This Is a Bust (30 page)

“Hi, Lonnie,” I said, putting my arms up on the counter.

“Robert, how are you?”

I looked over at Moy. He put his hand up and I nodded my
head at him. We didn't do lunch on Mondays anymore. Funny how people change when they get girlfriends. Dori didn't bother to look at me.

“Rober
t, I'm worried that you've been losing a lot of weight.”

“That would make most women happy, Lonnie.”

“Weren't you the one forcing me to eat before?”

“That was a state of emergency. I'm doing fine.”

“You never take the pastries with your coffee anymore.”

“I don't ne
ed them. They keep my body from absorbing 
the
coffee.”

“OK, Robert.”

“What do you mean, OK?”

“Hey,
I have to study tonight, but let's go out after my exams
next week.”

“All right with me.”

—

I wasn't hungry exactly, but I felt like I should eat to keep Lonnie happy. I didn't want to stop at any of the food carts or go into a restaurant, so I stopped at the Hong Kong
market and picked up a frozen dinner that bragged about having “Half a Pound of Meat!” I picked up another one, too.

When I g
ot back to the apartment, Paul was there, on 
the
phone.

“Um hm,” he'd say into the phone every few seconds.

I took a butter knife and cut the foil from around the
potatoes. I popped both trays into the oven and set the heat to 400. I opened the fridge. Paul had been out grocery shopping. I reached around a bag of apples for a beer.

“Um hm, okay. Bye,” Paul said into the phone. I put my beer
down and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Hey! What was that for?” he yowled, rubbing himself.

“That's for not saying you love her,” I said. I waited a few
seconds and then I smacked him again.

“Now what!”

“That's for not hitting me back.” I went back to the beer.

“Keep punching me and I won't be able to carry the
groceries up all those stairs. I don't think you've ever eaten fruit in your life, have you?”

“There's fruit in the TV dinner. Tomato sauce. Tomato's a
fruit, not a vegetable. You know that?” I put the empty bottle behind the kitchen garbage can that Paul had bought.

“Wow!” Paul mocked. “Tomatoes are fruit? You must be a
nutritionist!”

“Hey, Paul, don't get like that with me. I'm cooking tonight.
Sit down and relax.” I went over to the couch.

“Those TV dinners don't taste very good.”

“You can eat whatever and whenever you want.”

“You're lucky I don't drink your beer.”

“No — you're lucky you don't drink my beer. Speaking of
which, would you grab me another one?” He went to the fridge and passed it over. “Thanks.”

“Your problem only gets worse the more you ignore it.”

I checked
my watch. “My only problem is that I gotta wait 45 minutes to eat.”

“I'm going to boil some frozen dumplings, instead. They
only take about 10 minutes. I can make some for you, too.”

“Naw, I'm good,” I said, popping the beer open. “Since you're
forcing me to eat two TV dinners, the least you could do is tell me more about the girl.”

“Nothing to say,” said Paul, who was fishing a pot out from
under the sink.

“This the girl you had the note from, right? Lei?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, you really don't wanna talk about it.”

“Nothing to say.”

“How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

“What's she doing with you?”

“She likes me.”

“When do you see her?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“You bring her to the movies?”

“Don't have enough money.”

“Get a damn job.”

“I'm working on it, I told you.”

“Then get me another beer.”

“That was the last one.” I pulled off my shoes.

“You don't want to do me another favor, do you?”

“I'm
not going to buy you some beer. That's what you get for
hitting me.”

“C'mon, we're just being guys here. Like how friends slap
each other around.”

“I'm not going. I have to watch this pot.” I went over to the
window and looked down into the street. I was feeling hot and the window was closed. The one that was supposed to be left slightly open at all times.

“The problem with you, kid,” I said, fiddling with the
window latch, “is that you lack respect for your elders.”

—

Paul went out to wherever he goes and I threw my foil trays into the garbage and the fork into the sink. At about 0100 I put my shoes on and went to a Spanish place to get a six-pack of Bud. You can't be too choosy at that time of night. All the places in Chinatown that sold beer were already closed.

I was going to head back to the apartment, but then I got
worried Paul might walk back in and give me more shit about drinking. He should really just shut up. I decided to find someplace else to go.

I headed to Seward Park. Lotsa benches and trees to hide
behind. City parks were supposed to close at dusk and drinking is never legal there at any time, but I could be alone.

I found a bench mostly hidden by the branches of an
overgrown maple tree. It smelled like rotten leaves, but the seat was dry and I took it. I popped open a beer. I felt happy.

I poured the first one down and it felt so cold and honest,
it was like God breathing life into me. The second one was even better. I became aware that I was making loud slurping noises. I could hear sounds from my drinking echoing back from the chipped wall of the handball court.

I got up and went to the park's men's room. The door was
locked, so I kicked it in.

I was washing my hands when I heard something rustling
in one of the stalls. I approached the stall door with caution and swung it open slowly. On the floor was a pigeon. He seemed dazed.

I picked him up and carried him outside. By the light of
the
park lamps, the filmy coat of grease on his feathers reflected every color of the rainbow, red and purple in particular. I put him down by a bush and he winked at me. I went back into the bathroom to wash my hands all over again. When I came out, he was gone.

I left the park and braced myself against a
streetlight. I looked up and saw a sign that read, “Littering is filthy & selfish so don't do it!”

I didn't want to be filthy.

I didn't want to be selfish.

I couldn't remem
ber if I had thrown my empties into the
garbage. I swung back into the park to check, but somehow I ended up on the path for home.

—

The next morning the Brow wanted to see me. I walked into his office, put my hands in my pockets, and coughed. He was sitting, with the back of his chair swiveled to me.

“Hello, sir. You wanted to see me?” I asked.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Chow. Have y
ourself a seat.” He turned around
slowly. A pipe wriggled in his mouth. “Do you smoke?”

“No, I don't, sir.”

The Brow nodded. He struck a match on the sole of his shoe
and lit the pipe. He blew out the match and dropped it into a wastebasket filled with paper.

“We've got a problem on our hands,
Mr. Chow. There's this older Chinese gentleman who's been operating a bit of a business in the post office on East Broadway. It's something we can't have.”

“Sir, I think I know who you're talking about. He just helps
people address envelopes in English.”

“There's
no need for him to be there. There are already a
number of community agencies that provide that service.”

“But none of them will address mail destined for the
People's Republic, sir. They only send mail to Hong Kong and Taiwan.”

The Brow took a good hard puff and said out the side of his
mouth, “Are you a postman, now, Mr. Chow? Or are you a policeman?”

“Sir, this man is providing a service to the community. He's
not hurting anyone.”

“This man is conducting business on federal property. He
takes nickels.”

“He's been there since the 1950s, sir, why do we
have to remove him now?”

A grinding sound came from the Brow's clenched mouth.
One eye clamped shut and the brow went up.

“Listen, mister, I don't care if he's been doing it for five
minutes or a hundred years. We're putting an end to
it now.”

“Sir, this action is going to be bad for the community.
It's going to alienate everyone aligned with the People's Republic.”

The Brow stomped his foot and I heard everyone in the Five
hold their breath.

“Don't tell me anything about community! I suppose
you think the bars and the pross houses are providing community services, too!”

“Sir, this isn't about drinking or whoring. It's about
sending
mail.”

“Now I understand what you're talking about. You don't
want to arrest him because he's another Chinaman. I suppose if it were some mick in there selling potatoes or some wop bastard selling sausages, then you'd be fine about putting them in cuffs! Sending them to the guillotine, eh?”

“Sir, there's going to be an uproar,
maybe a riot, if they see a white cop arresting this man.”

That seemed to calm him down.

“That's where you come in, mister. You're going with
Peepshow Geller. Take one of the sector cars. Make sure everyone sees you. Better yet, handcuff him yourself. Bring the Chinese gentleman back here and book him. He's not going to understand a simple warning.”

“We should really reconsider, sir.”

“
I've
already reconsidered.”

—

I slouched in the passenger seat as Peepshow drove.

“Go down Mott,” I said.

“What you want to do there? We hafta go get this guy,
Chow.”

“He might be at the toy store. I'm just going to tell him to
not go to the post office anymore. End all the bullshit right here, Geller.”

I went into the store, but Moy said his dad had already gone.

“I'm going to level with you, Moy. I'm taking him out of the
post office.”

“Why?”

“I've got orders. He's doing business on federal property.”

“Can't he get a license for it?”

“You can't get a license for something like that.”

“But he's been doing it for so long. Why are you stopping
him now?”

“It's illegal. He shouldn't have been doing it in the first
place.”

“He doesn't do it for the money, you know? He just likes to
help people,” said Moy, his voice jumping an octave.

“He's
been doing this since we've been kids, but that doesn't
mean it's okay. It's a crime. My job is to stop crime.”

“My father's helping people. That's your job, too!”

“Don't
tell me what my job is, fatso!” I said, planting my feet.
I didn't really expect anything from Moy, but getting ready for a problem was second nature.

“Yo
u were born here, so you think you're better than my dad
and me!”

“I don't think I'm better than anyone! Your English is
perfect.”

“That's so condescending! Do I say, ‘Hey, your Chinese is so
good! Who could have known you're not a real Chinese?'”

“You're a real Chinese and I'm not?”

“That's right! You don't help the Chinese people. You're only
looking out for yourself! My father let you work here at the toy store! All he ever did was help you! Did they promise you a promotion for this?”

I stepped
away to the door. “I'm wasting my time here, Moy.”

“This is the last
time you come in this store. You
understand?
If I'm being held up, I'm going to ask for an American 
policeman!”

I got out of there and hopped back in the car with
Peepshow.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He's
not there. We've got to go to the post office on East
Broadway.”

“Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I saved one of these hot-dog
doodads for you from lunch.” He held up a bag from Martha's. “I started eating these things because I saw you doing it. Good call!” I looked at him in the face.

“Hey, Geller, have you been taking that food on the arm?”

“No, I paid for it! Well, sort of. I try to pay. I give a five and
they count out five singles and give it back every time.”

“Who do you think has to pay for it when you take stuff on
the arm? The girls at the counter!”

“Well, I goddamn tried, Chow! You want me to force them at
gunpoint or something?”

“No, but you could just drop the money on the counter.”