against a wall. Lucy squatted next to her.
“They were trying to send you a message, Janice.”
“What? Who? What message?”
“Whoever shot those guys. They want your family to know they can pick you up whenever they want.”
“Why me? Why not you?”
“Because it’s your store, Janice. They might have figured that if somebody saw something, it was a family member. Remember how that guy looked up when Mary panicked? And nobody knows I was there. Which is good, because they won’t be keeping an eye on me and maybe I can find out what’s going—”
“Stop it!” Janice shrieked. “I can’t stand this mystery stuff like it was some game you’re amusing yourself with. It’s not TV, Lucy. It’s not one of your books.”
She stood up abruptly and brushed herself off. “I don’t want this to be happening. I just want to be a regular person and let other people worry about murders and shit.”
She looked so miserable standing there, weeping, that Lucy reached out to put an arm around her shoulder, but the other girl shrugged it away.
“No! Just leave us alone, huh? Just leave us alone!”
She ran off in the direction of the Asia Mall. Thus did Lucy learn what her mother well knew about the heroine business: that, unlike in books and movies, the people one saved were not always grateful. Rather the opposite, in fact.
It was part of Karp’s management style to appear unannounced at various bureau offices at the end of the day, to pick up the kind of gossip that would not ordinarily reach the ears of the D.A. and to generally spread the sort of terror without which prosecutorial organizations tend to get lazy and sloppy, as he had recently demonstrated in the case of People v. Ragosi. He stopped by the Felony Bureau, to find the Felony chief, Sullivan, gone for the day, amused himself by poking a few sticks into various anthills, and then went down the hall to Homicide.
Ray Guma was sprawled out on the green couch in the bureau chief’s office when Karp walked in, not dissuaded by Roland’s growled “Go away!” Guma was drinking from a giant container of coffee, and Karp could smell the bourbon in it from the doorway. It was known that Guma often softened the day with a snort after the Supreme Court judges had gone home, which they all liked to do around four, and the place reverted to its natural proprietors. No one begrudged Guma this frailty. He had not been known to appear drunk and incapable in court (drunk, yes; incapable, never) and besides, he was from another age, which the younger men, reared on the movies of that epoch, suspected was tougher, cleaner, and supported a nobler masculinity than their own deplorable era.
“What can I do for you, Butch?” asked Roland, smiling like a haberdashery salesman.
Karp smiled back and took one of Roland’s side chairs. “Nothing, Roland, I just wanted to tell you guys again how much I enjoyed the performance up in Jack’s conference room the other day. Did you rehearse that, or was it improvised?”
“He asked for it,” said Roland dismissively. “Guy’s full of shit anyway. When was the last time Rackets won a case? I don’t mean bookies and that crap. He’s just trying to horn in on my murder, like I’m going to deal him in.”
“Meanwhile, you got shit on the case. Guma? What’s the good word among the wise guys this week?”
Guma said, “The prairie dog sends signals to the hawk.”
The other two men stared at him. “Goom, put away that coffee, for now,” said Roland.
“The prairie dog sends signals to the hawk,” Guma repeated with emphasis. “The hawk’s trying to eat him, and he’s sending up signals, help the hawk out a little. It’s amazing.”
“That’s it,” said Roland, “I’m calling 911. It’s time for the rubber room.”
“What’re you talking about, Guma?” Karp asked.
“Prairie dogs. They live in these burrows, and they come out to feed on the ground. And the hawk flies over them, he’s figuring one of the prairie dogs might not spot him up there in the sky, he dives and bang! Lunch. If he figures right, if the little guys don’t really see him, he’ll nail the dog before it gets into the hole. If not, no payoff. The bird has to fly up there again and start over. The only thing is, the hawk can’t make too many mistakes, he’ll knock himself out, maybe he’ll starve, or his chicks’ll starve. So—and here’s the funny thing—the prairie dog knows this; so if it spots a hawk up there, it’ll like make a little nod of its head. The hawk sees this, it doesn’t dive on that prairie dog, doesn’t waste the effort.”
The two other men exchanged looks. Roland said, “Guma, what the fuck are you talkin
g about?”
Guma ignored this and continued, his voice low and gravelly; Karp listened, fascinated. This was a different Guma. “So you have to ask, what’s in it for the prairie dog? What the fuck does he care about some hawk, the hawk spends the day whacking his pals? Hey, but it’s dog eat dog out there. So to speak. The prairie dogs are competing for turf, I mean real turf, ’cause they eat grass, bushes, whatever. So the dog figures, the hawk’s gotta eat somebody, let him eat the guy who’s a little slower than me, doesn’t look around enough, too busy stuffing his face to check out the sky. I’ll help him out, no skin off my ass, and plus, there’ll be more leaves and shit for me.”
He took a long swig from his cup and was silent.
Roland said, “That was good, Guma. It’s always nice to learn something about the world we live in. Now, would you please get the fuck out of here and sleep it off!”
Karp said, “No, Roland, Guma had a point, didn’t you, Goom?”
“The point is,” said Guma slowly, “the point is, things are not always like they seem. You gotta have all the connections or it don’t make sense, like the prairie dog tipping off the hawk. And we don’t.”
“You’re talking about Catalano, right?” asked Karp.
Guma gave him a long, bloodshot stare. “Of course, what the fuck else’re we talking about? Like I said before, this is a family thing, it’s got fuck all to do with the grand jury.”
“So what’s going on in the family?” Karp asked.
“Wait a minute,” said Roland. “I want to know where you got all that shit about the prairie dogs. I thought you were a sports and pussy man.”
“I am, Roland,” said Guma with grave dignity. “But man does not live by sports and pussy alone. For your information, I got it off a PBS program.”
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