This Is a Bust (26 page)

“When does one open?”

“It opens when it opens,” said English brushing imaginary
crumbs from his shirt. “Now about the murder case, the old Chinese woman, it's not a murder anymore. You can go pal around with that old Yippie, or whatever his name is.”

“What happened?”

“I don't have time to explain. Ask Vandyne about it. He
solved it.”

—

I met Vandyne at a tea house before his shift began. His mouth was full of hot tea, so I asked, “Was it ruled suicide?” He made a painful face as he swallowed hard.

“Not
even that. The poison in Wah's blood was traced to
cans of preserved bamboo shoots from Hong Kong.”

“When did they find this out?”

“I picked up a few food items from Yip's refrigerator. The
opened can was still wrapped with cellophane. There was lead in it. I might have saved Yip's life by taking it away.”

“Lead! I can't believe that.”

“I can. You see those cans of food in Chinatown? They
don't
have expiration dates on them. Hell, they don't even list ingredients or provide cooking directions. Who knows when and where they were made?”

“Don'
t even start with that. That's racist, you know?” I said,
with a nagging feeling that those cans were probably tainted as hell.

“No, it's looking out for my health. That's what it is.”

“That comes from the same people who think they have
cut-up cat in the dumplings. Or rat sauce in the lo mein.”

“It's based on fact. Are there lower standards of living in
Asia? Yes. Is food from those countries — even in cans — less healthy to eat? Yes.”

“Are most Americans overweight? Yes. Are most Americans
leading unhealthy lives? Yes. Americans don't eat healthier than Asians, they just eat more. Let's stick to the facts.”

“Okay. There was lead in the can of bamboo shoots. Wah ate
them. She died. Those are the facts.”

“That's what really happened?”

“It
is,” said Vandyne. “Got a congratulation from English 
for
it.”

“That
man suffers from a case of anti-Asian hate. He's still
sore about losing the Vietnam War.”

“English isn't about hate at all. He's an appeaser. He's a
schmoozer. Someday, he's going to be the C.O. of the Five.”

“That'll be a sad, sad day.”

“You know that day is coming,” said Vandyne.

—

Yip was waiti
ng for me on the sidewalk outside of the Five.

“Hello,
officer, I was wondering if you were free now?” 
he
asked.

“Yip, how's the leg?”

“No more cane anymore, much better.”

“Well, I was going to stop by the supermarket. I'm running
out of food.” And beer.

“Let m
e take you out. It's my pleasure. I'm so happy to

have
my old friend back. The black man told me everything's
okay again. You have to eat anyway and you can shop another night, too.” His old hand gently dangled on my shoulder. “I'm so glad you did something about my case.”

“I
didn't do anything, Yip,” I said. I didn't necessarily want to
hang out with Yip again, now that I could. The old man took his hand off me and walked just ahead.

“I know you can't officially say you helped me, but I

appreciate it all the same. Say, would you mind if we went to a little store first? I want to check in at this coin and stamp store.”

“Coins and stamps? I didn't know you were a collector, Yip.”

“I'm
not really a collector, it's just a hobby for me. There used
to be so many stores selling Chinese coins and American coins, but now there's just one left. Run by a Korean man. His Chinese is very good.”

The
store was about 10 feet wide and was little more than a
single display case with a glass counter and an outside steel gate to roll down and lock.

The Korean nodded his head and said nothing when he saw
Yip. Tarnished faces on the silver coins on the top shelf of the display case stared at the fluorescent light on the left side. A bin of post-marked stamps sat at the bottom of the case like a collection of colorful, dead butterflies.

The Korean was also selling regular bank notes that had
a lot of eights in the serial numbers. Chinese believe that eight is a lucky number because it sounds like “luck” in Chinese. Chinese believe in a lot of stupid things, which is why the Korean could sell the “lucky” bills for twice their face value.

“Did your father get you interested in hobbies when you
were young?” Yip asked.

“He showed me a racing form once and let me pick 
some
horses.”

“I think it's important to have a hobby. It makes you a more-
rounded person. If you pursue an interest, it helps you to keep some perspective in life.” Then to the Korean Yip asked, “Do you have that book?”

The Korean nodded and pulled out three thin cardboard
sleeves. He put a staple through them. Then he took out some tweezers, picked some stamps from the display case, and stuffed them into a glassine envelope. He handed everything over to Yip. “Two dollars,” he said in Cantonese.

Yip paid him and we left.

“This is for you, Officer Chow,” he said. “It's a present.”

I took the cardboard and stamps. I knew from years of accepting presents I didn't like or want that it was best to show outright gratitude and then dump them in the garbage later.

“Thanks so much, Yip.”

“These are stamps from all over the world, not just China.
You can look them up in a book at the library and find out all about them. There's a whole world you can hold here in your hand. Then you have the book to preserve them.”

“Wow, that sounds great,” I said. “Thank you, again.”

I stuck the envelope
into the cardboard book, which I turned over and
over in my hands.

“Tell you what, Yip. You'll have to allow me to buy dinner.”

“You're younger than me, I would have no shame if I
allowed that to happen! Besides, I asked you out for dinner.”

He was steering me to a popular Shanghai restaurant when we ran into Wang, the fortune-teller and liquor-store salesman.

“Wang, how are you doing? How's the liquor store?” I asked.

Wang shook his head. “Didn't pan out. Business slowed
so they let me go.” He looked at Yip and nodded his head.
“Hello, sir.”

“Hello,” said Yip, shifting uncomfortably.

“Wang, this is Yip, an old friend.”

“Yes, we've met, right?” said Wang.

“I don't think so,” said Yip.

“Well, we're about to go to dinner. Would you like to come?”
I asked.

“I
have to get back home,” said Wang. “Some other time.

I'll
see you later.” He nodded and left.

We walked on and Yip picked up the pace.

“You two seem to know each other,” I said. “Did you guys
have some sort of argument?”

“It's just that, you know, I don't respect someone like
him.
I know him. He's never had a steady job and he's very irresponsible. I wouldn't be surprised to see him collecting cans and bottles. I don't want to associate with his kind. No self-respect.”

I was getting fed up with Yip. Not only was he a drag to be
around, but he was a jerk to other people, too. People I liked.

My mind raced as I put my hands
in my pockets. There's

got to be a way I can get out of having dinner with this 
guy, I thought. I could fake a stomachache or a headache.

A migraine.

“You
know, officer,” Yip said slowly, “the black man said they
cremated my wife's body. I complained to the translator that nobody had even told me. But the translator said that this way, I wouldn't have to pay for anything. Otherwise, it would have been a lot of money for a burial.”

“That's terrible, Yip,” I said. “Are you going to keep her
ashes?”

“No. They're going to find a place for her ashes in one of the
city plots. It's probably best that way.”

I felt bad for this lonely old man and that made it too late to
try to get away from him.

We went on to the restaurant and the food was great, but I
couldn't help but grind my teeth all the way through it.

—

I was getting ready to go on the 0000-to-0800 shift, but Paul wasn't around to cook something for me. Where the hell could that punk be? I couldn't really get on his case, though. He had done my taxes way before the deadline and had gotten me a pretty big refund.

I jogged over t
o Market Street by the Manhattan Bridge
overpass. There's a restaurant there that I like with no English name that's built into the southern trestle. Outside, crumpled paper and soot collects around the doorframe.
Inside, the low rumble of traffic feels comforting, as if you were in a hidden chamber behind a waterfall. The sun never made it in, but at around 2000 the streetlamps would shine into the windows and everything inside would turn yellow. It was nice.

The three square tables
in the tiny dining room had uneven legs. You had to eat with your elbows on the table or slip a folded newspaper down there to even things out.

Tourists weren't welcome or even tolerated. The only
English in the joint was the “Thank You” printed at the bottom of your check. There weren't any menus, only a list of a few dishes written in marker taped to the walls and the front windows. They might also have some specials that your waiter might tell you about if you didn't piss him off.

I climbed the three uneven concrete steps into the
restaurant and slouched into a chair by the doorway to the kitchen. My watch said 2012. Chi, the cook whose apron had given me nightmares, came out looking mad. Then he saw me and smiled.

“Oh,
it's you, Officer Chow! When I heard the door, I thought
those foreign Chinese had come back.”

“What
are you talking about?” I asked. He came over and put
a dented metal pot of hot tea in front of me. A few seconds later, he slid a scratched ceramic cup by the pot.

“Hah, a group of foreign Chinese came in with their devil
friends, acting like they owned this place. They couldn't even speak Chinese.”

“What's
so bad about not speaking Chinese? A lot of the kids
don't learn Chinese these days.”

“It's disrespectful to our people. When they look in the
mirror, do they see an American or a Chinese? Who do they think they are? Also, they were making fun of me to their devil friends.”

“What did they say?”

“I know when people are laughing at me.” Chi crossed his
arms.

“But you should take it as a compliment that they want to
eat your food. At least they like genuine Chinese food.”

“I made them go across the street, down to Long Life
Noodles.” That noodle place had become hot after it had been reviewed in the
New York Times
. It had been praised for being authentic while accommodating the Western palate. But the menu priced out anyone who actually lived or worked in Chinatown.

“They're
making a lot of money over there,” I said, pointing
out the window. A line of tourists snaked out from the stone lion in front of Long Life Noodles — even though the dinner rush was long over.

“Their food, that's what those foreign Chinese deserve. They
don't deserve to eat here. They can eat that garbage.”

“It got reviewed in the
Times
. It must be pretty good.” That
made Chi mad.

“Those motherfuckers don't know what Chinese food is
supposed to be like. Let me tell you something, officer. These recipes I use were developed by cooks on the battlefield who
fed hundreds of thousands of soldiers. For most of those men, it was their last meal. You know how many millions of Chinese died over the centuries eating the same food? Do those foreign Chinese think they're better than those soldiers?”

I
didn't say anything because this was obviously a burning
issue for Chi, even though I didn't buy the storyline. I poured some tea and nodded my head.

He went on, “Some people don't have respect for all those
men who died.” He went over to the front window and lifted a piece of paper that had “snakehead fish” written on it to get a better view of Long Life Noodles. “Some people are whores, and their parents are whores,” he muttered. “Their grandparents are whores, too. That stupid fake-Chinese restaurant even uses broccoli!” Then he crossed his arms and spat in the corner.

“Say, can I get the beef tendons and snow-pea sprouts?” I
asked.

“Yeah, I got some of that,” he said and moved reluctantly
into the kitchen. From the back he yelled out, “Hey do you want some congealed pig blood? It's fresh and there's lots of iron in it. Good for you!”