This Is a Bust (13 page)

“It's not just me. It's us. We both need to work on things
.”

“Things? What are ‘things,' Barbara?”

“Things like I don't want to picture my husband when I'm
holding you. Things like you don't need to drink when you wake up in the morning.”

“You're not a lightweight on the bottle, yourself.”

“Yes, but I'm not. . .” She shook her head and stood up. “I
have to go now. You can let yourself out when you're ready. I'll see you later.”

The front door closing made a sharp, ugly metal sound like
a bullet ripping through a can of Crisco. I couldn't process being sad yet because my headache wouldn't let me feel anything else.

I had dared to imagine that for once I wouldn't be alone
during the terrible period between Chinese New Year and Valentine's Day. Those are the two weeks when the streets are filled with happy couples and happy families looking for fun fun fucking fun.

I poured myself some red wine in last night's glass and
threw it back. This apartment, which had seemed so endearing in its unfamiliarity only a week ago, now looked like a way station in someone else's busy life. I was getting an unwelcome vibe.

I had to get my clothes on, go out the door, and nearly run
down the stairs to get away from it.

—

On my way home, I stopped at a small store and went to the back to get some beer. The glass in the cooler was cracked and held together with frayed pieces of duct tape. The tape made it hard to see what was inside. I tried to slide it open but the tape stopped that, too.

“How you supposed to get anything out of this?” I called out
to the front.

“Go fuck yourself!” was the reply. I stomped over to the
cashier, but I soon discovered that the comment wasn't for me.

The o
wner, about 50, medium frame, five six, was yelling at
Yip.

“You killed your wife! I don't want a murderer in my store!
You should be in jail, you dirty bastard!” shouted the owner.

“Excuse me,” I told the owner. “A man is innocent until
proven guilty.”

“Innocent — bullshit!” He was obviously new in the
community. He didn't seem to know who I was.

Yip's face was sad and calm.

“It's best that I leave, Officer Chow,” he said.

When he heard “officer,” the owner suddenly pointed at Yip
and looked at me.

“You're a policeman? Arrest that guy before he kills
someone else.”

“We're leaving,” I said.

We went onto the wet streets.

“I can't go anywhere anymore,” said Yip, rubbing his eyes.
“Something like this always happens. There's no sympathy. Only blame.”

“People at your work like you, right?”

“They let me go,” he said. “They said I was hurting
business.”

“If you know you're right, that's all you need,” I said.

“You know this is true, Officer Chow. You ought to know
that Chinatown hates the police as much as the criminals. We have to stick together, you know?”

“You want to play the cop, tomorrow, Yip? I'll give you a
dollar to switch.”

“Ha ha! No, I couldn't be you.”

I saw another small grocery ahead.

“I'll see you later, Yip. I have to go get some steak sauce.”

—

I woke up tangled in the sheets, ready to resume my string of lonely days and weeks. I was more tired than usual so I got two iced coffees from Lonnie.

“Two today?” she asked. “You have another date or
something?”

“Both for me,” I said. “I'm greedy.”

“Not greedy — selfish,”
Dori muttered from the other end of
the counter. “Don't worry, Lonnie, I'll bet that girl he was with is long gone.”

“I'm just feeling sleepy,” I told Lonnie. “Trying to stay
awake.”

“You're the hardest-working man I know,” said Lonnie.
Dori
creased the top of a paper bag with a vicious scrape of her thumbnail.

I was about to leave when Lonnie stopped me.

“Hey, don't you want some hot-dog pastries?”

“Not
today, Lonnie.” I hadn't been finishing them, anyway.
My appetite was slipping.

It was February 4. The opening ceremonies of the Winter
Olympics were going to be on later that night. China was boycotting the games because Taiwan was competing as the “Republic of China.” I didn't know if I was going to be able to stay up to watch Taiwan in the opening parade, the only event in which they wouldn't come in last.

—

I was on the first lap of my footpost when I remembered 
my dream.

I was walking through waist-high elephant grass. Just
ahead of me was an old woman. Sometimes she would turn around and gesture for me to follow her. No matter how fast I walked, I couldn't catch up to the woman, despite her leisurely pace.

We walked through an empty village. It was getting darker.
There were clouds coming in. The woman broke into a run. I chased after her. Then rain started to fall. I stopped and looked at my arms. They were covered in white paint.

I struggled to remember more, but nothing else came. The
first iced
coffee was bottoming out, so I took the straw and stabbed it into the second cup.

“Officer!” said a loud, shrill voice. I looked across the street.

“Lily!” I said, recognizing Wah's supervisor.

She looked the wrong way for oncoming traffic on the
one-way street and crossed over to my side. She had on a red coat that was made for someone shorter. When she got close, I could see that her eyes were twinkling.

“Officer, Yip told me you don't have a girlfriend.”

“That's by choice,” I said. “I could have one if I wanted to.
Truth is, a lot of women love a man in a uniform.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm a fool. I know a very pretty girl
who wants to find a nice Chinese man.”

“Where do you know this girl from?”

“From my business contacts. This girl's family had a five-
story mansion in Shanghai and dozens of servants before the communists took over. They tore down the mansion and used the bricks to build houses for the servants.”

“She must be very pretty and eligible.”

“The family escaped to Hong Kong. They bribed some
British sailors to take them over. The British took the gold but let them keep all the jade, which was far more expensive. Stupid white people!”

“They just didn't know.”

“Of course they didn't know! That family bought a
textiles factory. Now they have six. This girl was born in Hong Kong, went to school in Switzerland. She speaks four languages. Mandarin, Cantonese, French, and English.”

“Why would she want a cop for a boyfriend?”

“She doesn't want just a boyfriend. She's very marriage-
minded. She'd be proud to have a policeman for a husband.”

“Oh, I get it. She wants an American citizenship.”

“Of course she wants it. But she also wants a good man.
The family would be very happy to make a large wedding gift. Do you want to visit her? The family would love to fly you to Hong Kong to meet her.”

I imagined myself back in Asia.
Walking through elephant
grass and villages, shooting people.

“You know I'm a Vietnam vet, don't you?”

“Girls love soldiers, they're so brave!”

“Did you make a statement at the precinct about Wah?” Lily
acted like I had stepped on her big toe.

“Oh, Officer Chow! When you bring that name up, I feel
physical pain!”

“Why don't you go in and make a report?”

“Me make a report? You're the policeman! It's your job to do that!”

“Don't te
ll me what my job is, Lily! Get in there and do it!”

I
barked.

She gathered her coat at the collar and the fingers of her
leather gloves squeaked.

“Officer, I don't know anything,” Lily said, walking away like
we were on Park Avenue and I was begging for change.

—

The next day on my footpost, I made it around the corner and saw that spiky-haired punk kid who would hang out sometimes in Martha's with his buddies. He was trying hard to be a five-foot Fonz with his imitation-leather jacket.

He was smoking a cigarette but dropped it down the gutter
when he saw me.

“Hey, Officer Ronald McDonald,” he said. “You're a fucking
clown. Tell me something. You ever actually arrest someone, or do you just go to banquets and store openings?” The other guys smirked, but they drew back as I approached. By the time the imitation-leather punk and I were face to face, his friends were across the street.

“How come you're not in school?” I asked him quietly.

“How come you're not a real policeman?”

“You want to shut up about that?”

“God, your breath stinks. Is that the only weapon they let
you have? What kind of cop are you?”

“I'm
gonna show you what kinda cop I am,” I said, grabbing
him by the armpit seams of his jacket. They tore so I dug my hands in further and shook him by the straps of his tank-top t-shirt. I pushed him into an overflowing city garbage can and I didn't let go.

“You want to talk shit with me, I'll smear you face-down a
few blocks! People will think someone dragged a dead dog through here when they see the blood in the street!” I didn't realize how loud I was yelling until I felt my throat hurt.

His body felt thin through his clothes. I
could have ripped him open like a bag of potato chips. I was aware of silent faces at open windows looking down at us.

“You hear me? Next time I see you, I'm gonna kick your face
in! You're gonna see out the back of your head!”

Someone came up and put their hand on my shoulder.

“Chow,” Vandyne said as if he were talking to a growling
dog. “Let the boy go. C'mon. Just let him go.” Hearing that voice opened up a steam valve in my system. I relaxed my eyebrows. Then I slowly let go of the kid.

My hands were sticky with soda and tea from cans and
cups that had tumbled out of the trash. And with blood. I blinked and looked at the kid. Both of his nostrils were bleeding and his face looked bruised. He was crying.

“I didn't hit him!” I yelled. “I didn't hit him once!” I wiped
my hands off on my slacks and looked around. All the punk kid's friends were gone.

“Have you lost your mind?” asked Vandyne, stepping

between me and the kid.

“He was making fun of me,” I said, feeling extremely stupid
as soon as I'd said it.

“He
was making fun of you? Oh, I'm sorry, big man, that this
boy over here hurt your feelings. I'll enroll him in the late-afternoon session of our etiquette class.”

“I just put him through etiquette class,” I said. The kid was
leaning against a lamppost, pinching his nose and keeping his head down. He looked as vulnerable as a giraffe taking a drink, but I still wanted to hurt him.

“You okay, there, chief?” Vandyne asked the kid.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” the kid said. Funny how the most
brazen delinquents sounded helpless and meek when they spoke English.

“What did you say to Officer Chow?” Vandyne asked.

“Noth
ing. I didn't say anything,” he said. I wanted to step on
his throat.

“Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No, no. Everything's okay,” said the kid, scuttling away. He
hadn't looked at me once. Vandyne turned to me.

“What were you yelling about?” Vandyne asked me as we
watched the punk slip into a crowd of unkempt black hair.

“Learn some Chinese, already, okay?”

“I don't want to tell you what to do, Chow, but you're
getting seriously out of hand, taking it out on your own people.”

“That kid is not one of ‘my people,' okay? My people had
respect for elders. My people studied hard. My people did the right thing.”

“Okay, so maybe the kid is a little punk. Did you have to
make him bleed?”

“He's bleeding because he doesn't eat right. I just shook him
a little bit.”

“And that helped, I'm sure.”

“Helped me.”

“You watch it,” Vandyne said, holding up a warning finger.
“It's not fun
ny. You know, you're lucky Chinese people don't file civilian complaints.” He kicked away a soda can on the sidewalk.

“Say, Vand
yne, how often do you find kids like that shot 
to
death?”

“Once every two or three months.”

“What's better, that punk ends up getting shot or I shake
him up a little?”

“You're not that kid's father, you know. Leave the belting to
daddy — he knows best.”

We instinctively took inventory of the people around us.

“Vandyne,” I said, “you're in the neighborhood early.”

“Had to see English.”