This Is a Bust (34 page)

“I wish they knew what was going on in this restaurant,
about its real standing in the community.”

“They know exactly where Jade Palace stands,” said Willie,
chuckling to himself. “They know we offer the finest food at the best prices with the most attentive service. Also, I made a small donation to their organization.”

“What happens when the money runs out, Willie? What
happens when you can't pay out settlements or make donations to the right people anymore?”

“Money doesn't run out for a good businessman,” said
Willie, picking at his teeth. “Like my former guard down here. After he skipped town, I found out that he had been working for an old family rival in Hong Kong. He tried to play our competing interests against each other. He was nothing but a troublemaker.”

From several stories up, thousands of dim-sum plates were
clinking in sinks. It sounded like an air-hockey tournament.

The midget came up to us from behind.

“Tough break, Willie,” he said.

“What makes
you say that, little man? The labor settlement
was in our favor,” said Willie with a smile that could hide fangs.

“Well, if I'm not mistaken, Officer Chow has given you a
parking ticket.”

Willie swung his head around and looked at his Corvette
halfway down the block. A folded ticket under the windshield wiper was clearly visible. The three eights in his license-plate number hadn't worked.

“No standing, 11 to four, just like the sign says,” I said.

“You dirty, dirty bastard!” Willie seethed.

It couldn't have
been sweeter if it were the last parking
ticket I ever wrote.

—

I walked down to the park with the midget. It was a big deal because it was the last day for him to play games in the park. His toy store, like most of Chinatown, was going to be open every single day of the year.

“No more vacations for you,” I said as we stepped into
Columbus Park.

“I
don't need vacations,” said the midget. “Where would I go,
anyway? I'm going to let the world come to me.”

As we made our way to the stone tables, I was pleasantly
surprised by the number of men and boys who had showed up. Nearly everybody
the midget had ever played a game against was there. It was the biggest collection of losers in Chinatown. Someone was filling balloons with a helium tank.

“What's this?” asked the midget excitedly. I had never seen
the midget surprised by anything before.

Two children hoisted up a large banner that read, “THANKS
FOR PLAYING! BEST OF LUCK WITH THE STORE!”

“It's a celebration,” I said.

Wang came up and pressed a coconut soymilk bottle
into the midget's hands.

“Policeman Chow and Vandyne paid for everything,” 
said
Wang.

Men of all shapes and ages came up and shook hands

with the midget and clapped his back. A sponge cake filled with cream and fruit with a Chinese chessboard design was ready to be cut by the guest of honor. I was glad I had ordered the largest size possible.

“How
does it feel to be so loved by so many people?” I asked
the midget.

He shrugged. “I've never known anything different.” He
poked a straw into the coconut soymilk and took a few sips.

“Are
you sure you're not going to play in the park anymore?”
I asked.

“I'm going to play in the store. I'm going to set up game
boards so other people can play, too, like the American chess stores in Greenwich Village. I want there to be a place to go for games in the winter or when it rains.”

“I'm going to miss seeing you out here.”

“It's more important for me to be at my cash register!
You think we came to America to loiter in the park or something?”

Two little boys pushed their way in and begged the midget
for his autograph. He politely refused. “I'm not retiring!” he said. “Come into my store. Everyone's welcome to play against me or against someone else. I'll give you lessons, too. It's better than pinball!”

I s
aw Paul handing out flyers for the opening of the midget's
toy and game store. He was employee #1.

“I hope you work hard,” I said. “The midget's not going to
take it easy on you.”

“Do you see me goofing off? Look how many of these I've
already given away,” said Paul, pointing at a nearby garbage can that held a dozen crumpled flyers. I took one from him.

“Ten percent off all items, huh?” I said.

“It's a great deal.”

“Paul, you know, you're not allowed to distribute these in
public parks.”

“Would you arrest your own roommate?”

“No, I'm off-duty right now.” I read the piece of paper again.
The Chinese name of the store was “Thirty-Six Strategies.” The English name was “Dragon Fantasy.” “Who came up with the American name?” I asked Paul.

“I did. Pretty good, huh? We're going to sell this new
American game, Dungeons and Dragons. It could be humongous.”

“I believe you,” I said.

I walked up behind Vandyne, who was caught up in a game
against a teenager.

“Vandyne, the midget's here,” I said.

“Yeah, be
right there,” he said vacantly, his hand bracing his
chin.

“Not doing too bad here.”

“Not bad at all. I took a page from the midget's playbook on
this one. Say, Chow, who's the guy with the camera?”

“He's making a movie about the midget.”

“He's not just a tourist, then.”

“He's still a tourist,” I said. “He ain't native like you and me.”
Then I whispered, “Look out on the left.”

Vandyne flashed me an “OK” from under the table. His 
opponent glared at me and I went over to the filmmaker.

“I want to ask you something,” he said. “How come only
men are coming up to the midget? Why are all the women sitting at the sidelines? Is it some kind of unspoken sexist Chinese theme that women shouldn't interfere with men's affairs?”

“Naw,” I said, watching men clumsily smear cake on their
shirts. “Women just have more sense then men.”

“I think that girl over there is staring at us.”

“She's looking at me.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah, her name's Lonnie.”

“Wow, she's like Miss Chinatown.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I should get a shot of her kissing the midget.”

I fe
lt a twinge of jealousy jerk through my left arm. “Aw, just
leave her alone,” I said. “Here, read this flyer.”

“'Dragon Fantasy'? What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

I went over to Lonnie. She was wearing a long-sleeved
translucent shirt that showed a solid white blouse under it.

“Robert, it's so sad, isn't it?” she asked.

“It's not sa
d. It's a celebration of all the midget has done

for
Columbus Park. Now he's opening a store. It's like he's gone legit.”

“He's been playing here for as long as I can remember.”

“Before I knew him, he would play pranks on me. He'd
throw peanuts at the back of my head.”

“How did you get to be friends with him?”

“He helped solve a crime a long time ago.”

“What was it?”

“It was this drug-smug
gling thing,” I said. “So, aren't you
supposed to be at work?”

Lonnie beamed. “Not now, but I'm working a double shift
tomorrow. You know, Dori is leaving to work in one of the Martha's in Queens? I have to train a new girl to take her place. She's so much nicer. Everything's going to be better.”

“I'm glad Dori's gone. Now you won't have to bring your
whip to work anymore.”

Lonnie laughed and her neck and upper chest grew red.

“That's a nice outfit you got there. It's, ah, very sexy.”

“Thank you, Robert. I've never heard you say anything like
that before.” Just then I saw Paul giving me a sour look from his post at the park entrance.

“Are you warm enough in that thing?” I asked Lonnie.

“It's very warm,” she said. The redness was spreading to her
face. Something made me turn and look over my shoulder. I saw the filmmaker pointing his camera at Lonnie and me. I could see him smiling.

“Who's that?” asked Lonnie.

“He's making a film about the midget,” I said. “Lonnie, let's
go get some cake.” I did some breaststrokes through the crowd and put people between us and the camera.

—

When the party was over, the midget, Lonnie, and Paul went over to help set up the toy shop. I decided to take advantage of a few hours of privacy while Paul was tied up.

I went looking for some fruit juice at the Hong Kong
supermarket but I didn't want to walk by the beer section. I had to keep fluids moving through my body, the midget said. I cut across the back where they kept the incense and packs of Hell Bank Notes.

People w
ould burn these notes in metal buckets at
gravesites to give their loved ones money in the afterlife. Everyone goes to “hell” when they die, but it isn't bad if you have enough money to throw around. Burning Hell Bank Notes was a ritual that had lost all religious significance over the centuries, but it remained as culturally Chinese as pouring everyone else's tea before your own. Even Chinese Christians burn Hell Bank Notes.

A bundle of notes stuck out of an opened package and
some bills were strewn around the floor.
The smallest denomination was $1,000. The plastic had been torn away in small rips as if some rat had chewed it open. I looked around and saw a little girl grinning at me mischievously from the next aisle.

“Did you do this?” I asked her.

She smiled wider and shook her head. Her two front teeth
were gone. I bent over and put my hands on my knees.

“You're a bad girl,” I said.

The little girl scampered over and tried to free some more
notes. I put down my basket and watched her. She pulled out a bundle of notes and waved them over her head. A minute later, her grandmother came around the corner.

“You stupid little girl! Don't touch those! You want to give
yourself bad luck! They're for dead people! Now you're going to die, too!”

The little girl started to cry as her grandmother lifted her up
roughly by the elbows. All over Chinatown, other kids were
in various stages of having the culture scared and beaten into them. I thought about the belt-whip marks on Paul's back, and how I would never let that happen to him again. I felt a little good about myself. It wasn't a feeling I was used to.

I p
icked up a newspaper aligned with Hong Kong, along
with a carton of orange juice and some cans of lychee juice.

At home, I flipped through the paper.
Vietnam was going to hold elections for a newly unified government. Protests were being held in Beijing to oppose the demotion of Deng Xiao Ping, a protégé of Chou En Lai. The prince of Cambodia had resigned. Big changes were coming to Asia in the first week of April.

A tiny item near the back mentioned that a Chinese man
with a large frame had been found murdered in a hotel room in Vancouver's Chinatown. Shot twice in the back of the head. He had come in from New York. It was the kind of thing that didn't make it into the American newspapers.

—

I was nearing the end of my first dry week since early Nam. I told Paul not to do anything for me. I was cooking, cleaning, and eating fruit. It felt good in a painful kind of way, and I noticed that I could smell and taste things better.

I had gone to a Chinatown Democrats fundraising event.
I
was in the pictures, but I didn't stay for dinner. When I saw the wine glasses they were putting out, I'd given the ridiculous excuse that I had to do laundry. After I'd gotten home, it actually made sense to bring a couple of loads of dirty clothes down to the basement machines.

I sat in a brittle plastic chair by the dryers and ate two
bruised pears.

I picked up a pair of slacks that had come out of the dryer
and turned the pockets inside out. The remains of some Tic Tac mints were stuck to the pocket lining. I had to scrape them off with the flip-out emery board of a nail clipper.

In my palm, they looked like little eggshell chips.

Or paint.

Those weren't eggshells in Yip's coffee-bean grinder. They
were paint chips. Lead paint.

—

The midget was behind the counter of the toy shop. Paul was sweeping the floor. It had been completely redesigned and looked like a brand new store.

“You're out a little late!” said the midget, following my gaze
around the store. “See anything you like?”

“Look what
you did to the store! You move pretty quick,”

I
told him.

“I move smart,” he said. “That means you have to move
quick sometimes and hire the right people.”