Vietnamese noodle joints on the street, knew the Viets all supported one another’s businesses.
The curbside market vendors on the Mulberry-Canal corner were the only ones open for business in the bitter cold and slushy mess. They’d shoveled off the curb, stacked out the crates on folding tables, and took turns warming up in the vans.
Jack knew the sidewalk merchants supported the local restaurants in exchange for use of the toilet facilities whenever needed.
A street community , Jack knew.
Business was brisk considering the light traffic on the streets. He figured a couple of tour buses must have rolled in, visitors to the fabled neighborhoods of Lower Manhattan. He was about to move to where he could get another view when the young woman in the red jacket stepped out of the van and took over one of the fruit stands from an older woman, who then retreated into the van.
The stands offered melons, pineapples, strawberries and grapes, cherries—fruits from the global season kept fresh in the New York City cold.
She’d relieved the cherry stand, her red jacket the perfect pitch for the cherries she started to bag for grab-and-go customers. Chinatown people snapped them up as tasty treats for the extended families, and tourists grabbed them for quick snacks.
Jack took a deep breath and exhaled into his hands. He wondered what her connection was to the orphan Yao Sing Chang, deliveryman, who was soon to be a pile of ashes in a Chinese urn.
He went toward the stand thinking he’d start the conversation by buying a bag of cherries, that, if he got the chance, he’d bring to Alex’s office.
“One bag, please,” he said with a small smile, handing her the dollar bills and watching her face.
She barely noticed him as she bagged the cherries and took his money.
“I saw you at the Wah Fook,” Jack said quietly, not sure if she’d understand his English. He was ready to say it in Chinese when she glanced at him, saying, “ Chaai loh ah? You’re a cop?” in Cantonese.
He was gauging her face, flashing her his badge as he answered, “Yes.” She’d made him right away, immigrants seeing with sharper eyes, especially if they might be illegal .
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Jack answered.
“Another day”—she sighed—“another struggle.”
“What?” Jack asked, hearing, Biggie Smalls? Rap?
“He had a tough time here,” she said. “But he saved me once.”
“How did you know him?” asked Jack, trying to hold her eyes.
She continued to bag the loose cherries. A group of Scandinavian tourists appeared and bought up all her bags.
“I can’t talk now,” she said, her cheeks darkening as she started bagging cherries again.
“When’s better?” Jack asked, handing her his NYPD detective’s card.
“I usually break for lunch at two,” she answered.
He scanned the street. It wasn’t the Mulberry Street he remembered, dotted now with overseas enterprises, distributorships, wholesalers’ storefronts, a few restaurants.
“Xe Lua,” he suggested, Vietnamese . “On your break?”
She looked down the street at Xe Lua’s banner, a familiar flag.
“Okay,” she said as other customers rushed by.
He doubled back toward the Seniors’ Center, wondering if she’d actually show up, feeling her eyes on his back.
Old and Wise
H E FOUND A H Por quickly this time, in the same location as before, by the big back window near the exit door tothe courtyard. She was watching one of the TV monitors when he sat and touched her hand. It took a moment for her to recognize Jack, the young image of his father.
He nodded and smiled, gave her Singarette’s fake Rolex. And a folded Lincoln.
She looked at the knockoff, ran a thumb over it.
“Canal Street,” she said, handing it back.
Sure , Jack thought, Canal for knockoffs .
He handed her the Yonkers racing program.
“ Som lok bat ,” she counted, “three, six, eight.”
The program was
The curbside market vendors on the Mulberry-Canal corner were the only ones open for business in the bitter cold and slushy mess. They’d shoveled off the curb, stacked out the crates on folding tables, and took turns warming up in the vans.
Jack knew the sidewalk merchants supported the local restaurants in exchange for use of the toilet facilities whenever needed.
A street community , Jack knew.
Business was brisk considering the light traffic on the streets. He figured a couple of tour buses must have rolled in, visitors to the fabled neighborhoods of Lower Manhattan. He was about to move to where he could get another view when the young woman in the red jacket stepped out of the van and took over one of the fruit stands from an older woman, who then retreated into the van.
The stands offered melons, pineapples, strawberries and grapes, cherries—fruits from the global season kept fresh in the New York City cold.
She’d relieved the cherry stand, her red jacket the perfect pitch for the cherries she started to bag for grab-and-go customers. Chinatown people snapped them up as tasty treats for the extended families, and tourists grabbed them for quick snacks.
Jack took a deep breath and exhaled into his hands. He wondered what her connection was to the orphan Yao Sing Chang, deliveryman, who was soon to be a pile of ashes in a Chinese urn.
He went toward the stand thinking he’d start the conversation by buying a bag of cherries, that, if he got the chance, he’d bring to Alex’s office.
“One bag, please,” he said with a small smile, handing her the dollar bills and watching her face.
She barely noticed him as she bagged the cherries and took his money.
“I saw you at the Wah Fook,” Jack said quietly, not sure if she’d understand his English. He was ready to say it in Chinese when she glanced at him, saying, “ Chaai loh ah? You’re a cop?” in Cantonese.
He was gauging her face, flashing her his badge as he answered, “Yes.” She’d made him right away, immigrants seeing with sharper eyes, especially if they might be illegal .
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Jack answered.
“Another day”—she sighed—“another struggle.”
“What?” Jack asked, hearing, Biggie Smalls? Rap?
“He had a tough time here,” she said. “But he saved me once.”
“How did you know him?” asked Jack, trying to hold her eyes.
She continued to bag the loose cherries. A group of Scandinavian tourists appeared and bought up all her bags.
“I can’t talk now,” she said, her cheeks darkening as she started bagging cherries again.
“When’s better?” Jack asked, handing her his NYPD detective’s card.
“I usually break for lunch at two,” she answered.
He scanned the street. It wasn’t the Mulberry Street he remembered, dotted now with overseas enterprises, distributorships, wholesalers’ storefronts, a few restaurants.
“Xe Lua,” he suggested, Vietnamese . “On your break?”
She looked down the street at Xe Lua’s banner, a familiar flag.
“Okay,” she said as other customers rushed by.
He doubled back toward the Seniors’ Center, wondering if she’d actually show up, feeling her eyes on his back.
Old and Wise
H E FOUND A H Por quickly this time, in the same location as before, by the big back window near the exit door tothe courtyard. She was watching one of the TV monitors when he sat and touched her hand. It took a moment for her to recognize Jack, the young image of his father.
He nodded and smiled, gave her Singarette’s fake Rolex. And a folded Lincoln.
She looked at the knockoff, ran a thumb over it.
“Canal Street,” she said, handing it back.
Sure , Jack thought, Canal for knockoffs .
He handed her the Yonkers racing program.
“ Som lok bat ,” she counted, “three, six, eight.”
The program was
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