Snakes Can't Run Read online

  A truck was standing by the restaurant as two men with hand trucks wheeled crates of vegetables up a metal ramp and into the entrance.

  When I reached the glass doors at the front, I swung open the one closest to me.

  One of the deliverymen yelled out, “Hey, it’s not open, yet!”

  “I have a twenty-four-hour pass!” I yelled, flashing my shield. He ran away.

  I walked into the main dining room. The lights were out and the tables looked ugly, without lazy Susans and new linen to cover up their chewed-up particleboard surfaces. I walked over to the private room at the side, but the door was locked. I heard an elevator bell go off. I turned and saw Willie Gee stroll into the dining room.

  “Robert Chow!” he called out. “It’s always a pleasure! I couldn’t help but notice on our security cameras that you entered our premises outside of our business hours.” He was wearing a gray polyester suit and a smile that could sell AMC Pacers.

  I widened my stance and didn’t shake his hand, which was aimed at my gut.

  “Willie, I need to ask you about some customers you had last night.”

  “Of course, of course! Anything in the world that you want!” He pulled out two chairs from a nearby table. I moved my chair two feet away from his before sitting down.

  “Last night around seven thirty P.M. two men came in and you seemed to know them. I think you brought them in to sit in the private room.”

  “Around seven thirty P.M. last evening, huh?” Willie surprised me by appearing to really think about the previous night. “What were they wearing?”

  “One was about five-five, wore a red knit shirt. The other was taller, maybe five-eight or -nine, wearing a dark shirt.”

  “Both Chinese?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh,” said Willie, smiling and tapping his right temple. “I know exactly who you mean. These two gentlemen are Mr. Andy Ng and Mr. King Lam.”

  “Which one’s the shorter one?”

  “Mr. Ng.”

  “Do you know them well?”

  “Mr. Ng comes in about once a week. Mr. Lam, less often.”

  “What line of work are they in?”

  “They are both export-import businessmen, Robert. We do a lot of business with them. They entertain clients here. One time Mr. Ng bought out the entire dining room.” Willie opened his face up in genuine surprise and raised his arms to his sides. “This whole room! Nobody’s ever done that before!”

  “What products does Ng import into the country?”

  “I don’t inquire the specifics of a man’s business. That’s rude, Robert! That’s like asking every man who comes in if the woman he’s with is his wife!”

  “You seemed to be particularly glad to see him, like an old friend. Like someone you knew better than just a good customer.”

  Willie tilted his head at me.

  “Are you kidding? Anybody who bought me out for the whole night would be my new brother! Even you, Robert!”

  “What is the name of the company Ng works for?”

  He inhaled deeply, then coughed. Willie hit his chest with an open palm. “Damn cigarettes,” he choked. After he recovered more, Willie said, “Beautiful Hong Kong Limited.”

  He had another coughing fit and I slapped him hard on the back. He put up a hand asking me to wait, but I was already on my way out.

  It wasn’t unusual to have the word “beautiful” in the name of a business, because the United States is represented by a compound of the two characters “beautiful” and “country” in the written Chinese language, which is the same for the spoken languages Mandarin and Cantonese.

  You know what the character for “beautiful” looks like—a lobster on its back with claws down, legs out, and tail up.

  There were many companies in Chinatown that had “beautiful” in their name to show that they did business in the United States. Many of them had very ugly business practices, including not paying workers overtime, withholding paychecks, and firing pregnant women who couldn’t stay on their feet.

  I went down to Martha’s Bakery to look in on Lonnie. The morning rush was over and she was wiping down the tables at the front. It broke my heart a little bit to see her doing this menial work, even though she was the assistant manager. I came in and patted her shoulder.

  Victoria, the other woman who worked with Lonnie, was swishing a smelly mop around the floor by the counter. She winked at us. I waved to her.

  Lonnie went behind the counter and gave me a small paper bag that contained two plain steamed rice buns. I still liked the hot-dog pastries, that Chinese-American creation that looks like a Viking helmet with both ends of the dog sticking out of the egg-glazed dough. Lonnie didn’t let me have them very often. They were bad for me.

  “I just came back from seeing Willie Gee,” I told Lonnie as I checked the bag, unable to conceal my disappointment with what I saw inside. “I feel like I need a shower.”

  “You don’t smell badly and you look all right. In fact, I’d say you look like a Breck Girl!” she said, smiling.

  “Hey,” I said, lowering my voice. “Keep it down, Lonnie!”

  “It’s funny, that’s all. I’m trying to raise your spirits!”

  “Anything interesting happen this morning?”

  “Nothing, really. Just the usual. Well, everybody was talking about the two bodies that were found.”

  “Yeah, they’re talking because there weren’t any cops around.”

  “It was on the front page of all three newspapers!” That is, the KMT-biased one, the Communist-biased one, and the Hong Kong–biased one.

  “Well, yeah, they can all agree on stronger sales.”

  Apart from having their own political slants, all three had sensationalist coverage of crime that bordered on ghoulish. About a month ago a man in L.A. had jumped from the roof of a building and the Communist-biased newspaper had run a photo spread showing the man plunging, frame by frame, to his death. I was disgusted at myself for buying a copy. Everybody in the detective squad flipped out when I showed it to them, but the midget had passed on taking a peek.

  “Who do you think killed those guys?” I asked.

  Lonnie gave me a hard look.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” she said.

  “Great idea. You’re free tonight, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to send Paul to the midget’s, then.”

  “Good idea.”

  I waved to Victoria, rubbed Lonnie’s shoulder, and left.

  “We have this year’s Chinese Yellow Pages?” I asked English.

  “We should. Check Lumpy’s desk.”

  Lumpy was a guy who had retired early two years ago in a voluntary buyout during the city’s fiscal crunch. His old desktop had become the detective bureau’s unofficial library and condiment station. The drawers were crammed with packets of salt, pepper, ketchup, and mustard.

  The Chinese Yellow Pages were published by the Hong Kong–biased newspaper. I flipped to the “importers” section and found three companies that could have fit the bill and set the book down on my desk, which was next to the drafty window.

  I took a jar of Jif from Lumpy’s bottom drawer. I wiped a plastic knife on my pants and then used it to spread peanut butter over one of the rice buns. I ate it quickly and washed it down with a cup of lukewarm water from our busted cooler.

  I stretched out my hand and glanced at the rotary dial on my phone. There were marks all over the numbers on the dial from cops who had wanted to play Spirograph with their pens.

  The phone for “Beautiful Hong Kong Peace” was disconnected.

  There was no answer at “Beautiful Hong Kong Ltd.”

  A woman at “Beautiful Hongkong” answered the phone with a simple, “Hello?” I asked to speak to Mr. Ng and got what sounded like an aged man, surprised he had a phone call.

  “Yes? This is Mr. Ng.”

  Finding a Mr. Ng wasn’t so unusual. You throw a handful of popcorn in the air in
the street and one or two will land on someone named Ng.

  “Mr. Ng, is there another Mr. Ng who works there?”

  “Well, no, there isn’t. I don’t actually work here myself, anymore. I closed this business years ago because the warehouse rent was just killing my margins.”

  “So ‘Beautiful Hongkong’ no longer exists?”

  “No. Long gone. I keep telling them to delist my phone from the Yellow Pages, but you know, they never listen.”

  “Thank you anyway, Mr. Ng.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Robert Chow. I’m with the detective bureau of the Fifth Precinct.”

  “Well, maybe you can do something about my problem and get them to take me out of their book! I still get calls sometimes, strange calls.”

  “What kind of calls?”

  “Asking in Mandarin for information about human tongues!”

  “Human tongues?”

  “Yeah! Scary people out there!”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Ng. Have a good day.”

  I sat at my desk and thought about tongues, absently smearing another rice bun with peanut butter. I took a few bites and looked at the address for “Beautiful Hong Kong Ltd.”: 220 Worth Street, sixth floor.

  Worth Street is the unofficial southern border of Chinatown, cutting off Columbus Park, Mulberry Street, Mott Street, and Bowery at Chatham Square. It bordered the same block as Don’s shabby apartment over on Park Street.

  I got over to the building, but the name on the sixth-floor button was “Eight Stars Lion Dance Group.” I rang the button and the door buzzed open. The stairwell was drafty, but it was still hot and humid in the building. I was sweating by the second floor. Luckily, like most Chinese buildings, there was no fourth floor, so I only had to climb to the equivalent of the fifth floor.

  American buildings leave off the thirteenth floor. Why, I don’t really know, except that thirteen is an unlucky number.

  Chinese buildings don’t have fourth floors because “four” sounds like “death” and it’s bad luck to be associated with it.

  This superstition applies double to “44” and triple to “444.” A lot of Chinatown produce stands exploit this fear of four by pricing items four for a dollar, encouraging people to buy eight.

  Here’s a quick rule of thumb: American tea sets have four cups while Chinese sets have eight.

  It helps that “eight” sounds like “prosperity,” giving the number some charm. Chinese people pay extra for phone numbers and street addresses with eights.

  Everybody says they’re not superstitious, but it never hurts to have some insurance on the side.

  The only door with light behind it was to the rear. I saw a woman sitting at the front desk through the door window, so I waved to her instead of pressing the buzzer. She put down her snack and buzzed the door. I walked into the air-conditioned room.

  “Hello, is this Beautiful Hong Kong Limited?” I asked.

  “Only in name,” said the woman. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, a little unusual for a woman in her mid-twenties. Way too much makeup. She was wearing a dark green suit jacket over a flowery yellow blouse, all covered by flakes from her ham and egg pastry.

  “Why just in name?” I asked, aware of some movement in one of the back rooms.

  “This used to be the New York warehouse for the company, but it’s been donated to a space for a nonprofit activity center for the youth of Chinatown.”

  “What sort of activities?”

  “An affiliate of a Hong Kong–based lion dance group that practices here. We’re also going to put in a table-tennis setup. It’s not done yet.”

  “Do you know Mr. Ng?”

  “Mr. Ng? You mean my brother? He’s never here. I’m in charge.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Winnie,” she said with emphasis, as if I should have known.

  “My name’s Robert Chow.” I gave her my card. “This is purely an informational visit.”

  “You’re with the detective squad! What’s going on?”

  “I just wanted to have a brief chat with Mr. Ng, that’s all.”

  “I thought you might have been one of the contractors working on the floor here, but I guess you’re not big enough, anyway. You’re sort of built for desk work.”

  “Typing is tougher than it looks. Anyway, what’s wrong with the floor?”

  “Well, this used to be a warehouse space, so it’s kind of rough all around.”

  I heard some more noise in the back. “You mind if I take a tiny peek back there?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  I went down the hall and the carpeting ended almost right behind her desk. She stuck behind me. Soon I was walking on gray wooden planks. We went by some doorways, most without doors. At the end of the hall were two big metal doors. One was propped open with a cinder block.

  We walked in. The floor was concrete. Eight gaudily adorned lion costumes were sprawled out in a row. Without people inside them, the glittery body sections were completely flat and the giant furry heads lay with their eyes and mouths open, tongues on the floor. The air-conditioning didn’t reach back here and I fanned my face a little.

  A man in a tank top and shorts was kneeling by a sparkling red lion with his back to us.

  “Don’t come in, Winnie!” he said. “These costumes are very delicate!”

  “Brian,” said Winnie. “We have a visitor.”

  The man put down a brush, wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, and looked at me curiously. He was scarily muscular but had a friendly and very sweaty face.

  “Hi. Welcome,” Brian said.

  “Hello. My name is Robert. How are you?” We shook hands briefly.

  “He’s with the police,” said Winnie.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Brian.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said with a fake laugh. “I just wanted to see what kind of business Mr. Ng operated. He’s very well regarded in the community.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, maybe you can tell him to stop being so cheap!” spat Brian. “If he expects us to be a viable lion dance group, tell him to spend some money and get us new costumes, not these secondhand pieces of garbage that keep falling apart! Can’t even put them on without the scales coming off!”

  “Brian!” said Winnie.

  “And while you’re at it,” he went on, “tell him to finish renovating this space! I feel like I’ve got my kids practicing in a junkyard. We’re nothing but a tax write-off for a cheapskate!”

  “It’s not that bad here,” I said.

  “You don’t see the rats right now! They come up right through the floor! The only thing Ng spent money on was the sound system.” He pointed to two huge speakers that I had mistaken for Dumpsters. “But no matter how loud you turn them up, they don’t make the studio look any better!”

  “I thought lion dances were supposed to be done with live instruments?”

  “Don’t get me started on that! Oh, brother!”

  “Mr. Chow,” interrupted Winnie, “maybe you could come back some other time. I’ll have my brother call you when I see him.”

  “Nice meeting you, Brian,” I said.

  “Hey, if you talk to Ng, remind him that I came from a respectable lion dance group to start this thing up!” he thundered. “I don’t need to stay here—I’m good!”

  I went back to the squad room and wrote down what I had learned in a notepad I kept in my top drawer for typing later on. You had to keep track of your day as it went by, because when it was time to type it was hard to tell what happened that day from the one before.

  My phone rang. It was Vandyne.

  “Tell me something good,” I said.

  “Can’t do that because I’m not going to lie to you.”

  “Is everything okay? How did it go?”

  “Well . . . ,” he started. I could hear him shift the phone around and I thought I heard a door close.

  “What’s going on, Van
dyne?”

  “I just closed myself in the pantry here so I could talk more privately.”

  “So couples therapy didn’t go so well?” I looked over at English, who was in the lounge watching TV. No one else was around.

  “It went all right, partner. The doctor made me realize something. I mean, about what we both did in Nam, right?”

  He was referring to the fact that each of us had justifiably killed a little boy.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “That’s why I don’t want to have a child. In my mind, I don’t think I deserve to have a child because I shot one to death.”

  “But the kid you killed was shooting up your camp,” I said. “It was kill or be killed!”

  “I know, I know.”

  We listened to each other breathing for a little bit because I didn’t know what else to say.

  “You don’t have to have kids,” I said, hoping it would help. “It’s not in the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  “Rose wants to have a kid before she’s thirty.”

  “How many years you got until then?”

  “Three. Well, more like two and a half.”

  “You know what, don’t think about it for a year. Just let it all go for a year and then come back and see how you feel.”

  “But how the hell am I going to do that when she talks to her sister or when we see them and their boy and girl? She’s even younger than Rose!”

  “If you live your life wanting the good things other people have, you also have to consider all the bad things, too. I’m sure they’re not as happy as you and Rose, Vandyne.”

  “Her husband’s a doctor, a real condescending asshole. They live in a four-story brownstone in Manhattan with a nighttime view of the Hudson that looks like a postcard. They have a remote-controlled stereo system that the doctor showed off while we were having dinner. They also got a microwave oven and a walk-in refrigerator that holds their wine collection.”

  I got the feeling that Vandyne couldn’t even bring himself to say the guy’s name. I licked my lips involuntarily when he mentioned “wine.”

  “But you know what?” I said. “He doesn’t have a gun, right?”

  “He doesn’t have a gun. He hates guns.”