One Red Bastard Page 4

  “Yes, sir?” he asked the midget.

  “This is Officer Chow, a personal and professional friend of mine.”

  “Hello, Officer Chow. My name is Drew.”

  “Drew what?” I asked.

  “Drew Bai.”

  “Were you born over here?”

  “Yes. Actually in Queens. We live in Confucius Plaza now.” Confucius Plaza was a new government-subsidized housing project over on Bowery that had just opened.

  “If you were born here, then how come you can speak Chinese so well?”

  “I learned it. My parents forced me to go to Chinese school.”

  “Yeah, but where did you learn Cantonese from?” Chinese schools, even the ones in the heart of Cantonese-speaking Chinatown, taught Mandarin, the language of the educated.

  “I just picked it up hanging around the neighborhood.”

  “Are you in a gang?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re about that age. Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  “Fifteen. You sure ask a lot of questions. Am I a suspect for something?”

  “Officer Chow’s just a very inquisitive fellow,” said the midget. “He can’t help but make you uncomfortable. It’s his job.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrogate you, Drew, at least not yet. I just want to know who’s working in my pal’s store. That’s all.”

  “That’s all right. If there’s nothing else, I have more work to do in the back.” The midget waved him off and Drew withdrew.

  “Wow,” I told the midget. “Where do you find these guys who work so hard?”

  “He was a store regular. I noticed that he would reshelve toys that were lying around and I said to myself, ‘Hire that kid someday. He cares about this place.’ So when I heard about Paul, I did a favor for myself and a favor for him.”

  “At some point, Drew is going to finish high school, too, you know.”

  “I’ll bet you, though,” said the midget, crossing his arms, “if he goes to college in the city, he’ll beg me to let him keep working here.”

  “I’m sure you’ll accommodate him.”

  “Hey, I’m a generous guy!”

  It was cold, crisp day and there was just something in the air—mostly yelling and screaming.

  Two different groups of idiots who thought that their shouts and sign-waving were going to convert the masses were crammed on either side of Jade Palace. In my experience, the only thing you can convince passersby of is that you have time on your hands or that you’re crazy, or both.

  The younger, hairier side supported the People’s Republic of China. The people with better coats backed the KMT. They were united in opposing the meeting with Li Na’s envoy, although for different reasons.

  The KMT side had convinced itself that despite Li Na’s noble stand against Communism, the meeting itself was another step in the United States phasing out diplomatic ties with the Republic of China on Taiwan in favor of the mainland. The United Nations had voted to expel Taiwan and seat the People’s Republic in 1971, and the United States hadn’t been able to stop it. Maybe the Americans were losing resolve to stand with Taiwan.

  The Commies were opposed to allowing Li Na political asylum in the States—an act of treason against Mao and the Revolution from Mao’s daughter herself.

  Strangely enough, this particular group of Reds was also opposed to diplomatic ties between the People’s Republic and the United States. It was seen as a “sell-out” move.

  Both groups had permits and the Boy Scouts, the auxiliary police, were out to make sure everyone stayed within their blockades. A Chinese auxiliary policeman came up to me and said, “Robert, how are you doing?”

  He was about the same height as me, though a few years older with a little less in the girth department. His face was fatter, though. I knew I’d met him before, but I’d forgotten his name. “Hey, man,” I said. “How are you doing, buddy?”

  He looked behind him before saying, “I’m good. Say, do you know how I might get an offer to get on the job for real?”

  “It’s tough, man. First priority is rehiring the cops who got laid off in the financial crisis. There’s still quite a few.”

  “I know all that, but hey, I’m a minority!”

  “I hear ya, I know there aren’t a lot of cops who look like me. Or you. But you gotta pay your dues. Right now, it’s a pretty high price. You’re doing the right thing. Auxiliary’s probably the best way to go now.”

  “C’mon, man, don’t give me that!” He pulled his mouth to one side of his face. “Didn’t you get your post as a minority hire?”

  “That’s not the whole story. I was hired because of the need for a Chinese cop in Chinatown.”

  “For the newspaper pictures.”

  “Yes, for the newspaper pictures. But I’ve moved on. I’m detective track now. Don’t forget, I had seniority over other people out of the academy because of my military service.”

  “I don’t see why that should count. Being a soldier is completely different training from being a cop. I have college credit from criminal justice—that’s relevant.”

  I leaned into his face and said in a low voice, “I never spent a day in college and look at me now.” He shrank back but I gave him a firm slap on the shoulder to let him know I didn’t hate him too much.

  I walked over to the Commie protesters to look them over for future reference. A mentor of mine told me to observe the crowds and to become accustomed to faces. Although New York was a huge city, you saw the same people over and over again within five square blocks. Nearly all the crime committed in that area was by only a few individuals. Try to pick out the ones who look too self-conscious.

  If nobody sticks out, just have someone in the squad car crank up the siren for a few rounds and see who jumps the highest and who runs.

  It wasn’t necessary to resort to that measure here, though. I made a careful note of the people holding up signs and the rooster-looking boy on the megaphone hollering, “Crush Li Na and the Gang of Four!”

  Megaphones weren’t permitted.

  “You’re not allowed to use that!” I shouted at the guy.

  He lowered the megaphone and I saw that he had a soft, thin face that contrasted with his angry black eyes. He was about six feet tall and weighed about 160 pounds. The guy might have long hair, but it was tucked up into his Mao cap. His vest was covered with Cultural Revolution propaganda badges.

  “What?” he asked me.

  “Asshole. You’re not allowed to use that thing here. Put it away or I’ll take it from you.”

  In English he said, “I have a right to be addressed in English.”

  I accommodated him and asked, “What’s your problem? You memorize slogans in Cantonese but you can’t speak it?”

  “I don’t let language become a barrier between me and the people.” He crossed his arms and made a face as if he were trying to bend me like a spoon using his mind.

  “I know your kind,” I said. “You went to college, got your head stuck in some pseudo-socialism, and then you came down here to take a stand with ‘your people.’ Let me tell you something, pal, you didn’t grow up here and you don’t know anybody here. Do yourself a favor. Go back home to the suburbs and study up for law school.”

  “I live here now, so this is my home. These people are my friends and neighbors. We all support the People’s Republic over the puppet state of Taiwan and we’re not going to stay quiet over the issue! Our voices will never be silenced!”

  “See? You don’t need the megaphone!”

  He looked at the instrument in his hand and I could see he didn’t have the guts to raise it again. I was walking away to the KMT side when he yelled after me, “I studied Mandarin in school! And my girlfriend speaks Mandarin!”

  “So have some fucking oranges!” I muttered. The usual suspects were here among the KMT protesters: local businessmen, cranky and retired association members, and conservative students.

  One clean-cut kid was holdin
g a sign that simply had a cross on it. I recognized him from the membership-drive parades that Lonnie’s church staged from time to time in Chinatown. He was the one swinging the incense vessel around on a chain. I guess that Chinese Catholics knew they had that in common with Chinese Buddhists.

  When he saw me, he came over and waved at me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Robert, I’ve been asking Lonnie why we haven’t been seeing you in church.”

  I looked down at his black Play-Doh hair. “I’ve been busy with things like this. Every day I have to be on my toes so the bad guys don’t win.”

  “Some things are more important than our daily routines.”

  “Some things are more important than eating wafers.”

  He made a face like I had cursed. “I will pray for you,” he said.

  A kindly old man with more spots on his head than hair handed me a flyer with a smile. It read, “Boycott Jade Palace and traitor of the Chinese People Willie Gee. Beat the Red Bandits into their graves. Support Righteousness.”

  It was wrong for me to take the flyer, but he had caught me off-guard. I handed it back to him and said in English, “I can’t read Chinese.” I put both hands in my coat pockets so I couldn’t get suckered again.

  At the street corner, I connected with Vandyne who was wearing a leather jacket to fight the cold. He looked upon the twin protests with amusement. “Seems like old times, eh, brother?”

  “That’s right,” I said. Less than a year ago, Jade Palace was swarmed with ex-waiters decrying the management’s practice of taking a percentage out of the tips. “These protests attract so much attention to the restaurant, I can’t help but feel that Willie’s still the one pulling the strings.”

  “That may be so, but he is making some sacrifices,” said Vandyne. “I understand that Golden Peace, the association that Willie formerly headed, has canceled his membership.”

  “That’s a loss for the association, as well. Willie was their superstar. He was the golden boy of Golden Peace.”

  “Golden Piss,” said Vandyne.

  We both laughed. “So, everything’s okay, right?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, everybody’s already in there.”

  The protesters had naïvely expected all the dignitaries to enter from the front. In fact, Li Na’s man and the State Department brass had entered the restaurant from the storage area of a corner store down the block. Willie Gee himself operated the freight elevator that took them up to a private room that had commanding views of the Manhattan Bridge and none of the protests below.

  Lonnie and her interpreter friend had been snuck into the restaurant also. I wondered how her interview would go.

  Some jerk walking by yelled, “Death to Mao!” and threw a bucket of water on the Communists. He practically ran into me.

  “Mao’s already dead, idiot,” I told him.

  He was a wiry guy, practically part spider. “I hate all Communists!” he yelled. Vandyne went to check on the wet protesters as the KMT side jeered.

  “I’m taking you into the precinct for assault,” I said. I cuffed him and his arms were like twist ties.

  “I’m proud of what I did!”

  I saw Vandyne and, although people were screaming at him, I knew that none of them would follow through and press charges. I knew taking this guy in would just result in paperwork for me but it was worth it to stick a fine on him. I just wanted to try to make everything as much of a pain in the ass for Spider-Man as it was for me. He shouldn’t be able to throw freezing water on people with impunity.

  I walked him into a fire hydrant, knees first, and watched him stumble. I pulled him back upright by the handcuffs and said, “Oopsie.”

  I looked back at the crowd as I pushed my guy onward and caught a mean look from the auxiliary cop who had buttonholed me earlier. I also saw rooster boy yelling at his girlfriend even as she helped him take off his soaked vest. What a jerk.

  I was typing away at my desk in the detective squad room. To my left was Detective Second Grade Stuart “Bad Boy” Piccolo, who looked like Lou Costello gone gray, but he was quiet and never made anybody laugh.

  To my right was Detective Second Grade Anthony “Pete” Risso. “Pete” was short for “Pizza Man.” His light brown hair went down to his shoulders. Pete had an amazing memory and his unblinking eyes recorded everything.

  He got the name Pizza Man because it was a character he played back in his old Brooklyn precinct when they knew where a bunch of drug dealers were holed up. Pete would knock on the front door with a pizza. Whoever was closest to the door wouldn’t be that suspicious because he figured that even if he didn’t order it, someone else might have. A look through the peephole would have shown a skinny white guy with a thick mustache. Pete would lift up the lid of the box to show the hot pizza. It was tough for a hungry idiot to resist.

  When the drug dealer opened the door, four guys with guns would swing in. The bit worked for years before all the criminals figured it out.

  I’m not sure why Pete ended up as a precinct detective in Chinatown. He cleared a lot of cases and should have been with a prestigious spot maybe with Manhattan South. I asked him about it once and he just said that he had gotten fucked over. It might have been a political thing, or maybe he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

  Both Bad Boy and Pete had been tied up earlier in the year with a bomb the FALN had set off near Police Headquarters. The Puerto Rican militant group wanted complete independence from the United States, but their methods were repugnant and, worst of all, their spokesman had the same name as Thomas “English” Sanchez, our top precinct detective.

  The FBI did the heavy lifting on the investigation but they still wanted Manhattan South and local detectives working with them. The bombing did occur within our precinct boundary, after all.

  Now that the media hype was dying down on the case, Bad Boy and Pete were released back to the precinct.

  Bad Boy was probably a decade older than English and he spent most of the day chain-smoking with one hand and writing with the other with the phone wedged between a shoulder and an ear. Supposedly Bad Boy was coordinating with cops in other cities who dealt with tax scams and pirated goods. It was tough to tell. His voice was so soft it was impossible to eavesdrop.

  Last year, Bad Boy took down an entire block of merchants for charging tourists sales tax that they never reported. The stores settled quickly with the Internal Revenue Service and the state and local tax offices. The stores were closed over only one weekend. Maybe justice wasn’t truly served, but what the hell, it made the city money.

  Pete’s caseload was packed with stupid gang kids shooting or beating or vehicular-assaulting each other with zero witnesses. Ever since I picked up investigative assignments, he’d been pushing them on to me.

  About a year ago, a carload of kids was kidnapped by a rival gang. One of them managed to sneak out and called Pete for help. He got a few collars out of it because some of the kidnappers were over twenty-one. It’s tough to build a case against a teen when the system is always bent toward sparing the rod and spoiling the child.

  Vandyne had helped Pete nail some over-twenty-ones while busting a heroin ring that had operations in the United States, Canada, and Mexico.

  But apart from that it was tough to say how effective Pete and Bad Boy were. They didn’t seem to be doing anything day to day or night to night. I’m not saying Vandyne and I were any better. We were just four guys at our desks, trying to get through the shift and through the shit, and seemingly getting nothing done. The only times I felt like I was finishing anything was at the end of meals.

  If you manage to close down some crooked stores, they reopen almost immediately. If you sweep up some of those stupid gang kids in a heroin bust, they’re back on the street within hours. If you manage to help stop a human-smuggling ring, like I did, you get a Meritorious Police Duty bar, but no gold shield.

  This day was no different. After releasing the wa
ter-bucket jerk with a fine and warning, I had to type up the day’s proceedings and make it look like I was earning my pay.

  I walked over to an empty desk that was the unofficial library and condiment station. The desk had belonged to a guy named Lumpy who had retired early two years ago in a voluntary buyout during the city’s financial crunch. The drawers were crammed with salt, pepper, duck sauce, and hot mustard packets. Outdated World Book Encyclopedia volumes protected the desk surface from getting dusty.

  I opened the bottom drawer for my jar of Jif peanut butter but it was scraped completely transparent. Now I had to get by on some steamed rice buns with nothing on them. Each bite sucked all the saliva out of my mouth and they didn’t even taste like anything. But they were healthier to eat than my old standby, the hot-dog pastries. I was hungry a while ago but the rice buns didn’t sound appetizing until I was nearly doubled over in pain from not eating. I took one out of the bag and felt despair.

  Vandyne was already gone and Pete was on his way out. Bad Boy was on the phone and in no rush to leave. He never was. I wanted to go meet Lonnie and see how that interview went.

  My phone rang.

  “Detective,” I said.

  “Robert!” said Lonnie.

  “Yeah!”

  “I can’t meet you for dinner tonight. I didn’t get a chance to really talk with Chen Xiaochuan. Willie Gee wanted to give us a private room for the interview but the FBI guys insisted that we leave. Mr. Chen went back to his hotel.”

  “That’s not surprising. It’s a security issue.”

  “Well, Mr. Chen asked me to have dinner with him. At his hotel. In his hotel room.”

  I switched the phone to my other ear. “Oh, he did, huh?”

  “I know what you might be thinking and I was cautious, too. But he said his security detail would be right there. We’re not going to be alone.”

  “Well, I guess that sounds okay. I can’t possibly object to that.”

  “The best thing is he can speak Cantonese pretty well. Far better than my Mandarin. I would have never guessed.”