little office in a warehouse on Pike Street?”
“Sure,” Jack said. “JK Trading, something like that.”
“Well, he was asking for you. I tried calling you, then I remembered you said you were away for vacation.”
“Why? What’s up?” Jack asked.
“Someone took like eight thousand worth of stuff, but they didn’t see no entry.”
That’s Ghost turf, thought Jack, dailo Tat’s territory.
“No forced entry? Didn’t Jeff call the cops?”
“Yeah, they came,” Billy answered. “The burglary cops, you know. They made a report, told Jeff they thought it was an inside job.” Billy leaned closer and said quietly, “Look, I told Jeff you’re out of the precinct, but he was just asking, maybe you could take a look around. Like a second opinion.”
Jack felt it again, the tension at the back of his neck, the reasons why he had to leave the Fifth Precinct. The Chinatown way, the Chinese mistrust of policemen and government officials, a historical divide covering centuries of corruption in China, and Hong Kong, where they’d refined corruption to an art form.
All the good things he accomplished as a cop here, made possible because he was Chinese.
All the bad things that happened along the way, also because he was Chinese.
Still, he thought he could have made a difference if only he could have kept his Chineseness out of it.
“C’mon,” Billy snapped, breaking Jack’s drift. “ What fuckin’ inside job? Jeff works the place with his father and sister. It’s a desk and a coupla chairs, not JC Penney. They deliver to the vendors mostly. They don’t get a lotta walk-in traffic out there.”
“I had enough trouble in this precinct, Billy. I can’t chump some other cop’s report,” said Jack.
“I’m not saying that, but if your own folks really are robbing you, you sure don’t wanna hear it from some white cop who’s laughing inside.”
Jack shook his head at the raw truth in Billy’s words.
“Don’t worry about it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”
“I’m out, Billy,” Jack insisted.
“That’s what I told Jeff,” Billy half-protested. “Here, take his card anyway. Call him if you get any bright ideas.”
Pocketing the card, Jack noticed the United National , a Chinese-language newspaper, on the counter. Plastered across the front page were photos of the Kung family murder-suicide. The headline TRAGEDY , reminded him to visit Ah Por, hoping for clarity. “You done with this?” he asked, folding up the newspaper.
“Take it,” Billy answered.
“You heard about the shooting on Division? Players with AK-47s?”
“Yeah, it was on the radio,” Billy remembered.
“What’s up with that?”
“Don’t know. I can check with the Fuk boys later. They’re working the slop room in the afternoon.”
“I’ll call you tonight.”
“It’s Friday,” Billy grinned. “You know where I’ll be.”
Jack smiled. Friday night was always right for Grampa’s, a revered local bar dive.
The sky outside the Tofu King looked ominous again.
Billy put Jack’s containers into a plastic bag, threw up his hands, palms out, and shook his head to refuse Jack’s money.
Jack smiled and thumped his right fist over his heart to say thanks, and backed out through the cold, steamy door.
He took the shortcut down Park Street onto Mulberry, going along Columbus Park.
He didn’t expect them to be there, the old ladies, but he wanted to be sure, and it was along the way. He was right. Not a soul here, the wind too cold, and the leaves long gone from the trees. In the warmer seasons, the old women lined the fence around the park, squatting low on plastic stools, with their charts, and herbs, and the red books containing their divinations. It was much too cold now, and Jack knew Ah Por would be indoors. He remembered her because Pa had gone to her those years after Ma died. Mostly it was for lucky words or numbers, or any kind of good news.
More recently, Ah Por’s readings, in an oblique manner,
“Sure,” Jack said. “JK Trading, something like that.”
“Well, he was asking for you. I tried calling you, then I remembered you said you were away for vacation.”
“Why? What’s up?” Jack asked.
“Someone took like eight thousand worth of stuff, but they didn’t see no entry.”
That’s Ghost turf, thought Jack, dailo Tat’s territory.
“No forced entry? Didn’t Jeff call the cops?”
“Yeah, they came,” Billy answered. “The burglary cops, you know. They made a report, told Jeff they thought it was an inside job.” Billy leaned closer and said quietly, “Look, I told Jeff you’re out of the precinct, but he was just asking, maybe you could take a look around. Like a second opinion.”
Jack felt it again, the tension at the back of his neck, the reasons why he had to leave the Fifth Precinct. The Chinatown way, the Chinese mistrust of policemen and government officials, a historical divide covering centuries of corruption in China, and Hong Kong, where they’d refined corruption to an art form.
All the good things he accomplished as a cop here, made possible because he was Chinese.
All the bad things that happened along the way, also because he was Chinese.
Still, he thought he could have made a difference if only he could have kept his Chineseness out of it.
“C’mon,” Billy snapped, breaking Jack’s drift. “ What fuckin’ inside job? Jeff works the place with his father and sister. It’s a desk and a coupla chairs, not JC Penney. They deliver to the vendors mostly. They don’t get a lotta walk-in traffic out there.”
“I had enough trouble in this precinct, Billy. I can’t chump some other cop’s report,” said Jack.
“I’m not saying that, but if your own folks really are robbing you, you sure don’t wanna hear it from some white cop who’s laughing inside.”
Jack shook his head at the raw truth in Billy’s words.
“Don’t worry about it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”
“I’m out, Billy,” Jack insisted.
“That’s what I told Jeff,” Billy half-protested. “Here, take his card anyway. Call him if you get any bright ideas.”
Pocketing the card, Jack noticed the United National , a Chinese-language newspaper, on the counter. Plastered across the front page were photos of the Kung family murder-suicide. The headline TRAGEDY , reminded him to visit Ah Por, hoping for clarity. “You done with this?” he asked, folding up the newspaper.
“Take it,” Billy answered.
“You heard about the shooting on Division? Players with AK-47s?”
“Yeah, it was on the radio,” Billy remembered.
“What’s up with that?”
“Don’t know. I can check with the Fuk boys later. They’re working the slop room in the afternoon.”
“I’ll call you tonight.”
“It’s Friday,” Billy grinned. “You know where I’ll be.”
Jack smiled. Friday night was always right for Grampa’s, a revered local bar dive.
The sky outside the Tofu King looked ominous again.
Billy put Jack’s containers into a plastic bag, threw up his hands, palms out, and shook his head to refuse Jack’s money.
Jack smiled and thumped his right fist over his heart to say thanks, and backed out through the cold, steamy door.
He took the shortcut down Park Street onto Mulberry, going along Columbus Park.
He didn’t expect them to be there, the old ladies, but he wanted to be sure, and it was along the way. He was right. Not a soul here, the wind too cold, and the leaves long gone from the trees. In the warmer seasons, the old women lined the fence around the park, squatting low on plastic stools, with their charts, and herbs, and the red books containing their divinations. It was much too cold now, and Jack knew Ah Por would be indoors. He remembered her because Pa had gone to her those years after Ma died. Mostly it was for lucky words or numbers, or any kind of good news.
More recently, Ah Por’s readings, in an oblique manner,
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