a thousand guys out there look like this."
"We gotta start somewhere." Jack looked out the window, scanned the street where Lucky had been.
"Sure, I'll keep my ears open," Billy said. "What else is up?"
Jack put down the milk. "You seen Tat around, Billy?"
"Tat?" Billy's brow knitted. "That low life? Yeah, I seen him. Runs around with them punks following him."
"They ever come in here?"
"Tried to sell me one of the fucking hundred-dollar orange trees on Chinese New Year."
"What happened?"
"Dad was paid up with the On Yee and they called there off."
"Good."
"Otherwise I'd of blown them away. Tat don't fucken scare me."
Jack watched him, said, "Where's he hang now?"
Billy grimaced. "What you want that scumball for?"
"Nothing personal, Billy."
"Cops and hoods, huh?" Billy smirked. "The good turn bad, the bad gets worse. You sure like stepping in shit, Jack."
"I know it," Jack agreed. "Supposed to be good luck." He offered a dollar for the drink.
"Don't embarrass me, Jacky," Billy said sternly, andJack put his cash away.
"Try the basements on Mott, Number Nine, Number Sixty-Six," Billy said quietly.
"Okay, one more thing."
"Shoot."
"You got any cardboard boxes? I'm cleaning out the old place."
Billy read Jack's eyes. "Oh, yeah, I heard. Sorry about your old man." He paused. "He was a right guy. A standup Chinaman, Jack."
"Yeah," Jack said very quietly. "That he was."
"Come by later, I'll tell the kid, put some aside."
"Thanks."
"You okay with it?"
"Yeah, I'm okay."
They were silent a moment, then Billy's ire came back and he yelled at some of the new workers as a tractor-trailer rolled in out front.
"Damn joohies," he said, referring to the cadre of newly arrived teenage Fukienese he had working upstairs in the hot room. "They just don't get it. I told them, `Learn English. You won't have to run away every time the gwai-lo comes in. You can do better. You don't have to be stuck working here."'
He took a deep breath. "You think they listen? `How come you still here?' the wiseguy says."
A crew of the young wetbacks sauntered toward the street and the tractor trailer. Billy shook his head at them, said derisively, through his frown, "Look at 'em, clothes don't match but they perm their hair. At lunchtime they squat in the alleyway and pick their noses and spit clams on the wall. They talk too loud, and they laugh like hyenas. Refugees."
"Good help is hard to find," Jack sympathized.
"Cheap good help is hard to find," Billy countered. "If it weren't for me, they'd still be in the village, wearing them rubber sandals, gong hen, the shit still between their toes." He watched them unloading the trailer, said, "You're in America, I keep telling 'em. Be American."
"Yeah," Jack twisted, "Be like us. Misery loves company." They slapped palms and Jack added, "One last thing, I need to know about the Fuk Ching."
Just then it got busy in the shop, a sudden line of Midwestern tourists gawking at the Yellows, each buying souvenir packs of sweet tofu cake.
Jack wised to Billy's busy situation.
Billy patted him on the shoulder, tipped his chin at him and said, "Later, Grandpa's, around midnight." Then he moved off into the hubbub, toward the truck.
Jack finished the daojeungand went out the side door, past the helpers unloading the sacks of beans, past the deliverymen with their carts full of cheungfun, broad noodles. He took a last look at Billy, who was barking orders into the air, then he put on his shades, and slipped into the Chinatown afternoon.
Old Woman
Because of the nature of the crime, as well as the race of the victim and the perpetrator, Jack took it personally, felt the case needed special attention. So he carried the victim photographs and the perp sketches down the side streets, on his day off, on neighborhood time.
He came off of Mott onto Bayard, walking briskly toward the Tombs detention facility, toward the gaggle of old women gathered on the corner of Columbus Park.
The fortune-telling
"We gotta start somewhere." Jack looked out the window, scanned the street where Lucky had been.
"Sure, I'll keep my ears open," Billy said. "What else is up?"
Jack put down the milk. "You seen Tat around, Billy?"
"Tat?" Billy's brow knitted. "That low life? Yeah, I seen him. Runs around with them punks following him."
"They ever come in here?"
"Tried to sell me one of the fucking hundred-dollar orange trees on Chinese New Year."
"What happened?"
"Dad was paid up with the On Yee and they called there off."
"Good."
"Otherwise I'd of blown them away. Tat don't fucken scare me."
Jack watched him, said, "Where's he hang now?"
Billy grimaced. "What you want that scumball for?"
"Nothing personal, Billy."
"Cops and hoods, huh?" Billy smirked. "The good turn bad, the bad gets worse. You sure like stepping in shit, Jack."
"I know it," Jack agreed. "Supposed to be good luck." He offered a dollar for the drink.
"Don't embarrass me, Jacky," Billy said sternly, andJack put his cash away.
"Try the basements on Mott, Number Nine, Number Sixty-Six," Billy said quietly.
"Okay, one more thing."
"Shoot."
"You got any cardboard boxes? I'm cleaning out the old place."
Billy read Jack's eyes. "Oh, yeah, I heard. Sorry about your old man." He paused. "He was a right guy. A standup Chinaman, Jack."
"Yeah," Jack said very quietly. "That he was."
"Come by later, I'll tell the kid, put some aside."
"Thanks."
"You okay with it?"
"Yeah, I'm okay."
They were silent a moment, then Billy's ire came back and he yelled at some of the new workers as a tractor-trailer rolled in out front.
"Damn joohies," he said, referring to the cadre of newly arrived teenage Fukienese he had working upstairs in the hot room. "They just don't get it. I told them, `Learn English. You won't have to run away every time the gwai-lo comes in. You can do better. You don't have to be stuck working here."'
He took a deep breath. "You think they listen? `How come you still here?' the wiseguy says."
A crew of the young wetbacks sauntered toward the street and the tractor trailer. Billy shook his head at them, said derisively, through his frown, "Look at 'em, clothes don't match but they perm their hair. At lunchtime they squat in the alleyway and pick their noses and spit clams on the wall. They talk too loud, and they laugh like hyenas. Refugees."
"Good help is hard to find," Jack sympathized.
"Cheap good help is hard to find," Billy countered. "If it weren't for me, they'd still be in the village, wearing them rubber sandals, gong hen, the shit still between their toes." He watched them unloading the trailer, said, "You're in America, I keep telling 'em. Be American."
"Yeah," Jack twisted, "Be like us. Misery loves company." They slapped palms and Jack added, "One last thing, I need to know about the Fuk Ching."
Just then it got busy in the shop, a sudden line of Midwestern tourists gawking at the Yellows, each buying souvenir packs of sweet tofu cake.
Jack wised to Billy's busy situation.
Billy patted him on the shoulder, tipped his chin at him and said, "Later, Grandpa's, around midnight." Then he moved off into the hubbub, toward the truck.
Jack finished the daojeungand went out the side door, past the helpers unloading the sacks of beans, past the deliverymen with their carts full of cheungfun, broad noodles. He took a last look at Billy, who was barking orders into the air, then he put on his shades, and slipped into the Chinatown afternoon.
Old Woman
Because of the nature of the crime, as well as the race of the victim and the perpetrator, Jack took it personally, felt the case needed special attention. So he carried the victim photographs and the perp sketches down the side streets, on his day off, on neighborhood time.
He came off of Mott onto Bayard, walking briskly toward the Tombs detention facility, toward the gaggle of old women gathered on the corner of Columbus Park.
The fortune-telling
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