"Chinatown Beat" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chang Henry)

Undercovers

Jack Yu leaned back from his desk in the empty squad room, tilted his head and rolled his neck over his bunched shoulders. He heard the ligaments pop, took a deep breath. There was a rotted wood smell from inside the floorboards that floated out every time it rained. He'd noticed it when he transferred precincts in July, during a week of summer storms. Now the rain that should have come in August arrived in October, cooling down Indian Summer, giving weight to the soggy leaves that blew into piles in the neighborhood parks.

The Fifth Precinct stationhouse, the 0-Five, was the oldest in the city, a four-story Federalist walk-up made of red brick, fronted by matching lanterns of Kelly green. The lanterns glowed in the mist, and rain dripped from the scrollwork around numerals that ran across the top of the building: 1881.

The blue-and-whites parked out front, up and down Elizabeth Alley, and out to Canal Street. Scooters. Vans. Undercover Dodges.

Jack could see them from the squad-room window, rolling out. The night patrols. He checked his watch. It was after ten, at the end of a long week full of bad dreams and sleepless fatigue. He knew he should go home. He had the weekend off and much to do.

He scanned the room, a shabby array of cluttered metal desks bumped up against each other across the creaky wooden floor. There was a color computer monitor but under the light from the dirty fluorescent overheads everything else was gray, worn. A bank of small steel lockers the detectives used. The surplus secretarial chairs. Across the long wall opposite him, sheets of assignment data and faded Wanted posters, covering like wallpaper anything that wasn't cracked and peeling.

He stroked the thin line of scar tissue that ran across his left brow, a nervous tic. His mind was drifting elsewhere and he clicked off the cheap fluorescent desk lamp, pushed back from the tangle of paperwork and open-case files. He ran his trigger fingers in tight circles around his temples and closed his eyes.

Running Dogs

Of the twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred and sixty-nine officers in the New York City Police Department, Jack Yu was the eighty-eighth cop of Chinese-American heritage. A lucky number, he once thought. At a sinewy five-foot-ten, he'd have failed the height requirement of a decade earlier. Now, four years into his career, he'd been transferred to Chinatown, back into his old neighborhood, a detective second grade.

After four months here he realized that working in the 0-Five was like living in two worlds at the same time. In a precinct that was ninety-nine percent yellow, the Commanding Officer was named Salvatore Marino, and the beat cops were ninety-nine percent white. The white cops put in their shifts, then beat a quick retreat back to the welcome of white enclaves beyond the colored reaches of the inner city. Chinatown was like a foreign port to them, full of experiences confounding to the average Caucasian mind. Don't worry about it, fake, its Chinatown. They were able to dismiss it as a troublesome nightmare, half-remembered and unfathomable. These Chinese were creatures unlike themselves, existing in a world where the English language and white culture carried little significance. Generations of sons and daughters of the Celestial Kingdom, they lived their lives by their own set of odd cultural rules. When a crime was committed, no one ever saw or heard anything. When the cops rousted them, it was a Chinese fire drill.

But Jack had grown up in Chinatown, knew what it felt like to look and breathe Chinese, to savorfoo yee, ga lei, pungent and spicy aromas that white precinct cops wrinkled up their noses at, to speak and decipher regional dialects that sounded to the others like a back-alley cockfight.

He could remember a boyhood time when there were no Chinese cops, no Asian Squad, no interpreters, no community liaison, only gwai to white devil faces in the blue uniforms howling watseemotta no speakeeEnglee?

Four months after his transfer, his father passed away in the Chinatown tenementJack remembered growing up in. Realizing Jack was a cop, the landlord graciously allowed him the full month to clear out his father's belongings, purposely Jack figured-never once mentioning the key money he'd taken from the old man those many long years ago.

When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed except the sound of the rain falling harder outside. Now, with his father six days in the still-soft ground of Evergreen Hills, he was feeling the tiredness heavy in his bones, the fung sup, arthritis, setting in. He adjusted the Detective Special nestled in the small of his back, then rose from the desk and took a black canvas knapsack from the steel lockers, checked it for disposable cameras, a pager, cellular phone, a silver flask. He went down the hundred-year-old stairs, exited onto Elizabeth Alley and followed the streets back to the Mott Street tenement he'd grown up in.