A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (19 page)

“
Duo shao qian
?” most of them asked. I knew from working the fish store that meant, “How much money?” I wish I would’ve brought Akemi with me. My first wife speaks Mandarin Chinese. She could’ve sat quietly beside me and later translated these men’s Chinese convo to Chiasa in Japanese. Chiasa would then translate it to me in English. Because of how complicated that sounds, is the reason I was seated alone. And of course because in the back room there were only men, I was satisfied that I was there without my wives.

It’s funny how the gathered Chinamen spoke only in Chinese but could hear any and all money talk in English. Suddenly the eldest, who was the last man holding the photos of my vending machines, announced, “
Cho fong su.
”

“You pay rent,” Cho said to me. I assumed that was what the elder had ordered him to say.

“How much?” I asked.

“
Ee bai qwah
,” the eldest said.

“One hundred,” Cho said. I guess that’s what the elder suggested.

“One hundred dollars per year, good?” I said. Then, twelve Chinamen were laughing again. So I realized they wanted me to pay one hundred per month to be allowed to simply place my machine outside of Cho’s store.

“Fifty dollars per month,” I counteroffered. “Or fifteen-hundred dollars for the horse ride machine and you keep it,” I said to Cho, knowing he could either make six hundred dollars per year renting the space to me at fifty dollars per month or twelve thousand dollars a year owning the machine himself. If his customers gravitated towards it, even if he couldn’t clear a thousand dollars a month worth of riders, if he took in half of that amount, he would still make six thousand dollars per year instead of six hundred dollars renting me the space. He had customers of all different backgrounds, including African Americans, who lined up and waited patiently for their orders to be prepared all of the time, and who often came with their children on the weekend, days and evenings.

“
Tai gwee la
,” one of the men said, but he was not the elder. I knew what that meant. Chinese customers said those exact words when they thought their order was too expensive and they wanted the “We Chinese discount” at Cho’s store. Now, twenty-two Chinese eyes were fixed on Cho, mine making twenty-four. They began speaking in Chinese again among themselves. I imagined that at least one of them was saying that he could make a horse ride vending machine easily for one hundred and eighty dollars total, parts and labor. The Chinese are smart like that. They could take anyone in the world’s idea or product and duplicate it, even though they had not invented it or thought of it first. I anticipated the competition because I know when dealing with the Chinese, the angle is always that they can make absolutely anything that the human mind could imagine, and they could make it for cheap!

I knew that winning this offer that I was making to Cho depended on the fact that I am the first person he encountered
making him such an offer, and that I had the machine available immediately. I already knew that whatever deal I might make with Cho, the deal would only last at maximum one year before he and they found a better, smarter, cheaper way to do it on their own. But that was cool. If I could draw in a year’s worth of coins, or sell the machine outright, I was still making a real profit either way. In one year, I would have expanded and made new locations for my machines and new contacts and new customers also, just like the Chinese could and would.

“
Ee chien er
,” the eldest said.

“Twelve hundred,” Cho said to me in English. “I keep,” he added. The eleven Chinamen began all speaking at one time. Then the speaking ceased and the oldest man was the only one speaking. The rest, including Cho, listening to him. When the eldest one was done, Cho replied in Chinese to him in a very respectful tone. I imagined he was saying, “Nah, this is my man here. He works at my shop. I can trust him.” And of course he could. The eldest Chinaman stood and said in a low volume with his full vocal force, “
Ku-eee
,” which for me meant the same as him saying, “Cool, let’s do it!” I took it as an approval.

“Bring tomorrow, pay tomorrow,” Cho said, sliding me my paperwork, which the elder had handed back to him. I pulled out a pen and handed it to Cho, as in asking him, “Sign.” It was only the horse vending machine photo, which I knew was not a proper contract, but for me it was a gesture of his earnestness, as well as a way for me to fill out and complete his receipt and paperwork with his proper information. Up until then, Cho and I had no paperwork between us, yet I was embarrassed to ask him out loud, “What’s your full name?” I knew that would be odd, since Cho and I had been together for a long time and he had made it clear that I was trustworthy to the other men at the table.

He signed in English, in large letters like it was his celebrity autograph. I was glad he did. He spells his Chinese name as
Zhou
. I had always had it spelled in my mind as
Cho
, which is how the
word
Zhou
is pronounced. I also discovered that Zhou was his last name and his first name was Yong.

“
Shi-shi
,” I said, speaking the one Chinese word that I was absolutely sure about. It means “thank you.” And just my effort to speak that one word caused each of the men to nod their heads in approval.

Dessert was
tong yuan
(sticky rice balls) and
kong dou tong
(red bean soup). I passed on both, but completed my fish meal nicely, to show my gratitude, humility, comfort, character, and camaraderie.

*  *  *

Chiasa had paid seven hundred dollars for her “horsey ride.” We grossed a five-hundred-dollar profit on it since I agreed to sell it to Zhou at $1,200. I made the decision without her. I hoped she would be pleased about it. If not, same as we ordered the first two machines together, we could order two more, and keep it moving.

I had another slick idea for my merchandise vending machine. It had everything to do with my first wife, Akemi. Amazed at vending machines in Japan selling kicks, I had envisioned owning one that sold Nikes. But I knew the Nike Corporation was a powerful monopoly. Getting a deal with them dispensing in America through a line of vending machines seemed unimaginable. Therefore, I came up with an alternative. The Chinese had the infamous “Chinese slippers.” For African Americans, they would come into style for a brief moment and then the style would switch. For the Chinese, they were always in style. If a badass Chinese flick came out, the Chinese slipper would reappear again. I began thinking about how it didn’t matter if a product was considered “cheap,” as long as it was in demand. Something that sells for five dollars a pair is crazy paper if you sell one million pairs. And for the Chinese slipper that stays in use, I was sure there were way more than one million pairs being sold each year.

I wanted to create a trend for a product I had imagined naming “The New York Slipper,” designed by my first wife. I had seen her
dope off some customized Nikes with an airbrush. The couple of times that she rocked those kicks that she designed, with a mean-ass mini, before I put the ring on her finger, she caused everybody who knew high fashion to do a double-triple take. Now if I could get her to make a “New York Slipper,” an exclusive design, and set up the vending machine for them at an exclusive location, for example at the Museum of Modern Art, where Akemi had business contacts. I could sell the slippers to tourists for a mean price, say fifty dollars a pair. If I purchased the white Chinese slippers in bulk in Chinatown and got Akemi to throw a crazy design on them, I could net forty-seven dollars profit on each pair, crazy!

If the idea tanked, and I only sold a low amount, say one hundred pairs, that’s $4,700 profit for a poor showing. If I did a decent job and sold one thousand pairs, that’s $47,000 for a decent take. If I did real good and sold ten thousand pairs, that would be $470,000,
damn
! If I hit the bull’s-eye, so to speak, and sold one million pairs, that’s $47 million. My idea, even if it tanked, was worth too much money not to venture into it. So I would. I could imagine wealthy tourists walking around Central Park with their noses in the air while wearing a cheap Chinese slipper, with a mean-ass New York design on it, that they had paid a ridiculous fifty dollars for, from a vending machine strategically placed, that they viewed as selling art, memorabilia, and even collector’s items.

*  *  *

Mail was in my box even though my house was empty. I grabbed it, ran in, and showered and dressed. I was heading back to the hotel for our last night in the suite. Tomorrow was Sunday, family day for us. I would gather my wives and my mother and sister and bring them into our new home.

I was lying in the middle of the king-size hotel bed. Akemi was on my left, Chiasa was on my right. We were each fully clothed. I was opening the letter addressed to me from my man Black Sea, a Korean dude who is part of a break dance crew in Busan, Korea. We
linked in Asia and formed a friendship that felt like it had been in place for a long time, even though it was only a few weeks. He calls me his “
chin-goo
,” which is a hefty word in Korea for friendship. Korean friendship meant more to them than friendship seemed to mean in the USA. I must’ve felt close to him also, because I gave him my address, which I never do. I’m sure the fact that he lived overseas made it an easier choice for me, but I also know it was a little more than that. He seemed like a friend I would keep for a lifetime. That’s how it felt.

Now, I was opening his letter. It was written in Korean except for his beginning introduction where he wrote “Mr. Manager.” That’s what he calls me, his “manager,” even though he is a college student, a physics major, and I am younger than him. He continues in English, saying, “Please ask your Korean wife to read this letter to you.” I handed the letter to Akemi. She read it to herself first. She then translated it into Japanese one line at a time and spoke it to Chiasa. Chiasa then translated it into English and spoke it out loud to me.

It went like this. Akemi said in Korean,
“Sarang hanin.”
Then she said to Chiasa in Japanese,
“Sai ai.”
Then Chiasa said to me in English, “My Dear Love.” Then, Chiasa laughed. Then I laughed. Then Akemi laughed. Now we were all laughing. I said to Chiasa, “C’mon now, you know he didn’t call me his dear love.” Chiasa laughed and said, “He did so!” Akemi laughed. I put my hand on my head, ran it over my Caesar cut, and laughed at myself, and at my global situation.

That letter was the beginning of my fashion export business from New York to Busan, Korea, through one of Black Sea’s uncle’s friends, who lived out here in New York and who needed me to be a supplier. He would then send the clothes I chose and purchased and sold to him to Black Sea’s uncle, who was opening a New York/Tokyo fashion boutique in Seoul, Korea. Black Sea admired my style and fashion so much when I was in Korea that he believed I could make his uncle, who had the connects and would
handle the shipping, a rich guy. He said his uncle could not get rich on his own, ’cause he had no style and no eye for fashion, and no way to communicate properly in English to do business with English-speaking fashion wholesalers or retailers even though he was opening a high-fashion Western-style shop on a hunch. Black Sea said his uncle believed that he could get middle-income Koreans, whose fashion tastes were just becoming awakened, and who wanted highly fashionable high-priced clothing and accessories for discounted prices, to become his best customers. I was in.

12. COACH VEGA 
•
 
A Reflection

A blacked-out, hand-built Maserati Royale, crazy—of course it caught my attention; most exotic things do. Made in Italy, and so pretty it couldn’t be called “a car.”
Car
is too bland of a word. This V-8 engine vehicle goes from standing still at zero to one hundred miles per hour in four seconds. At top speed, it’s hitting almost two hundred miles per hour. I dig the selection because it’s unique, and not the obvious choice. The designers only made about fifty-five models. Custom designed to limited order, not just anyone could cop it—mainly only kings, presidents, premiers, prime ministers, and princes, and for us in America, probably only big-money athletes, ballers and hustlers, or elite entertainers in the top-top level, top echelon. Yet it was parked curbside in Brooklyn in the exact spot where I agreed to meet up with Coach Vega. I was a hundred percent certain that he wasn’t behind the wheel of that machine. And, if he was, I’d expect a SWAT team to drop down from the rooftops to surround, swallow, and arrest the community coach for impersonating a millionaire.

I was standing directly across the street and staring at it. Clutching my basketball in my right palm, I was paused at the red light. When it flashed green, I didn’t move with the everyday walkers.
So many beautiful things
, I thought to myself.
Try not to lust them.

A small mixed crowd was accumulating on the side of the car like they were waiting for autographs. Pedestrians passing by would
jerk to a stop like they were suddenly shocked. And, in Brooklyn, “the borough of cool,” where all knew not to look too hard at anyone or anything lest you get roughed up, razored, or robbed, everyone stood still staring. They weren’t dazed enough to touch the vehicle, though, I know that’s right.

I was looking around for Vega. He was late. I didn’t see no floral shirts or smell no loud men’s cologne, so I knew he wasn’t in the area. The driver’s-side window lowered a quarter of the way. A hand waved me over. I recognized the Rolex, a mean-ass alligator band on a Louis XIII joint. I signaled him to pull out and ride straight. His engine switched on, humming. I crossed, then walked past the vehicle. It was caught at the red light. Two blocks down, he pulled over to the corner where I stood. His passenger window eased down. He dipped his head. “Get in,” he said.

“I got a meeting with Coach Vega,” I said, my five fingers gripping my basketball.