by Henry Chang
He wasn't expecting Mona's.
Paradise
The Tropicali set sail from Seattle on October 17th, bound for Maui. She was under Liberian registry, was six-hundred-sixty-feet long, could accommodate a thousand passengers and still cruise three days through the North Pacific at twenty knots. The Tropicali had four passenger decks, three swimming pools, two dancefloors, a stage, a discotheque, and eight bars. There was a shopping mall and a beauty shop called the South Seas Salon. The decks were named Verandah, Empress, Riviera, Lido Promenade.
Mona had booked a cabin on the Empress level, two decks above the Lido Promenade where the gambling casino and bar were located. She occupied a corner unit of the deck just above the stairwell to the beauty salon. Away from the masses, but close enough to the exits. On Empress, she was surrounded by a cruise group of Japanese office ladies. Good enough cover, she hoped.
Crossing the vast blue Pacific, she'd gotten rid of the black clothes, gone to the beauty salon and had her hair cut shorter in a mannish style, streaked it with amber. She wore dark red lipstick. At Maui she went ashore and bought hand-dyed silks and batik clothing, the better to blend into the cruise milieu. Except for the bursar, and the room attendant, no one would suspect she was traveling alone.
In Hilo she lounged alone on the Lido Patio deck, the ship having emptied, all other passengers having gone ashore. Lush rainforest beckoned in the distance, emerald gorges slashing into cliffs of black lava. White coral coastline against the weathered browns, reds, and blues of buildings. Escape to paradise, she mused.
Kona drifted past, beneath the heady aroma of ginger blossoms, blankets of sugarcane. Then Nawiliwili. Kauai faded into the panorama of Oahu, banana farms and pineapple plantations sweeping down almost to the sea. Exotic flowers in deep sculpted valleys thick with mango, pomelo, lychee trees. She pressed the jade ornament into her palm. Changes, the jade whispered, changing.
When the Tropicali docked in Honolulu, she visited the Kwan Yin Temple in Chinatown, her shape lost within the flowing Hawaiian shirt, her face hidden behind sunglasses under a floppy straw hat. She offered flowers and oranges, burned incense as she whispered a prayer for forgiveness.
Stone
Johnny sat opposite Jack in the interrogation room at Rikers. He stared straight ahead with vacant eyes and spoke with a dead man's voice.
"She said," he began, "the old bastard had found out about us, that he had put out a contract on me. I had to leave town right away. She was going to leave later, meet up with me in Los Angeles. She said she was expecting some deal to happen. We were going to be partners, do something outside Chinatown. Maybe go up to Vancouver. Something."
Jack pushed the microphone closer. "Speak up," he said.
Johnny smirked. "I took the bus, three days to Los Angeles. I found out they killed Gee Man near my car."
"Who killed Gee Man?"
"You know who."
"You mean the Hip Chings?"
Johnny nodded silently, glanced at Jack making a notation in his pad. He said, "It was meant for me, you know." He took a breath, then spat out the words. "`Stay at the Holiday Inn,' she said. `Rent a car and come up north on Highway One.' She called me in L.A. and gave me directions. All along she set me up. Yeah, my prints are on the clip, but I didn't do the killing."
Jack watched him go distant.
"I just got her the gun. I showed her how it worked. I loaded it. That's how my prints got on it. And she set me up. She sent me running before the old man could get to me. The fuckin bitch. I'm innocent."
Gratitude
Captain Marino stood behind the big desk, said, "Way I see it, you went to San Francisco on your own time, while suspended. And brought back a dead illegal and the Uncle's killer."
He came around the desk.
"You got a box in the mail with the murder weapon inside. Who it's from, you don't know. And then there's the Uncle's girlfriend who got away."
He stood next to Jack now. "That sound right so far?"
Jack nodded into the Italian stare.
Captain Marino said, "Personally, I think you got a raw deal with Internal Affairs. I know, makes you wonder about being a cop. But for what it's worth, I think you did a good job." He shook his white-haired head. "Not easy being a cop these days."
Jack nodded again and left the big office, weighted down uneasily with the captain's gratitude.
Patience
It was almost eleven when the old men arrived quietly at the Hip Ching meeting hall, about the usual time of morning when they would normally be enjoying dim sum, snacks, and taking yum cha, tea, with the fragrance of oolong or chrysanthemum drifting above the round table in the back of the Joy Luck tea parlor.
The Hip Ching tong elders all knew about their leader's mistress, the one called Mona, the Hong Kong slut, the one they never mentioned for fear of causing him loss of face. Now they were faced with a dilemma. They'd discovered that money was missing, a hundred thousand dollars, from their benevolent community services account at the New Eastern Bank. It had been withdrawn, signed out in the Big Uncle's hand, four days before his untimely demise.
Now the loss of face was theirs. The free congee breakfast at the Senior Citizen's Center they sponsored would be affected, and they would have to cut back the supply of Similac formula and flu shots to the Children's Health Clinic. There would be no more elaborate Chinese NewYear's banquets.
Perhaps they could pay it off with money from other accounts, like the secret fund for free coffee and cakes at their daytime mahjong parlors? But quickly enough their words came back to the murder and the missing money. It had been all too clean and clever and they did not believe that the see gay to, lowly car driver, was smart enough to have pulled it off. Not without help, anyway. Now they needed his help to find the mistress. Find her, find the money, and wash the whole affair. They needed to show the driver something, in good faith, for his cooperation, even from the small jail cell he was in.
San Francisco, after all, was just another Chinatown away, and with the Chinese world so small nowadays, how far could she have gotten? Not so far that their tentacles could not reach her.
Counselor
The white lawyer with the blue shark eyes and the easy suntan walked in wearing a Burburry raincoat, gripping a silver Hal- iburton briefcase like it was a fashion accessory. Captain Marino remembered him from past encounters. Sheldon Littman, celebrity lawyer, who'd gotten an acquittal for master-of-the-universe broker Robert Cox, in the "rough-sex "killing ofJane Levsky. Reasonable doubt was the name of his game.
"Shelly Littman," the captain said, deadpan. "That's impressive for a car jockey, Shelly. How can he afford an expensive suit like you?" "Couldn't be the Hip Ching paying, could it?" asked Jack.
The lawyer dismissed Jack with a glance and a smirk. "'C'hat, gentlemen, is none of your business. I'm here to confirm his pretrial deposition testimony, taken by the Legal Aid lawyer, with the good detective here, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't cast aspersions on anyone who might be involved in this case."
"Aspersions?' chuckled the captain. "I like that, Shelly. I gotta get a new thesaurus. So, okay, we won't say bad things about the lowlife player who got dragged in here for killing an old-time low-life bloodsucker." He gave Jack a wink. "He's all yours, counselor."
Littman coughed to clear his throat, then started. "Okay, Detective. You track my client all the way across the country, while you're on suspension, because some woman, you claim, called you on the phone and told you Mr. Wong's the killer, here he is, come and get him?"
"It wasn't that simple," Jack answered.
"Of course not, Detective, it never is, is it? Okay, and then, you receive, via UPS, from someone unknown, according to you, a weapon with an attachment of some kind, supposedly used to kill someone." He shook his head like he'd just recited a fairy tale to a three-year-old. Jack nodded in agreement. "And why does this "alleged informant" call you? Detective, do you have some personal interest in this case?"
<
br /> "I'm interested in seeing justice done," Jack answered coldly.
"You see where I'm going with this, Detective? Even if the judge doesn't grant Mr. Wong bail, there's enough doubt here that no jury will convict him."
"Well, that remains to be seen. Johnny Wong's prints are on the murder weapon. At the very least, he's an accomplice."
"Yeah, Tight. See you in court." Littman left the captain's door open as he walked out, not bothering to look back.
Captain Mario said to Jack, "What do you think?"
Jack looked off into the distance. "The woman who took a pot shot at me in San Francisco? She's definitely involved. This guy, Johnny Wong, maybe he's dumb enough to be a fall guy, or maybe he's really in deep. But he's a flight risk, and no judge is going to grant him bail and let him walk, not with his prints on the piece."
His eyes focused, came back into the room and settled on the captain. "I'm willing to bet that the old men on Pell Street are paying for Littman because they're sniffing at something in the wind. They need Johnny's help to figure out what happened and they're buying time."
There was a brief silence. Then Jack said, "If Johnny's not the shooter, then it's the woman. Give the Hip Ching a couple of weeks and see what they turn up."
"What makes you think they can find out what you can't?" the captain asked.
"Chinatown doesn't end at Delancey Street, Captain. It stretches to Hong Kong, and Taiwan, and China. It reaches out to Chinese settlements everywhere. Sooner or later, there won't be enough space in the yellow world for a pretty Chinese woman to hide."
Marino frowned.
"At any rate," Jack finished, "Wong's arrest takes the pressure off us. And headquarters, too."
"Keep me posted," Marino said.
Jack went down the creaky stairs to the street. Night rain began to fall. He was off duty now and thirsty. He headed toward the Golden Star bar.
He'd talked a good game, but he was uneasy. He didn't see Johnny for the perpetrator, yet keeping him in custody was necessary. The longer he was incarcerated, the more pressure would build up. The longer it took to bring him to trial, the more time the Hip Ching would have to conduct their own investigation. If Mona was guilty, they had the best chance of scouring the world to find her. And then, eventually, the old men from Pell Street would produce evidence givingJohnny an alibi; witnesses would suddenly come forward with dated racetrack tickets, or cancelled passes to some Atlantic City concert featuring Hong Kong singers. They'd provide testimony as to Johnny's whereabouts at the crucial time that would be hard to disprove, that would be just believable enough to sway a jury, and the DA would decide to quash the indictment. The press was another matter, especially the Chinese press. While Johnny was in custody, the media feeding frenzy would abate. For the mainstream newspapers, the case would quickly fade, become just another seedy Chinatown killing. In the Chinese-language press, the left-wing journals would cheer for Johnny. The right-wing conservative papers would like Johnny lynched, but they would never mention Big Uncle's mistress. By the time the case resurfaced-with Littman for the defense playing for delay Jack knew he'd be in a new precinct and out of the spotlight.
Finally, he reached the bar. The sounds of jukebox music spilled out of the door as he came through it, out of the cold rainy night.
Yellow Badge
At One Police Plaza the auditorium was packed with cop families, police cadets and veterans creating a proud field of deep NYPD blue. The Emerald Pipers band wailed, then applause punctuated the presentation of awards.
Jack stood on the stage in his neatly pressed blue uniform, before the mayor, the commissioner and an array of department brass, all applauding as the deputy chief pinned the Combat Cross above the gold badge over Jack's heart. It had taken him two shootouts to earn the little green-lacquered stripe with a cross in the middle, plus a promotion to Detective Third Grade, a step up in rank that carried a pay raise. The Internal Affairs investigation had been quashed.
When he looked out over the auditorium, Jack felt exhilarated yet sad. There was no family in the audience waiting for him.
He thought of Pa, and how proud he might have been. Maybe.
Black Widow
By Thanksgiving, Widow Tam ceased to wear all black when she appeared in public, but kept the mask of grief on her face. At home, alone in the dark living room overlooking Chinatown, she wore her red embroidered nightgown every night to bed, her head nestling into downy pillows, wrapped in the blood color of new luck.
She felt thankful.
Her happiness had been completed when the police arrested Jun Yee Wong for her husband's murder and she received the Full Benefit, US $200,000, from Universal Life. Opening the windows, she felt the bite of frost tumbling out of the north, and began to think of sunny places where she could escape the New York City winter.
Bak Baan
Jack celebrated alone, chasing a line of boilermakers at the Golden Star. When he'd had enough, he returned to the park. He'd finally tracked down Ali Por to the free clinic at the Old Age Center. She was strapped to a gurney and connected to an intravenous line, dehydrated and delirious. The nurse said she'd been there almost a week and that, although the fever was breaking, nothing the old woman said made any sense.
Jack reached out from his alcoholic haze and placed the bak baan, mahjong tile, in her veiny clutch.
Ali Por rolled her eyes at him, called him jai, son, and passed the tile from palm to palm. She said what sounded to Jack like panda sun, diamond sky, wind of salt water, and began to tremble.
The nurse took the tile, returned it to Jack, and told him to leave as Ali Por lapsed into unconsciousness.
In the street, Jack repeated Ah Por's phrases but could not squeeze any clarity from them. He wandered down Mott Street, spinning from the boilermakers, clueless.
Pa
Sleep came in snatches of blinking REMs, fitful tiny periods of rest in a night of tossing and disconnected dreams.
When Jack awoke, he found himself on the floor in the daylight of Pa's apartment.
The sun was high and bright, unusual for a day in late October. Sunlight streamed into the apartment, throwing thick slatshadows across the floor, along the walls.
Family, he thought, this is how it ends.
He saw the Hennessy carton on top of the green vinyl upholstered chair, the only item of furniture still remaining. He crossed the empty room and took the mao-tai gourd out of the carton.
Sanitation had come for the mattress and the broken wooden chairs. The bed frame and boxspring were still good, and he had given them to the Old Age Center, along with the wok and the table lamp. The leftover clothes he'd taken to the Goodwill guys down on Houston near the Bowery. He'd given the rest of the books and magazines to the Chinatown History Project.
He took a deep drink, felt the heat as it went down. The super had taken out the garbage thatJack had piled into one corner. And that was that. The new family was moving in next week and they needed to get the place painted. Jack took the last hit from the gourd, surprised by its bittersweet taste, the sudden sticky ooze around the opening against his lips. He held the gourd upside down, watching as dark tarlike mud dripped out. He rubbed some of the sediment between his fingers, took a sniff. Opium, he realized instantly. No wonder he had had troubled memories, flashbacks with the photographs, been tormented by fragmented pieces of living left behind. Was it Pa's opium? Or had it been left on purpose for hinl? He'd never know, but wasn't sure that it mattered.
He set the gourd down.
Only the Hennessy carton was left. Fifty years of a man's life in a cardboard box. There were photographs, many of people Jack didn't recognize. Canceled bankbooks, a passport, eyeglasses, a flashlight. A black beaver fedora labeled Bianchi icappelli di qualita.
Jack was keeping all these, his memorabilia. There was the porcelain Kwan Gung, an idol before which Jack could burn incense, bow, offer greetings, feel sorrow, hope. He'd miss Pa. Miss all the old ways he'd finally come t
o understand and respect.
Deeper in the box, a Social Security card, and Ma's Death Certificate, twenty years old. He tested the flashlight. It still worked.
He took the Hennessy carton and carried it out of the apartment. He carried it down the five flights of stairs, thinking how light it was, this box holding fifty years of living.
He stepped out into the bright sun and squinted down Mott Street. He paused for a long moment, let his eyes sweep over the streets, the neighborhood he'd grown up in, and was now leaving, yet again. Having been born into it, he'd been too close, and hadn't been able to see it clearly. Now, at long last, he did. Chinatown symbolized a bygone era, when the old Chinese bachelors were hemmed in by racist hate, denied their families, forced into doing women's work, to clean, to cook. The hate was still around, but the Chinese, no longer hemmed in, were free now to find their place in America.
Jack saw it clearly now: why Pa came-for opportunity, for himself, but more important, for his descendants, why he'd stayed until the day he died. And why all the tattered shreds of China that remained had been so dear to him. He'd lost so much of it that he couldn't bear to see it disappear from the single most important part of himself he had left, his only son. Jack had mistaken it for narrow-mindedness, but realized now it had been love.
Chinatown was a paradox, a Chinese puzzle he'd never been able to figure out.
Perhaps it's true, he thought, that one can never go back home, but then it was also true that a part of oneself always remains there, memories always with us in our hearts and minds.
The wind came up, blowing through his reverie.
