One Red Bastard Read online

  “Oh, I knew,” I said. “He just wanted to see her off.”

  “How come he didn’t come back?”

  That night I was on the phone with Lonnie.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “Don’t talk to me that way, Robert!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter, that’s why.”

  “You told me you left by yourself after the interview!”

  “I forgot that Mr. Chen came down after! I was waiting in the lobby for the limo service and he chatted with me for about a minute. He asked me if I wanted a ride from his security detail, but I said no. The car came right after and he walked me outside. I got in, he chatted with the driver in Mandarin, and then he said good night to me.”

  “He and the driver were chatting in Mandarin? What limo driver speaks Mandarin?”

  “Robert, I hired a Chinatown livery car, Heavenly Horse. Presswire was paying for it and I wanted to bring some business to the community.”

  “You talked to Heavenly Horse on the phone?”

  “No, I walked into their office. It’s close to home.”

  “Good. Since they saw you in person, they’d probably remember you. You came home alone, right?”

  I heard her sigh. “Yes-ss-s.”

  “Don’t do that. You sound like Paul when you do that.”

  “Then don’t treat me like this. You’re meaner than the Manhattan South guys.”

  “Did you see Mr. Chen go back into the hotel? Maybe through a side door or something?”

  “I didn’t. When they told me he didn’t come back in it was a surprise to me. He wasn’t ready to go out. He didn’t even have a coat on.”

  “You told the detectives all this, right?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “That’s good, then. I’m glad you told them everything.”

  “Me, too. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know me, I’m fine.”

  “You sound really worried!”

  “I am! You don’t know how much of a jam you’re in!”

  “The lawyers say I’m completely in the clear! Please relax, Robert!”

  But I knew better than to let up. When you relax they slip the noose over your head and drop the floor.

  I had a late dinner with Vandyne. We met up at a place downstairs from the sidewalk where Mott runs into Bowery, a busy intersection. Tourists don’t go there because the stairs down are usually covered with blown-in trash.

  The best thing about the restaurant was that it was one of the few that actually had booths running from the floor to the ceiling. It used to be a speakeasy, according to the midget, but he might have been pulling my leg when he said it.

  It was a good thing they no longer served alcohol.

  A waiter in his fifties came over, leaned against the booth wall in his black T-shirt, and asked us what we wanted. I ordered greens in garlic sauce and roasted chicken for both of us. The waiter turned to Vandyne and asked in English, “You want tea, Detective?”

  Vandyne’s eyebrows shot up. “Sure.”

  The waiter smiled and went away. When he came back he flipped our ceramic cups over and poured tea, Vandyne first. Vandyne rapped his first two knuckles against the tabletop, making the waiter chuckle.

  “You know, you know,” said the waiter. After he put the teapot down he added, “My first English teacher was black man!” The waiter gave Vandyne a thumbs-up.

  Vandyne smiled and said, “I can tell he was a good teacher.”

  “Very good, very good!”

  After he went away, I said, “He had to make it a point with you that he knows another black person.”

  “So what?”

  “That’s racism.”

  “That’s not racism, Chow. Racism is coming in and being seated in the back or not being seated at all. He’s just trying to reach out across cultures. That’s a beautiful thing.”

  “So is my ass.”

  “So when I tapped my knuckles when he was pouring the tea, was I being racist or was I sharing some cultural knowledge?”

  I grunted and took a sip of my tea. “He poured it too early. It hasn’t had time to steep, yet.”

  “This poor waiter can’t do anything right, can he?”

  “He can shut up and bring our food without the chitchat.”

  “It’s the Lonnie thing that’s bugging you, right?”

  “You’re goddamned right it is! Am I the only one really worried about the whole thing? She’s not even taking it seriously!”

  “Just lay off of it, Chow. Let the investigation run its course. The public doesn’t trust us but we should at least trust each other.”

  I looked at him sideways.

  “Hey, man,” Vandyne continued, “these aren’t fuckups handling this. It’s Manhattan South. They’ll do a good job.”

  “Izzy wouldn’t tell me who was handling the case.”

  “Good thing, too. You just stay away. How would you like it if you had someone telling you how to investigate those guns in the mailbox? That so-and-so was innocent and that so-and-so was guilty?”

  “You’re right, Vandyne.”

  “See? If you try to interfere, you’re just going to make things worse. A lot worse.”

  The waiter swung in with our greens, chicken, and two bowls of rice. He poured us more tea and smiled, which nudged up the bags under his eyes. He wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  I felt restless at home. Paul played both sides of the Ramones record and the back of my brain was pulsing, the lizard part. I couldn’t stop thinking about those two jerks who were tailing Lonnie around town. They were probably parked outside of her apartment now.

  There likely wasn’t much that I could do about the Manhattan South guys, so I set my mind to other things. I thought about those guns stuffed in the Henry Street apartment mailbox. What if a little girl had opened that box instead of old Mr. Wing?

  I zipped up my heavy black coat, the one with the blanket lining. I had to be ready to stay outside for a while.

  “Where are you going, Robert?” asked Paul. He was sitting on the couch reading a book, seemingly undisturbed by the racket coming from the stereo.

  “You really want to know?” I asked.

  He closed the book on his left index finger and stood up. “It’s about Lonnie, isn’t it?”

  I pulled on my gloves and didn’t say anything.

  “Robert, what are you going to do?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “You can’t just go over to the guys staking her out and start swinging!”

  “I am not going there, all right?”

  I put on a Rangers cap and pulled the brim low, almost over my eyes. “I’m going out now on official work, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. I just don’t want to see you get hurt doing something stupid.”

  “I don’t do anything stupid. Anymore.”

  Chinatown is deserted at night for the most part. The halfway decent restaurants start closing at nine at night, creating dim blocks of rolled-down metal grating with garbage bags sagging in the gutters. They never have pictures of Chinatown like this for the tourist pamphlets and postcards.

  The rumor was that the restaurants closed that early to avoid roving bands of idiot gang kids looking to score a free meal. What the kids typically do is go into restaurants and eat up complete meals—with alcohol when possible. When the check comes, they sign their gang name on it and split. The nicer gang kids would leave a tip for the waiters, because their parents are waiters. Gang kids typically wake up in the afternoons and wouldn’t be set to eat dinner until close to midnight. Restaurants that closed at nine at night didn’t have gang kids pawing their lazy Susans.

  Another rumor about the early closings was that there was a deal with the Little Italy restaurateurs, just north of Canal, so the Italian places wouldn’t have to compete with cheap Chinese food with the late-dining and after-theater crowd.

  Maybe they were bo
th true. The only people walking around the neighborhood now were people coming back from work or those going out now to the garment factories.

  But at least one restaurant was still open—OK Noodle on Division Street, where Lincoln Chin might be hanging out. The manager there had told me that Lincoln would stay late and not order very much at all.

  I walked up to the restaurant and pretended to read the reviews taped to the window. I saw Lincoln, all right. He was sitting at a table with four other Asian guys.

  I went to the corner and looked around. Thankfully, on the other side of the street there was a phone booth. Drafty as it probably was, it would be better than standing around in the cold. I went across and shut the door on the booth. The windows were all scratched up but I had a pretty good view of Lincoln and his buddies, at least until a guy walked up and stood in front of the door.

  “Are you making a call?” he asked in English. I looked at the man. He was the same guy I had met in Columbus Park the other day, the one who had moved out of Chinatown to get his kids away from the gangs. I hoped his eyes were bad enough so he wouldn’t recognize me.

  He cupped a hand to the glass. “Hey, you’re Officer Chow, right?”

  I smiled and waved. “Yes, that’s me!”

  “It’s me. Byron from the park, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, officer, I hate to be rude, but are you done with this phone? I need to place a call and I had to walk all the way here from Bowery to find a pay phone that works.”

  We were still talking through the glass because I didn’t want to give up the spot.

  “I’m actually waiting for a call,” I said.

  “You expect it soon?”

  “Could be soon.”

  “Would you mind if I waited here until you get the call?”

  “See, the thing is, I have an informant who’s going to be calling and it has to be a private conversation. No offense.”

  “I do apologize, Officer Chow! I’m interfering with police business now.” He moved away and I saw Lincoln and his friends were now standing outside the restaurant. “I’ll see you again, huh?”

  I swept the phone-booth door aside and said, “On the other hand, I need to respect my elders. Here you go!”

  “Are you sure?” he asked me.

  I kept my eyes on the back of Lincoln’s army surplus jacket. “Yeah, I’ll catch up with him and see where he goes,” I said absently. I watched across the street as I followed a parallel path.

  “Hey, Officer Chow!” the man called to me. “There’s no mouthpiece on this phone!”

  “Yes!” I said, not breaking my stride. Lincoln turned a corner onto Henry and I jogged across the street. He was a fast walker.

  I made it around the corner and saw him talking with someone on the sidewalk. I bent down and pretended to tie my shoes. As their conversation dragged out, I stood up and leaned against the low stone fence by some garbage cans as if I were waiting for someone. I looked up to watch the D train rattle by on the Manhattan Bridge overpass. It slowed to an unscheduled stop and I could almost hear the collective groan of the passengers.

  The conversation ended and the guy who had been talking to Lincoln passed me on the other side of the street. I recognized him as a former associate with some gang kids. Somehow he had managed to save himself. I think he ended up going to college.

  I turned and saw Lincoln jog up the steps to a building near the end of the block. I walked toward it slowly until he went into the building’s front door. I continued at the same pace and walked by, noting that it was number 91. I cursed the fact that I had left my radio at home.

  I made a left when I went around the block and I wrote the street address in my notes. I also took off a glove and wrote it in permanent pen on the back of my hand. Just in case my body was found, I wanted to leave a clue. If only all our corpses were so considerate.

  I went to Lincoln’s building. It wasn’t tough to find his apartment. There was only one Chin in the building, at 2R, and the nameplate was split with someone named Lee who didn’t bother to write an English translation for the Chinese character. That had to be his girlfriend’s name. I added the apartment number to the back of my hand.

  I rang the buzzer.

  “Hello?” a man asked in English.

  “It’s the police. I’m looking for Lincoln Chin. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “You have a warrant?”

  “I don’t want to search your place. I just want to talk. You can come down if you don’t want to let me in.”

  “It’s pretty goddamned late, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, but we’re both up, anyway.”

  He made a growling sound and then buzzed the building door open. I went up one flight and knocked on the door.

  Two locks clicked and a chain rattled. The door opened and I was staring into the face of a woman who had full chipmunk cheeks, thick black hair, and dark eyes. Although she wasn’t pretty, she looked well fed and healthy. I pictured her on a Communist propaganda poster with her fist in the air, one arm holding a bushel of bitter melons with a speech bubble reading, “Let’s have a bountiful harvest to feed the never-ending revolution!” She was Lincoln’s girlfriend, all right, the woman he was yelling at back at the protest.

  “Hello,” I said to her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Suddenly Lincoln shouted from somewhere in the apartment, “Teresa! Don’t say anything to that goddamned cop!” He came up and shoved himself in front of the woman. “I remember you from back at the rally!”

  “I’m Robert Chow,” I said. “Still playing with your megaphone?”

  He smirked and moved to block my view of the apartment. “Well, what’d you come up here for?”

  “I wanted to know a little bit more about the Union of the Three Armies, an organization that apparently only exists in your mind.”

  “We are a real group!”

  “You’re not registered as an organization, business, or charity.”

  “We don’t need the recognition of the capitalist establishment. We only need to declare that we exist! Anyway, if it’s a question of being a legitimate group, then why did the NYPD cash our money order and give us a permit?”

  “That was a matter of poor oversight on our part.”

  “As usual.”

  I managed a little laugh and showed him my teeth. “Well, Lincoln, the reason why I wanted to see you was that I was wondering if you knew anything about a small cache of guns that were found in a building on Henry.”

  His face crumpled a little. Was it from guilt or confusion? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The Union of the Three Armies must have guns, right? That was one of your little stashes of handguns in that apartment mailbox next door, wasn’t it?”

  “No! We are unarmed but well informed. We seek change through education and demonstrations.”

  “If you let me in, we can sit down and talk. Like real Chinese people.”

  Lincoln gave a slight nod and opened the door. “No tricks, now.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got slow hands,” I said, stepping in. “Is this a shoes-off kind of place?” I asked, looking around the living room. Mr. Revolution actually had a nice TV, a nice stereo system, and even a nice coffee table. Nary a hammer-and-sickle icon in sight.

  “No, don’t worry about it,” he said. Teresa stood by, apparently awaiting instructions.

  “Are you Teresa Lee?” I asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Teresa,” said Lincoln, “why don’t you go in the bedroom while we talk?” She did what he said and shut the door.

  “Can I take your coat, Robert?”

  “I like it on. I won’t be long.”

  We sat down on the far ends of the couch, which was nicer and bigger than mine. There was enough room for both of us to swing our legs up onto the cushions.

  “Lincoln,” I said, “you’ve been seen associating w
ith known gang members on Henry Street. That’s where you work and that’s also where a cache of guns was found.”

  “Did you say ‘associating’?”

  “Yeah. It’s polite for ‘engaging in criminal planning and activity with.’”

  “Look here, cop. You know what my job is?”

  “I know what it’s supposed to be. You’re apparently a big no-show at the after-school program offices.”

  “I’m having a tough time adjusting. Do you know what it’s like working with someone who cramps your style just for the hell of it?”

  “I actually do, Lincoln.”

  “I’m there for every important meeting. Haven’t missed one yet. You ask any of the kids if Lincoln Chin is there for them and they’ll all say yes.”

  “What’ll they say if I ask them where the guns are?”

  He smiled. “I doubt they’ll tell you. They won’t tell me, that’s for sure. There are some troubled kids, Robert, but I’m trying to engage them—even more so than the kids that don’t give anybody grief. Our programs are meant to keep kids out of trouble and to rope in the ones that have strayed too far.”

  “I’ve heard you’ve been trying to pull the kids into the red and indulge yourself in a Communist fantasy romp.”

  “A number of boys and girls have expressed interest in the Chinese Communist Party, but I’m trying to show them the true path. You know, with Mao dead and Deng Xiaoping back in power, China’s moving towards a market economy. The party itself is in danger of becoming as Communist as West Germany.”

  “Why do you care what happens in China? You’re an American.”

  “I guess you don’t get it, Robert.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve seen what a failure capitalism’s been for America, and now China wants to follow in those same footsteps! They’re going to be Communist in name only. Just like that Together Chinese Kinship. More like Together Chinese Bullshit. They’re only about money.

  “I’ll tell you something else, too! That traitor of the people, Li Na, disgraced her father and now her nation. She was looking for asylum here but I will never stay silent on that issue!”

  “You would even kill her representative to stop her from coming over, wouldn’t you?”

  “I get it. Trying to get me to incriminate myself. Nice. It would be funny if it weren’t so obvious.”