Year of the Dragon

by Robert Daley

  She heard the lines they spoke, and foresaw the result. Their roles were poorly acted and had been poorly written in the first place. As they moved into it, the crowd became amorphous. The cops sank in like blows into dough. They intimidated no one. Tonight’s play had at least one more act to run, and the crowd was eager to see how it ended. The crowd was single-minded. Recognizing this quickly - that the crowd was more disciplined than they were - the cops recognized also their own failure, and since there were no commanders urging them into the breach against such hopeless odds, their bullying ceased. They pretended to become nonchalant. They attempted to make jokes, and even friends. They accepted the status quo, and so did the crowd.

  The doors to the Golden Palace sprang back once more, and Chief of Detectives Cirillo strode forth accompanied by Chief of Patrol Duncan. Cirillo was short and fat. Gray hair. Gray suit. He was chewing on a cigar. Carol did not know him. Duncan, who wore braid on his cap and three stars on each epaulet, was a man of commanding presence and ramrod-straight posture. When in civilian clothes he was often taken not for a policeman but for a general. Carol did not know Duncan either.

  But the news crews, recognizing both officers, grasped immediately what their appearance meant.

  Press Conference.

  The outlying citizens only pressed more firmly against the barricades, leaned more perilously out of windows, but the crowds of news crews converged. Truth was to be dispensed, and they wanted some. They sprinted for position, fought for it. Encountering resistance they shouldered forward. Elbows flailed. Gear flailed. Women’s handbags flailed. It was as rough as a cavalry charge. It was punctuated not by bugles but by curses. Like many searches after the truth, this one was not pretty.

  Cirillo and Duncan, one step up on the stoop, were responsible for what was happening. They had willed it to happen for they wanted to shine, and this was their moment. Yet they pretended indifference. They were superior to the moment and to the scuffling news crews as well, and wore half-repressed half-smiles to prove it. They were as smug as film stars. While microphones were lashed into place in front of them, they made whispered sardonic comments to each other. They made each other chuckle. Many among the newsmen recognized this for the arrogance it was, and hated the two men for it. As they set up their gear hatred and need vied for the upper hand. Need, as always, won. Hatred was a luxury, and would have to wait.

  The press conference began.

  Chief of Detectives Cirillo read from notes in his hand: “At approximately 2100 hours this date, two as yet unidentified Asians-”

  Cirillo and Duncan were the same age, and had moved upwards in rank concurrently, one in the detective division and the other in patrol. These were parallel rather than competitive courses. For more than twenty years, principally because they had not been rivals, they had imagined themselves friends. At the next stage of their careers, if there was a next stage, they would collide, for there was only one four-star chief on top of them, and on top of him only one police commissioner. Lately, because the chief of detectives had by far the more dramatic and therefore more visible job, Duncan had been reluctant to let Cirillo out of his sight. The chief of detectives could get press attention any time he wished to announce that a major crime had been committed or solved. In the first instance Cirillo would be showing off his deep concern and in the second he would reap his detectives’ glory. In both cases he would reap the publicity. Duncan, who had no such access to the press, was like a runner who risked being lapped. He could not afford to let it happen. Therefore on nights like this when the mayor remained in his mansion and the police commissioner chose not to appear (both fearing no doubt to be identified in the public mind as messengers of bad tidings) Duncan had taken to standing always at Cirillo’s side. Duncan could not worry about bad tidings. To him bad tidings meant not to be there at all. As for the sardonic Cirillo, he was an expert in black humor and when microphones were present knew how to present catastrophe in an amusing manner.

  In other words, both men had resolved to exploit press conferences, the only terrain available to them, as much as possible. If there was tension between them it did not yet show. When they looked at each other, both still smiled.

  Tonight’s plan was for Cirillo to describe the crime and for Duncan in his turn to identify the casualties. It was a reasonable, workable plan but it was foiled by Captain Powers, who came out the door behind them and attempted to sneak away unnoticed. Since Powers, though only a captain, was better known than the two chiefs, and was the hero of the evening as well, the news crews abandoned Cirillo in mid-sentence, and the still mute Duncan as well, and surged off to the side to surround Powers. They pinned him to the wall.

  “Captain Powers, can you give us a statement?”

  “Captain Powers, can we ask you a few questions?”

  Powers, blinking from the glare, threw a glance back at Cirillo and Duncan. They were watching him, and they did not look friendly. “Chief Cirillo and Chief Duncan have all the facts,” said Powers.

  Hand microphones were being thrust into his face. He kept glancing from the microphones to the two chiefs and back again.

  Reporters continued to clamor.

  “We understand you were in a gun battle with them out here in the street.”

  “We have a report that you shot one of the gunmen.”

  “You’ll have to see Chief Duncan-”

  “Did you hit him?” asked Carol.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get the make and license number of the car?” asked Carol.

  For a moment Powers eyed her. “Yes. Chief Duncan will-”

  Though Carol lapsed into silence, the clamor continued.

  “Duncan only got here an hour ago.”

  “Be reasonable, Captain Powers. You were an eyewitness. You were in the shootout.”

  “There was no shootout,” said Powers.

  “You’re the one we want to talk to.”

  Powers again glanced over at Duncan and Cirillo. It was so dark over there - in contrast to the lights he had been staring into - that he could barely see them. But he could tell they were glaring at him. After a moment he moved in their direction, stepped up onto the stoop beside them, and then, when voices below insisted on it, stepped between them. He took center stage. The two three-star chiefs flanked him.

  “Your public awaits you, Powers,” muttered Duncan.

  “Mustn’t disappoint your public, must we, Powers,” said Cirillo.

  Powers was aware of Duncan beside him grimly folding his notes, and he was aware of Carol in the crowd holding her microphone outstretched as close to his mouth as she could reach. He was more aware of Carol than of the chiefs. He was aware of her raincoat which he carried in his clenched fist, having first folded it over several times so that it might pass for his own; and he saw her eyes go to the raincoat also. Since he could not give it to her in front of all these people, he was forced to keep it, which transformed it from a raincoat into a hostage. It would be tomorrow at the earliest before she could ransom it back. She would have to phone him to open negotiations.

  “All right,” said Powers to the newsmen, “what did you want to know?”

  THE PHONE rang louder than the sirens outside. Though the proprietor of the Flowering Virtue Funeral Parlor had been half expecting it, it made him jump. He had been checking over ledgers at his desk, the safe open behind him. He had ignored the sirens but could not ignore this. He took the call. After listening a moment, he spoke only two words into the mouthpiece, then hung up, and stood up.

  He was big for a Chinese, almost six feet tall; in the villages of Kwangtung Province where he was born he would have seemed a giant. His name was Koi Tse-ven but he went by the name Jimmy Koy. It was difficult to guess his exact age because he affected smoked glasses even at night. He was wearing them now and they turned his normally impassive face into something totally inscrutable. But his hair was still black, as was his mustache, so he was probably in his mid-forties. He had
very white teeth but rarely showed them. He rarely smiled, and when he did it was usually, in the manner of the Chinese, behind his hand.

  Moving without haste, he put the ledgers into one side of the safe, and withdrew a small package from the other, then swung the door shut, spun the dial, and rang for Chang in the basement mortuary. But Chang did not respond, and Koy found him, as he had expected, on the outside stoop peering up the street at the commotion in front of the Golden Palace.

  “Something’s happened,” said Chang. “I heard the sirens.”

  “What else did you hear?” asked Koy. “Did you hear shots?”

  “I heard no shots. Why, did you hear shots?”

  “No,” said Koy. “There’s a package on my desk. Put it in your bag. We’ll take the hearse. We have work to do.”

  “What do you think happened?” Chang was still peering up the street.

  “Every day there are seven Chinese newspapers published in Chinatown,” said Koy. “Tomorrow morning you buy one and read about it. Get your bag.”

  Koy, waiting, stood under the canopy. The rain was coming down. People were hurrying past him along both sidewalks. Every restaurant and curio shop in Chinatown must be emptying out as the news spread. In front of the Golden Palace, three blocks ahead, the entire street was choked with traffic. He saw that a number of police cars had been abandoned on sidewalks up there, red dome lights still turning. From this distance, seen through the rain, the lights looked orange, and they stained the walls of the buildings orange all around.

  “That’s auspicious,” said Chang, who had come back out. He stood beside Koy, clutching his medical bag. Chang spoke in Cantonese dialect, his only language. If you wanted to converse with Chang, that’s what you spoke.

  “What’s auspicious?”

  “Orange means good luck. Orange is always a good omen. With an omen like that nothing bad can happen to us tonight.”

  “I see,” said Koy.

  “Of course real oranges are best.”

  They got into the hearse, Chang driving, the medical bag on the seat between them, Chang prattling about omens, demons, evil spirits. Good omens, as everybody knew, protected only Chinese people, Chang said. He gestured toward the tourists flocking toward the Golden Palace. These white demons and demonesses, would not be protected, he said.

  Koy, preoccupied, scarcely listened. Many Chinese still believed such nonsense. Half the businessmen in Chinatown bought and sold according to omens. Women consulted horoscopes before setting a date to wash their hair. Major decisions were made only on auspicious days and astrologers were consulted first - a number of these charlatans still did a brisk business in Chinatown. Superstition, when dealing with the Chinese, was not a variable but a predictable, Koy knew. One factored it in.

  They crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, and on the Expressway headed north toward Queens. Presently they were driving down dark residential streets. There were trees on both sides, no oncoming traffic, and Chang began weaving from one side to the other.

  “Stop that,” ordered Koy sharply.

  “Just a precaution,” explained Chang. Possibly they had picked up evil spirits before leaving Chinatown. If so, Chang had just shaken them off. “Evil spirits can move only in straight lines,” he said.

  “I didn’t know that,” said Koy. Chang was a distant cousin who came from the same ancestral village as Koy. Chinese loyalties were rigidly prescribed; family first and then co-villagers, and family alone was usually a burden and often an albatross. The Chinese albatross, Koy thought: family.

  Two blocks from the house Koy ordered Chang to pull over and park, and they walked the rest of the way. The risk began now, and Koy watched carefully for activity in lighted windows or for men seated in parked cars - anything that could constitute police surveillance. But he noted nothing. He was not worried about being conspicuous on the street. This neighborhood in the Flushing section of Queens was about twenty-five percent Asian - Koreans and Japanese mostly. Koy had placed his safe house there as a means of hiding it. Americans could not differentiate one Asian from another, and fellow Asians, who could, were not likely to consider the arrival in their community of one or several Chinese to be in any way significant.

  The apartment was in the basement of a six-story building. Koy and Chang entered through the lobby. No one saw them. They went down the service stairs, being met by a blast of rock music as soon as they opened the service door. To Koy the music was loud enough to attract attention, and therefore in itself it was dangerous, but behind it, overriding it, more dangerous still, rose what sounded like the sustained bleating of farm animals being tortured, goats or sheep perhaps, animals in terrible pain. Outright screams might have attained a more penetrating noise level, but not much. Such bleating would be audible to anyone who happened down into this cellar - a housewife doing her laundry would hear it, and her instinctive reaction would be to call the police.

  The police could be en route even now, and would find Koy inside the apartment.

  As Koy rang the bell, he felt the hair raise on the back of his hands, felt the rush of blood, and the sudden shortness of breath, sensations every gambler felt, sensations that he found, despite himself, intensely pleasurable. The risk quotient had just risen amazingly high. Well, he told himself, it was already high. Men of wealth and power were involved and depended on him. They had waited a long time, and Koy himself had come under increasing pressure. They would not be pleased to fail now. It would be unwise to frustrate them further. He was obliged to accept this crazy risk because, although the first part of tonight’s activities had evidently succeeded, the second part was deteriorating fast. This needed to be reversed, and decisions made, something only he could do. And so he told himself he was glad he stood where he did. Heady triumphs came only after risks such as this. The risk was often more fun than the triumph. Man had to risk his life constantly in order to enjoy it.

  Nikki Han opened the door, closing it quickly behind them. The apartment, which served as dormitory for that part of the Flying Dragons youth gang controlled by Koy, was small, airless, cluttered. Koy glanced into the empty front room. Chinese comic books. Unmade beds - they looked like terrain that had been fought over. The cheap suitcases of boys without homes. Transistor radios, plates of half-eaten food.

  The back room was similar, though not empty. The back room was where the noise was coming from. Nikki Han, who looked to Koy to be on the edge of panic, stepped into it, and Koy and Chang followed.

  The Hsu brothers lay on cots, thrashing and bleating. Han or someone had wedged towels into their mouths and this was all that kept their agony from being audible in the street. The older brother’s ravaged foot was what Koy noted first. The gruesome shoe, dripping with gore, was still attached. It looked like something that had got caught in a lawn mower. But there was no lawn mower at the Golden Palace, and Koy looked to Han for an explanation.

  “I don’t know,” said Han in English. His panic, Koy noted, was very close to the surface.

  The brothers looked out at the world through dumb animal eyes. They were conscious only of their pain. Repeatedly they tangled and untangled themselves in bed sheets unwashed for months and newly soaked with their blood - though neither seemed to be bleeding now. This was understandable considering the tourniquets - clothesline rope twisted tight by wooden hangers. They had been stripped of trousers and just below their underpants on the right thighs the tourniquets girdled them, biting into bare flesh. Their thighs were as hairless as bamboo, as thin almost as arms, and the ropes cinched them in, making waists scarcely thicker than the bone itself. Han or someone had wound those ropes up tight as trolley wires, and both legs had turned blue. The younger brother’s hand and wrist had turned blue also, though there was no wound there that Koy could see.

  Nikki Han had moved to the nearest cot. The Cho Kun is here,” he said in Cantonese dialect. “The doctor is with him. You’ll be all right now.”

  The literal translation of Cho Kun is �
�the person seated within the lodge.” It is a rank not subject to precise English translation. Leader, boss, big brother, chairman, executive secretary - Cho Kun, when applied to Koy by his partners and associates and by the men and boys who worked for him, meant all of these things.

  The Cho Kun, having caught Chang’s eye, pointed to the older brother. He pointed not with his finger but, in the Chinese manner, with his chin.

  Chang moved to the bedside and opened his medical bag.

  “The doctor will take care of you,” said Nikki Han, and it was clear that the word doctor had brought hope to both boys.

  Chang was not a doctor but an embalmer. Reaching into his bag he held up the package he had found on Koy’s desk. “This?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Koy.

  Chang took the package into the kitchen, nicked one corner of it, and brought out a quarter-spoonful of white powder to which he added a few drops of water collected from the faucet. He then turned on the stove and held the spoon over the flames. The white powder dissolved almost instantly. Setting down the spoon, Chang drew the fluid up into a hypodermic syringe. All this time the agonized bleating in the other room never ceased.

  Back at the bedside the embalmer raised his needle to the light. “Are either of them users?” he asked Nikki Han.

  “No,” said Nikki Han.

  “This may kill him,” Chang said to Koy.

  Koy again pointed with his chin, this time impatiently.

  After injecting half his solution into the arm of the older brother, the embalmer stepped back to wait for a reaction.

  “Now the other one,” ordered Koy.

  “I should wait to see-”

  The younger brother having partially spit out his towel, had begun screaming.

  “Give him the whole dose,” said Koy. “Hurry.”

  The reaction was not long coming. Within sixty seconds the two contorted faces began to relax, and the room became silent. For a brief moment both boys smiled almost beatifically. Then they were unconscious.