Year of the Dragon (11 page)

He watched customers filing up and down the stairs to the gambling den. Though it was not yet 10 A.M. the place was in full swing. “This is amazing,” he told Kelly.

Chinatown gambling joints did business twenty-four hours a day, Kelly explained. “The Chinese love to gamble.”

“Did anybody ever ask why?”

“It’s compulsive with them.”

Powers frowned. He was looking for answers and understanding, not for platitudes, not for pat cop-phrases. Kelly might just as well have remarked that blacks had rhythm, and Jews a knack for making money. The response seemed all too typical of the police mind, which was not normally inquiring, and which sought only to nail something down, not to understand it. In fairness to cops, most of what they encountered, Powers knew, was so atypical of human behavior that it could not be explained, and it was therefore not possible to understand it. Evil, by its nature, was incomprehensible. Having discovered this generations ago, cops had long since quit asking the type of question that outsiders always posed first. Kelly personally could not really be blamed.

The detective said, “We used to raid these joints regularly. There are about twelve of them in Chinatown. We found very few records, obviously, and none going back more than one week. Still, we found enough to determine that their minimum profit was never less than $100,000 per joint per week. No taxes. I’m talking about profit - over a million dollars a week, over sixty million a year.”

“Untraceable cash,” commented Powers.

“Right. They ship it to Taiwan or Hong Kong and it comes back laundered. It’s now clean money. They can buy buildings with it, or import heroin with it - whatever they want.”

Powers was beginning to be pleased with Kelly.

The cellar of 61 Mott Street was like an anthill. Traffic up and down. Asian men only. There were no whites or blacks, and no women.

“We’re not allowed to raid them anymore,” said Kelly. “The fraternal organization complained to the Mayor, said the raids hurt business throughout Chinatown. The Mayor agreed. Word came down that when the Chinese operate a gambling den it’s not criminal, it’s cultural. Anyway, what good did it do? We never managed to arrest any of the big guys in the tongs, and the day after we would bust into one of these places they would be right back in business. Besides, it only led to two results. It cut off money from the gangs, so they increased their extortion of shopkeepers to make up for it. And it led to payoffs to cops. The only way we can raid them now is if we get permission all the way up to Chief of Detectives Cirillo.”

Powers considered this. The dens were where Chinatown was most vulnerable to police pressure. They were arteries of money and vulnerable to tourniquets. But he couldn’t touch them. The more he learned about Chinatown the more constricted he felt. Already he felt like a man locked in a phone booth. He could see out. He could even call out, but he couldn’t get out. The danger was that he would stifle to death before someone freed him - or beat himself to death trying to break through the walls He pointed with his chin Chinese fashion at 61 Mott Street. “Who owns this one?”

“There are a number of investors. The principal owner is Mr. Koy, the undertaker.”

“That name again.”

“He was once a sergeant in the Hong Kong police department.”

Powers grasped at this. “He’s one of us then.” Perhaps he could use this Koy as his bridge into Chinatown, find an ally in a fellow cop. “It ought to be possible to talk to another cop.”

“He’s not a cop like you or me, Captain. Drug Enforcement inquired about him through their bureau in Hong Kong. Hong Kong apparently has the most corrupt police department in the world. Up until about five years ago Koy had a vice squad. He enforced the gambling, prostitution, and drug laws in the Hong Kong red light district. He’s supposed to have left there with a hundred million dollars in graft profits. There were supposed to have been five Hong Kong sergeants sent out to take over the rackets in the United States and Canada. They were called the Five Dragons. The head Dragon was Koy, who landed here.

The police world was full of rumors. It was a world in which bizarre behavior was commonplace. No rumor, therefore, could be discounted or challenged just because it was fantastic. To challenge it would be like challenging the virtue of another cop’s wife. It would be like challenging his faith. Powers did not believe the rumor about Chinese cops in general, nor about Koy in particular, but for the moment he let the matter drop.

Powers stared across at 61 Mott Street. He wanted to see what it looked like from the inside. “Could one of us get into this gambling den?”

“Not without a warrant,” said Kelly. “There’s no way through those steel doors unless they open them. And they only open for Other Chinese.”

“They only exploit their own, eh?”

“That’s right. It’s been going on in China for thousands of years. We’re not dealing with a problem here, Captain. We’re dealing with a civilization.”

“I’m sick of that thousands-of-years line,” muttered Powers “Because this isn’t China. This is New York. We’re here to protect all the citizens of this community, Chinese or not.”

“Well, good luck, Captain,” said Detective Kelly.

Later they parked across the street from P.S. 130, a junior high school. They could see through the fence into the school yard, which was empty.

“What are we stopping here for?” Powers had seen too much or not enough. He was not feeling sociable.

“You wanted to see some gang members,” said Kelly. “This is a good place to see them. They come here to recruit.”

They waited.

“The noon recess begins at ten minutes to twelve,” commented Kelly.

Presently from inside the school came the dull ringing of bells, and a few seconds later kids spilled out into the school yard. The leak almost instantly became a flood. Basketballs appeared. Kids raced back and forth on roller-skates. Perhaps10 percent, perhaps more, were Asians, presumably Chinese. This school stood at the intersection of Hester and Baxter streets, two blocks outside Chinatown in Little Italy. According to Kelly, the school districts overlapped, and about 90 percent of Chinatown’s kids attended junior high here.

“You are in luck, all right,” murmured Kelly. “See that older guy?”

A young Chinese - he looked to Powers to be in his early twenties - stood peering through the chain link fence into the school yard. “That’s Nikki Han,” said Kelly. “He’s the leader of the Flying Dragons.”

“He’s looking for someone,” said Powers.

“Right. And I think I see who.”

In the school yard a group of long-haired white students had begun tormenting a Chinese boy. The Chinese boy was almost shaven above his ears and to hide such a disgrace he wore a cap which the others were trying to snatch from him. Victim and persecutors were about the same age, about fifteen. The Chinese kid was dressed differently from the others too: black trousers, an open-necked white shirt. He looked like a waiter. Having lost his hat, he found himself inside a circle. Around him the hat was tossed from hand to hand while he lunged for it. There were tears in his eyes, and he seemed to be begging for his hat in Chinese.

Nikki Han went through into the school yard. As he approached, the group around the Chinese boy broke up. The hat was dropped on the pavement and kicked away. The other boys melted backwards. The whole schoolyard had gone silent.

As Powers watched, Nikki Han picked up the hat, put his arm around the Chinese boy, and led him to a corner of the yard. They sat down on a bench, and Nikki Han, leaning close to the boy’s ear, began talking earnestly.

“I don’t know that kid,” said Kelly. “But from his clothes and his haircut he’s an F.O.B. - fresh off the boat. That’s what the American-born Chinese call them. The kid’s parents probably work twelve hours a day in sweatshops and don’t have time to take care of him. Maybe one parent speaks a little English, maybe not. The kid obviously doesn’t. Yet he’s in class with American kids his age. The principal put him there. It’s a junior high. What else could he do with him? But the kid can’t keep up. He can’t speak or read or write English. He doesn’t know our alphabet, or our numerals. Probably his teacher makes a special effort to be nice to him. But it’s hopeless. He doesn’t understand a word she says. This is a very ordinary story in Chinatown, Captain. It’s happened many times in the last few years.”

The two police officers stared through the fence. Nikki Han, still talking earnestly, still had his arm around the boy. “To the other kids, this kid is a clod,” continued Kelly. “So they steal his hat and make him cry. You just saw it. You know how cruel kids are at that age. By the end of a few weeks he’s ripe to be taken over by one of the gangs. That’s what is taking place now, I believe. Once he makes contact with someone like Nikki Han, it’s all over. Nikki speaks to him in his own language. Nikki saves him from persecution. Nikki offers to put meaning in his life. All he has to do is join the gang.”

Nikki Han and the boy got up off the bench, went out of the school yard, and walked down the street toward Chinatown.

“Now he’s probably taking him to a restaurant,” said Kelly.” We’ll follow them.”

“Sure.”

They gave Han and his recruit a hundred-yard head start, then trailed them into a restaurant on Canal Street called the Jade Urn, where they took a table on the other side of the room from the two young men. If Han knew they were there, it did not show. They watched him order lunch for himself and the kid.

“We might as well eat, ourselves,” said Powers. “What’s good here?”

Kelly, who had put on glasses, peered at the menu. “Try the candied chicken wings, Captain.”

They waited to be served.

“Fifteen-year-olds are very useful,” commented Kelly. “They carry the guns, for instance. Nikki never carries. We’ve stopped him many times. He’s always clean. Some fifteen-year-old carries, and if we lock up a juvenile on a gun charge, most likely the judge lets him go.”

Nikki Han was still speaking earnestly. The boy was grinning, and his eyes were bright. He kept nodding his head up and down. He was also wolfing down food. His chopsticks flashed. Powers admired the way he used them. He was like a doctor in surgery. He plucked morsels big and small from the center dishes, and never dropped one. He was an expert.

“The fifteen-year-olds also do the killing,” commented Kelly. “They’ll pull the trigger on anyone for Nikki. Fifteen-year-olds are mindless. They think he’s a god, because he tells them he is. They believe him. He’s been shot several times. Not by us. By other gangs. He shows young recruits his scars and tells them he can tense up his muscles so bullets won’t penetrate. That makes him a god, and so they both fear him and adore him. If he says kill someone, they do it. Yeah.”

Powers stared into his candied chicken wings. He was trying to absorb all Kelly was telling him.

“The gangs recruit constantly,” said Kelly. “The older members get arrested, or killed. There have been about thirty of them killed in the last three years. Being a member of a Chinese youth gang is a dangerous occupation.” He paused. “Or members get married and drop out, or simply scared and drop out. A gang is a volatile thing. It needs constant new blood. The gang leaders are all like Nikki, twenty-five or so. They are getting paid by the gambling dens and the tongs, and they are extorting money from shopkeepers. We figure they keep three or four thousand dollars cash a week each. They pay the younger gang members practically nothing, a hundred fifty a week tops.”

Across the restaurant, the waiter placed the check face down beside Nikki Han.

“Watch,” said Kelly. “He’ll sign it ‘Flying Dragons.’ There.”

Having scrawled something on the check, Nikki Han carried it toward the cash desk, where the owner waited, smiling nervously. Nikki walked with the arrogant, frightening swagger affected by gang thugs the world over. The smiling owner watched him coming. To Powers the smile looked like a gash in meat, like evidence of pain.

“Chinatown is terrified of all the gangs,” said Kelly, “but particularly of Nikki’s gang because it’s the most violent. No restaurant owner would dare try to make Nikki pay. I shouldn’t be surprised if Nikki asked for a donation, as well. There. What did I tell you?”

The smiling owner handed the gang leader two twenty-dollar bills. After handing one bill to the boy, Nikki reached for the door. The owner ran to help him. He bowed them out. Only when the door closed did he cease smiling.

“C’mon, that’s extortion,” said Powers. “We can arrest him for that.”

“You need a complainant, Captain,” said Kelly, “and that owner is not going to sign any complaint.”

Powers had risen to his feet. He placed his napkin beside the plate. Though supposing that Kelly was right, he was hopeful. “We’ll see,” he said.

They went forward, where Powers introduced himself, showing his shield. “Those boys who just left,” he said, “I noticed they didn’t pay their bill.”

The owner was again smiling nervously. “They flends, Captain. Velly flendly boys.”

“How much protection money do you pay the Flying Dragons each week?”

“I no want trouble, Captain.”

“We have laws in this country to protect you,” said Powers. “We can protect you against the gangs. But you have to ask us to do it. That’s the law. You have to sign a complaint. For instance, if you sign a complaint against those two who just left, we could arrest them. Detective Kelly and I are witnesses to what happened. Ultimately they would go to jail.”

The smile never left the owner’s face. “Take too long, Captain. Many court appearances. Much delay. Too many gangs in Chinatown. I don’t want trouble, Captain.”

Powers found that his fists were clenched. He went out of the restaurant and stood with Kelly on the sidewalk.

“Every store and restaurant in Chinatown pays protection to one gang or another,” Kelly said. “The Flying Dragons have Canal and Mott streets. The Ghost Shadows have Division and Catherine. Two other gangs are disputing control of Pell Street at the moment. The extortion payments aren’t all that much. But most Chinese merchants don’t have much.”