One Red Bastard Page 11

  “The company did pay for the gas,” I pointed out.

  The turtle blinked. “We pay for the gas, Policeman Chow.”

  “You should pay for it,” said the boss. “It’s expensive.”

  “Is each driver assigned a car?” I asked.

  “It’s first come, first served every day. We have a fleet of about twenty Continentals.”

  “How do you know someone won’t drive off with one of your cars?”

  “I’d like to see them try. They wouldn’t get too far.”

  “The cars would probably fall apart before you made it past Jersey,” said the turtle.

  The boss ignored him and said to me, “We’re owned by a very connected individual. It wouldn’t be any good crossing him. Believe me.”

  “Can’t this very connected guy find the man with the mole on his face?”

  “I am sure the driver will be back with his carbon copy to collect his fee. It should be a few days from now. I’ll tell you what. When he shows up, I’ll call you.”

  “Are you sure he’s going to show up?”

  “He’d be a fool not to. Nobody would work without getting paid.”

  “I’m not making any money now,” muttered the turtle.

  “It’s slow right now,” said the boss. “After the morning rush, business doesn’t pick up until night.”

  “You call that a morning rush?”

  “You don’t like your job very much, do you?” I asked the turtle.

  “No, I don’t. It sucks.”

  “Why don’t you do something else?”

  “He can’t do anything else,” said the boss.

  “Then why do you keep giving him work?”

  The turtle put his newspaper down and crossed his arms. “Because I’m a very connected individual!”

  “There are some particular customers who want him as a driver,” said the counterman. “Because they like to go to whorehouses and they need the local pimp to point them out.”

  “You can say anything you want,” said the turtle as he leaned forward and rubbed his kneecaps. “I was here before you and I’ll be here long after you’re gone. The gods give long healthy lives to the just and sickly, phlegm-filled existences to the dissolute.”

  “You call me when that guy comes in,” I said to the boss. “Call me before you pay him.” Mean Face looked at me as I left. I didn’t like him.

  I went to the two other dispatch-car offices to see if they knew anything about Lonnie’s driver but had no luck finding the mysterious mole-man. But I made sure to keep an eye on the street in case Mean Face popped out.

  Lonnie was right in saying that the businesses were hurting. They were doing their part in keeping air pollution down by not running their cars. Customers don’t need to be driven anywhere when they don’t have jobs, meetings, or flights to catch.

  The drivers used to look down on the waiters, table bussers and dishwashers. The guys in greasy clothes were laughing now. People always have to eat, after all.

  I came out on the sidewalk and peered into Heavenly Horse’s window.

  The turtle was sitting there by himself, picking his nose with his knuckles. Mean Face was gone.

  I stood on the curb where Mr. Chen’s body had been found and looked at the dirty, twisted warning tape that wound around chain-link fence posts and two dented garbage cans. It was sad. A barren place in Sara D. Roosevelt Park that squirrels avoided.

  I wasn’t as familiar with this park as I was with Columbus Park. I looked around carefully in all directions.

  To the north, someone had raked piles of dead leaves but nobody had bothered to bag them up. Maybe the city had canned that particular person.

  To the south, there was a scary little brick building that hummed. I had no idea what was inside, but it was the right size for a witch who liked to eat children. The door had several padlocks on it. I walked around the building to see if there was anything more to it, but the other three sides were sturdy brick walls tagged heavily with spray paint.

  To the west, across Chrystie Street, was a short block with three storefront apartment buildings. The southern end of the block housed a Fukienese church that was painted white, which was usually a bad color because Chinese wear white for funerals. But in the context of Christianity being a foreign religion, it was acceptable.

  The middle of the block was a small dumpling wholesaler and the north end was occupied with a kitchen-supply store that had chained down samples of its shelving and standing sinks as if they might run away.

  I crossed Chrystie to the north side of the block. I examined a metal three-shelf rack. A short, heavyset guy in a gray sweat-suit came out of the store.

  “Hi, my friend,” he said, tipping me off that he didn’t know I was a cop. “I’ve got everything you need. You like those shelves?”

  “They’re crooked and dented,” I said.

  “That’s because they’re defective. I keep the perfect ones inside. Come in and have a look.”

  “You should have your best stuff outside.”

  “Then someone would rip it off.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t understand why you bothered to lock up these ugly shelves.”

  “People will steal anything and everything! I used to have a broken cinder block to prop open the door and someone stole that. You don’t know how it is. I’ve been in this business almost twenty years. I know this guy who put his scummy fryer outside to air out. It was all covered in clumps of brown and black stuff, looking like someone had diarrhea in it. Somebody stole that, too.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “It is. Say, can I set you up with a new sink? I have to move out last year’s model, so I’ve got my best price for you. You look like a nice and smart guy. I won’t waste your time.”

  “I don’t have a restaurant.”

  “You can install it in your home. It’s great. I have one. I live upstairs. You want to see it?”

  “You live upstairs?”

  “Yeah, second floor.”

  “Were you here when a body was found across the street?”

  “Was I what?”

  “Were you here the night before the body was found?”

  “I was here,” he said, suddenly cautious.

  “Do you remember seeing or hearing anything unusual?”

  He crossed his arms. “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry, I should have gotten around to this earlier. My name is Robert Chow. I’m with the Fifth Precinct. NYPD.”

  “I don’t remember anything.”

  “Are you sure? You seem to be a pretty observant guy.”

  “No. When I sleep I’m a rock. I snore louder than the traffic.”

  I handed him my card. “In case you remember anything.”

  He quickly countered with his own card. “I know you’re going to need new shelves someday.”

  I stood at the window to the dumpling wholesaler. Most of the dumplings served in Chinatown restaurants were bought frozen and in bulk from a place like this.

  Making dumplings isn’t difficult but it is labor-intensive. It also takes up a lot of space to roll out the dough and store the finished dumplings.

  Teams of two people were crammed in each of the two back corners, scooping meat filling from plastic tubs and swaddling them in dough. Finished dumplings were set off to the side on a bamboo tray.

  The counter was manned by a woman in her fifties wearing a hairnet. Her arms were caked in flour past the elbows. She stood in front of two vertical freezers. As soon as she saw me her eyes narrowed.

  “Hi there,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  “Good.”

  “I’m Robert Chow with the Fifth Precinct. I was wondering if you or anybody who works here remembers seeing—”

  “We don’t remember anything.”

  “I understand that you’re open at five in the morning.”

  “No, we are not.”

  “That’s what it says on your sign.”

  “It’s
dark when we come in. We don’t see anything.”

  I didn’t bother to leave my card with the flour lady. Nothing good could have come from it. I wondered if I had offended her at some point in the past. Maybe I had ticketed her van. Maybe she had a son who was one of those stupid gang kids and I had taken his picture. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Some people simply don’t like cops and that’s how it is.

  The Fukienese church had so many coats of white paint over the brick walls it looked like the side of a Carvel ice-cream cake. I stepped through a metal gate to get to the main entrance. A glass-enclosed signboard noted that services were held in Fukienese except for one sermon each in Spanish and English on Sunday afternoons.

  It seemed quiet from my side of the wooden door, so I opened it and eased my way in.

  I was surprised to find about twenty men crowded in the lobby, wearing cheap sports jackets, and smoking as if they were hanging out at an Off-Track Betting facility.

  I walked around to the side and looked up a stairwell. I thought I spotted someone I knew and went upstairs.

  “Hello,” I said in English.

  “Oh, Robert,” said Mr. Song. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood, examining recent murder scenes, and figured it was time to get it right with God.”

  “You mean one murder in particular, right out there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Together Chinese Kinship is conducting English-language classes in partnership with the church. We’re just taking a break right now. Let’s go into an empty classroom where we can talk.”

  He led me up another flight and found a small room that had windows only slightly above the floor level. There was still enough sun coming in that we didn’t need to turn the light on.

  “My contacts with the People’s Republic say they’re glad the news has died down a bit about Mr. Chen, but they want to know what progress has been made. If it turns out that a KMT-backed person or group was behind this, then I have to warn you that there could be a retaliatory hit. Not anything sanctioned from the mainland, of course, but there are left-wing agents who would take it upon themselves to mete out justice.”

  “The pro-KMT paper keeps calling for a bigger investigation,” I said. “How do you figure that they’re behind the murder?”

  “Typical dirty Nationalist trick. They know who killed Mr. Chen. They might have even killed the guy to cover their tracks. This way they can step up the anti-Communist rhetoric in their media and justify their own brutal tactics in Taiwan.”

  “The last time I checked, the Taiwanese economy was booming.”

  “For the rich.”

  “How do you know a Communist didn’t kill Mr. Chen? Wouldn’t a hard-core Maoist want to strangle him for betraying the motherland?”

  “We don’t care about people leaving China. If they want to go, they can go. Together Chinese Kinship members all left China, yet we have a dialog with Beijing. They wouldn’t bother to talk to us at all if they thought we were traitors.”

  “Of course they want to be in touch with you. How else could they check the KMT’s influence in New York?”

  Mr. Song only gave me a tight smile.

  “I need to ask you something,” I said. “Just on a person-to-person level.” I felt like I could ask for a degree of privacy from him because of our common bond.

  “What is it?”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  “Swear to God.”

  “I swear to God.”

  “I thought you people didn’t believe in God.”

  “We believe in God to the capacity that the idea embodies the brotherhood of man and the common goal of all workers and the fact that it brings a degree of comfort to the masses. Now, Robert, what is it?”

  “Why would someone chop off a man’s left index finger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mao didn’t advocate such a thing?”

  “No, never.”

  “What do Communists do to enemies of the state?”

  “We wouldn’t cut off fingers. We would send reactionaries to the gallows or to labor camps. We would want to punish the entire body, not just a part. We’re Chinese, not Japanese.”

  “Mr. Chen’s finger was cut off. After he died.”

  “Hmm.”

  “The press doesn’t know.”

  “They won’t find out from me.”

  “Do you think it’s something one of these fringe groups would do?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you want me to ask people from the mainland?”

  “Oh, no. I want as few people as possible to know.”

  “All right, Robert.” With a meaningful look in his eyes, Mr. Song added, “We also hold open meetings in this church, in the basement. If you’re ever interested.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  I met the midget the next day for lunch. I brought soup noodles from a cart. The extra one was for the kid who worked there, Drew. I unpacked the plastic containers on the counter, away from the register.

  Drew pulled up a chair but the midget reached out and touched his arm. “Hey, how about you go eat yours in the back? We have some man talk to do here.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have realized,” said Drew.

  “Stop with the sorry! You couldn’t have known!” said the midget with exaggerated weariness. The kid smiled. “Now, go!”

  When Drew had reached the storage room in the back, the midget said, “How’s Lonnie holding up?”

  “Fine on the outside, but she has to be worried.” I leaned in and said in a low voice, “I’m actually going to be helping out on the case. Just not officially.”

  The midget nodded and slid out bamboo chopsticks from their paper sheath. He rubbed them together to get rid of the splinters. “Have you thought about hiring a private lawyer for her?”

  “It’s not going to be cheap,” I said. I prepared my chopsticks also and then used them to haul up a tangle of glistening egg noodles into my mouth.

  “What’s cheap, anyway? How much would you pay to have that open surveillance stopped and get Lonnie’s life back to normal?”

  I wiped my mouth with the knuckle side of my left thumb and trawled through the soup for a chunk of chicken. “How can I put a price on that?” I asked, sighing. “This stupid system forces us to pay to live our little lives.”

  “Well spoken, comrade,” said the midget. “When we’re done eating, let’s give three bows to the Chairman’s portrait to thank him for helming the nation so well.”

  I pointed the chopsticks at the midget, sending soup droplets flying. “I fought Communism, pal. I’ve killed Communists.”

  “I guess that means you won?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t joke around about this.”

  “I kid because I care. Anyway, I can get a lawyer to look at this and maybe take on the entire thing free of charge.”

  “A real lawyer? I don’t want some stuttering kid.”

  “Yeah, a real lawyer—a criminal lawyer. He owes me.”

  “How did you meet this guy?”

  “In the usual way. He saw me in Columbus Park and he wanted to learn how to play Chinese chess.”

  “What favor did you do him?”

  “I don’t remember. But I do know that he’s a principled kind of guy and helping a beautiful and vulnerable reporter is right up his alley.”

  The kid called out from the back. “I’m done eating now! Should I just stay here?”

  “Yeah, hang out there a few more minutes!” yelled the midget.

  “I’m gonna go. I feel bad about making him sit back there.”

  “Don’t feel bad for him, he’s getting paid for it.”

  The midget threw his head back sharply and cracked his neck.

  Lonnie came over to my apartment about three hours later than scheduled. The Teletype was acting up and it took several tries to get her story through. Then she had to wait for the late editor to
come back from a meal break to edit her story and ask questions.

  “Those detectives are really wearing me down,” she said, closing her eyes “They don’t even really do anything. They’re right behind me whenever I turn around.”

  I reached out my right hand and rubbed both her temples with my thumb and middle finger.

  “I think I might know someone who can help,” I said. “The midget told me about this lawyer he knows who will work for free.”

  “If we don’t pay him anything, how hard is he going to work?”

  “Lawyers do this all the time, Lonnie. They work to build up their reputation.”

  “Robert, I don’t want to hire a lawyer. Even for free.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I hire a lawyer, the people will think I’m guilty.”

  “Don’t do the stupid, superstitious Chinese thing, Lonnie.”

  “Don’t call me ‘stupid’!”

  “Do you think you’ll get cancer if you see a doctor or that you’ll die if you walk into a funeral home?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s my parents, really, not me. If I hired a lawyer do you know what people will say about them?”

  “Do you know what could happen to you if you don’t have adequate legal representation?”

  She counted off points on her fingers. “I am innocent. I have not been charged with anything. I have nothing to hide. The police will find the killer. My parents’ reputation must be protected.”

  “What’s so great about your parents that you worry about their reputations?”

  “I don’t always get along with my dad and my stepmom. But I do believe that children need to respect their elders to a certain degree.”

  “I don’t have to respect them, though.”

  “You do.”

  “Why?”

  “Robert, how serious are you about us?”

  I went over to see Lonnie at her parents’ place on the south side of Bayard Street. The ground-floor storefront sold souvenirs including a fan that folded out to read I LOVE CHINATOWN.

  I had brought over those traditional Chinese treats: a bag of oranges, a box of Almond Roca, and a tin of Danish butter cookies.

  It was the first time I was meeting her father and stepmother, who was Paul’s mother, and the circumstances were far from ideal. But it would have been awkward at any point. One reason why Paul lived with me was the poisonous cycle of his dad beating him and Paul hanging out with wannabe gang kids to get away from him.