by Ed Lin
“He came upon an old journal from the early 1800s that said something to the effect that the family longed to return to China after the ‘barbarians’ were eliminated. That journal was referring to the Manchus who rode in and toppled the Ming Dynasty and established the Qing Dynasty, but my father took it as a sign, since the KMT referred to the Communists as ‘barbarians.’ So he joined.”
“Mr. Yi, what is your personal story?”
“You want to know why I speak English so well, huh? I grew up with private tutors and came here to the States for college, undergrad at Stanford and Ph.D. from Harvard. That’s where I met Barbara.” Mr. Yi stood up and reached awkwardly for the teapot. He gathered the three teacups to him.
“You didn’t tell me you knew each other from school,” I told Barbara.
“Of course, everybody knew who Barbara was,” he said, chuckling. Mr. Yi poured out tea for Barbara and me, and pushed the teacups as far as he could to us. He then poured his own tea. “Such an attractive woman is more famous on campus than the best-known professors.”
Barbara sniffed the steam from her tea while shaking her head.
“What did you study, Mr. Yi?” I asked him.
“Chemistry. I don’t recommend it.”
“I guess you were being groomed for the family business.”
“I hate plastics. I hate the way they smell. I can’t even use a plastic umbrella. There’s no future in plastics. Not for me, anyway. My father was pretty disappointed, to say the least, but he had the connections to hear of a vacancy in this office and once they heard ‘Harvard Ph.D.,’ I was in. I enjoy what I do, but it was rather unfortunate how I got this job.”
“There’s no shame in using family connections,” I said.
“Well, the position was vacant because my predecessor left. When the People’s Republic took the Republic of China’s U.N. seat, he saw the writing on the wall and flew back to Taiwan. After he got home he hanged himself.”
I drank some tea. “That’s awful,” I said.
“Yes.”
“There is a perceived diminished value to this office as well. The American diplomat to the Republic of China, Leonard Unger, was in New York a few months ago. We had set up a dinner banquet for him in Midtown—not some crappy Jade Palace joint. Mr. Unger sent an assistant in his place. He didn’t even have the courtesy to call to tell us in advance.”
I looked at Mr. Yi’s phone. It seemed that the only important call he would get would be to come home because it was all over.
“Can we get to the matter at hand?” asked Barbara. “I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Yi, but I have to stick to my schedule.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Well, Robert, I wanted to discuss a sensitive matter about poor Mr. Chen with you. There are fringe elements, the extreme right wing of the KMT, who are outraged by his murder. They believed that Mr. Chen was killed because he and Li Na were embarrassing the mainland. Mao’s daughter could never be assassinated, so Mr. Chen became the scapegoat.
“What’s very problematic is that these KMT extremists are convinced that Communist elements in Chinatown are responsible for killing Mr. Chen.”
“It’s possible,” I said.
Mr. Yi took a big swig of tea. “The extremists have criminal connections. In the past, a number of critics of the KMT and Chiang Kai-shek have been killed all around the world. I would think that the same fate would befall anyone suspected of having a part in killing Mr. Chen.”
“I see. These men are pretty ruthless, I take it.”
“Yes, they are. Mainly though, I wanted to tell you that they often disguise themselves with R.O.C. diplomatic IDs and license plates. If you are ever approached by people claiming to be from this office, and if I didn’t tell you they were coming, they are not to be trusted.”
“Won’t I be able to tell from their IDs? I can spot fake documents.”
“They don’t use fake documents. Everything they use is authentic. There are high-ranking KMT officers who lean to the far right and provide the necessary materials for these squads to work with.”
I knew exactly whom Mr. Yi was referring to. There were branches of the KMT that didn’t go to Taiwan after the civil war. They instead withdrew into the jungles of Thailand and established militarized bases financed with drugs. It was like printing money. They apparently had roving death squads in Asia that killed high-ranking Communists in the surrounding countries, along with critics of Chiang Kai-shek and the KMT.
But they hadn’t carried out assassinations in the United States. Yet.
“I don’t quite know what to say, Mr. Yi.”
“Don’t give out any information to anyone claiming to be from agencies of the R.O.C. Lives may depend upon it.”
“You understand that my girlfriend is implicated in the investigation of Mr. Chen’s death.”
“I know, but she couldn’t have done it. Any fool can see that.”
“The problem is, I’m having trouble finding the responsible parties.”
“So are these squads.”
“I don’t even have jurisdiction here. Manhattan South is handling the case.”
“Yet you’re still making inquiries, so I imagine that you are involved in some capacity with the investigation. Even unofficially. Honestly, Robert, if that was my girlfriend, I’d be doing my damnedest to find the real killer.”
“But I’m not the only one looking, right?”
“No, you’re not the only one.”
“Mr. Yi, I understand that it was private Taiwanese citizens who helped Mr. Chen fly into New York.”
“That is true, although they didn’t work alone. A number of Hong Kong businessmen were involved, too. The whole thing was an incredibly naïve operation, that’s for sure. It’s a nice idea that Mr. Chen is an advocate for Li Na, but surely, wouldn’t such a powerful man also harbor his own intentions and push for his own interests?”
When we were done, Mr. Yi buzzed in Ms. Kung, who showed us the way to the elevators. I was a little shaken up, imagining that gunmen were walking the same streets, looking for the same man as me.
Tipping me off was pretty risky and I had to give Mr. Yi credit. He seemed like an all-right guy.
As we waited at the elevator bank, I asked Barbara if she ever dated Mr. Yi.
“Oh, please, he’s like ten years older than me!” she said.
“He didn’t ask you?”
“No! He’s been married since he was twenty. He already has two kids, too.”
“I didn’t know he was a family man! Still seems pretty happy.”
“Having a family doesn’t mean you’re going to be unhappy.”
David Ong came into the squad room and found me. I looked up and saw he was worried, maybe scared.
“Robert, I think I saw some people with outstanding warrants.”
“You think?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“By ‘people,’ do you mean gang kids?”
“No, older.”
“How old?”
“Mid-twenties.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re in the tunnels under Doyers Street. I think they were shaking down a merchant for money. I know them because I’ve been looking through the mug books regularly. I mean, the ones of prior convicts.”
I stared at him hard. “Listen, David. We only have mug books of prior convicts. Understand?”
“Yeah, that’s what we have.”
“You just saw them now?” asked Vandyne.
“Yeah, I just ran back here.”
Vandyne and I shook on our coats. “Next time,” said Vandyne, “use your radio and call it in.”
“The goddamn thing wouldn’t work underground.”
“Welcome to the job,” I said.
Doyers Street has a bad reputation that is well deserved. In the 1800s, it was the favorite site of the so-called hatchet men to waylay enemies of their tong. You could probably hid
e a football team in the shadow of the elbow of the sharp turn.
At the turn of the century, shoot-outs with pistols were common in the “bloody angle.” I have met old men who, as kids, used to collect the round little bullets and play with them like marbles.
Later on someone cleaned out the grain storage areas that were beneath Doyers, because the entire street itself used to be the private drive of a long-gone farmhouse. An entire underground chamber now ran roughly along Doyers, connecting Bowery, Mott, and Pell. It was far bigger than the tunnel Mr. Chen used to get into Jade Palace, and it was filled with twists and turns.
Not surprisingly, as space never goes to waste in Chinatown, it also was the home to many mom-and-pop stores and restaurants. The stupid gang kids would be especially bold when hitting the underground businesses for money because they felt emboldened hidden from the street.
Their cockiness was somewhat justified. If they were minors, there wasn’t really much we could do to them if they were apprehended. They wouldn’t even get a tough talking-to from the judge. But once they turned eighteen, they could be tried as adults, and the protection racket was a game for kids.
When we got close to Pell Street, Vandyne said, “We’re going to come at them from different directions. Are you sure you’re up for this, David?”
“I am. This is the first real action I’m going to be a part of.”
“Watch yourself, David,” I said. “Rounding up these assholes is not a dinner party. They have lousy aim, but they’ll make up for it in shots fired.”
David nodded. “So we split up?”
“Let’s meet up in the food court on the second level. I’m gonna take the Bowery entrance,” I said.
“I’ll take Pell,” said Vandyne. “David, you’re all right with Mott?”
He put his hands on his belt and nodded. I quickly cut across Pell and made a right on Bowery. I entered the bank on the corner and took the stairs down to the underground area.
The fluorescent lighting through discolored plastic shades gave everybody and everything a pus-colored glow. The fish struggling in the gloomy water in the aquarium store came off the worst. I heard some shouting from around a turn, but it was only a woman with a baby trying to get her money back for a toy that broke after less than a week. I thought I recognized the woman, so I turned my head until I was safely past the store.
I lifted a low-hanging towel in front of a housewares store and eased by battery-operated toy cars driving around in circles on the floor.
Everything seemed to be normal, if a little chaotic. Those guys David had seen were probably long gone. The older ones liked to work through the young recruits, anyway.
I went down to the second level and it was more of the same. The air was humid thanks to the numerous stands boiling dumplings and noodles. I went around a wonderfully smelly fried-dough joint with half a mind to get a stick. It didn’t seem safe to have an open flame in this area. I wondered how it had passed safety inspections. But then I realized this little underground world probably wasn’t even on the radar.
When I passed the sticky-rice stand, I saw Vandyne across the way giving me a meaningful look. He tipped his head to the northeast. I slowly looked over and saw the three scumbags sitting at the only spot they could find free. It was a kids-sized folding table and they were all on plastic step stools with their knees up at their shoulders. They looked like they had crashed a little girl’s tea party.
I saw this guy Marcus who liked wearing paisley shirts. He had missed a court date a few months ago for robbery. I don’t say “alleged,” because Vandyne had caught him in the act.
Another guy had a face like a cat with a small nose and eyes that were too close together. I called him Catwoman, and he had also missed a court date, for assault and battery on a store owner.
The third guy I wasn’t too sure about until I saw a big red blotch on his left arm when he raised his rice bowl. It was Sherman, who had been mixed up in heroin. He had grown out his hair but there was no getting rid of that ugly birthmark.
“Robert,” whispered David, who was crouching by my right elbow. “That’s them!”
“I know,” I said without turning my head. “So you stay back here while—” He sauntered in front of me and strolled down to the three assholes. “Aw, fuck.” I followed close behind. I was sure Vandyne was behind me.
“All right, freeze!” David yelled at the three, gun drawn.
Marcus ignored the command and threw more noodles into his mouth.
“Hey, you fucking asshole, I’m talking to you!”
I was impressed to hear that harsh voice and tone coming out of David. Problem was, it was the wrong language.
When you confront someone, you need to establish authority quickly. Sometimes you can do it by acting loud and mean, sometimes quietly. A white or black cop would almost automatically have the upper hand on a Chinese suspect because those cops would already represent a sort of status quo authority figure.
But an Asian guy speaking English would be seen as a lightweight, some jackass who didn’t even know what he was.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Marcus calmly put down his chopsticks and reached under his seat.
“Get your hands up, asshole!” I yelled in Cantonese at Marcus. He stared at the barrel of my gun and let his hands float to the ceiling. Quietly, other diners picked up their bowls and stepped out of the line of fire.
Vandyne said behind me, “Stand up slowly, all you motherfuckers, and get up against the wall!”
I kicked their legs out and frisked them all. None of them had anything on them, apart from Sherman, who had a paring knife.
“It’s for fruit, man!” he said.
“Should have used your fingernails, Sherm,” I said. I didn’t know if the concealed weapon thing would stick with him. Unlike the other two, there wasn’t a warrant out for him.
When Vandyne and I had them all cuffed, I said, “David, go over and see what Marcus had under his seat.”
“It’s a bag,” David said.
“Look in the bag but don’t touch anything. What do you see?”
“A small gun. And a book.”
“Bring it over here.”
It was a cheap-shit .25 caliber gun that we called a Saturday night special. “Hey, Marcus, how come you’re still using the same gun you had when you were twelve?” He spat on the ground. “David, these are good collars. You did a real good job. David?”
His face was falling apart. Tears and snot were all over the place.
“David, c’mon, man! It’s all right!”
Vandyne called out, “Dave, we’ve got it all together now. We’re going home.”
“He was going to shoot me,” he gasped. “I had my gun drawn. He was going to shoot me anyway.”
Marcus snickered.
“Watch your step, Marcus,” I said, dragging him to the right. “I’d hate it if you slipped and hit the ground with your face a few times.” In English, I said to David, “You have to stop that, now. You want them to start calling you ‘Ong Kong Boo Hooey’?”
“I’m just kinda shook up,” he said, wiping off his face with the backs of his hands.
“Let’s book these guys. I’m giving you primary credit, too. The Brow is going to love you for this.”
The Brow had me in his office and as these things usually go, he was yelling at me as soon as I stepped into the room. It was to be expected. There were only two reasons why you’d be in there. You were either in trouble or you were in big trouble.
“Why the hell have you put my boy in harm’s way?” he yelled. I closed the door behind me and took two steps toward his desk.
“Sir, David Ong came to me after spotting suspects with warrants out.”
“How the hell would he know them on sight?”
“Sir, he looks through our mug books in the squad room. It’s good that he did.”
“Who the hell told him to look through the blasted mug books?”
“Sir
, probably someone at the academy.”
“Mr. Chow, did you know that Mr. Ong was very nearly shot dead yesterday?”
“Sir, John Vandyne and I were both there. We were looking out for David.”
“Why couldn’t you and the fine Mr. Vandyne have handled it yourselves?”
“Sir, there are three exits to the Doyers underground complex. There’s no way to cover it with only two people. If you would read the report—”
“I’ve read the entire bloody report! I almost went blind because the typing was barely legible! Did you type that report?” Vandyne had typed it up.
“Yes, sir, and I apologize for the typing job. I’ll do better next time.”
“You could have taken along anybody else besides Mr. Ong. Anybody! Even Peepshow Geller! If you ever use Mr. Ong again on any dangerous case, I’ll send you to the goddamn firing squad!”
“Understood, sir.”
“He’s my golden boy, and you don’t get to cloud his mind!”
By the time he dismissed me my ears were ringing, but I shook it off.
Poor Peepshow. He was a guy who was going to walk a beat his entire career. If you get branded as incompetent early on, your career is pretty much dead. Sure, you’ll get the union-mandated raises and cost-of-living increases, but promotions? Forget about it.
There was no way Peepshow was ever going to pass the sergeant’s exam to go up the supervisor track.
If he had wanted to become a detective, it was even tougher because it was discretionary. Someone higher up would have had to take a liking to him and toss him some investigative work.
But nobody was ever going to hand Peepshow an assignment, much less a cup of coffee. He was going to be forever the overweight and goofy white guy whose only pair of jeans had a rip in the lower-ass area. The ultimate insult was that not even the C.O. would use his real first name anymore. In fact, everyone had forgotten it.
Vandyne came over to have dinner with Paul and me.
“That fucking Brow,” I said.
“Cheer up, man. It’s guys’ night,” said Vandyne. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I went ahead and splurged.” He held up a box from Dunkin’ Donuts.
