Ghost—to report their arrival.
Jimmy Mah, wearing a gray suit dusted with cigarette ash and about to burst at the seams, greeted them and invited them into his upstairs office.
President of the East Broadway Fujianese Society, Mah was the de facto mayor of this portion of Chinatown.
His office was a large but plain room, containing two desks and a half-dozen mismatched chairs, piles of paper, a fancy computer and a television set. A hundred or so Chinese books sat on a lopsided bookcase. On the wall were faded and fly-blown posters of Chinese landscapes. Chang wasn't fooled by the run-down appearance of the place, however; he suspected that Mah was a millionaire several times over.
"Sit, please," Mah said in Chinese. The broad-faced man with black hair slicked straight back offered them cigarettes. Wu took one. Chang shook his head no. He'd stopped smoking after he lost his teaching job and money grew scarce.
Mah looked over their filthy clothes, their mussed hair. "Ha, you two look like you have a story to tell. Do you have an interesting story? A compelling story? What would it be? I bet I would like very much to hear it."
Chang indeed did have a story. Whether it was interesting or compelling he couldn't have said but one thing he did know: it was fictional. He had decided not to tell any strangers that they'd been on the Fuzhou Dragon and that the Ghost might be searching for them. He said to Mah, "We've just come into the port on a Honduran ship."
"Who was your snakehead?"
"We never learned his name. He called himself Moxige."
"Mexican?" Mah shook his head. "I don't work with Latino snake-heads." Mah's dialect was tainted with an American accent.
"He took our money," Chang said bitterly, "but then he just left us on the dock. He was going to get us papers and transportation. He vanished."
With curiosity Wu watched him spin this tale. Chang had told the man to keep quiet and let him talk to Mah. On the Dragon Wu drank too much and grew impulsive. He'd been careless about what he'd told the immigrants and crew in the hold.
"Don't they do that sometimes?" Mah said jovially. "Why do they cheat people? Isn't it bad for business? Fuck Mexicans. Where are you from?"
"Fuzhou," Wu offered. Chang stirred. He was going to mention a different city in Fujian—to minimize any connection between the immigrants and the Ghost.
Chang continued, feigning anger. "I have two children and a baby. My father too. He's old. And my friend here, his wife is sick. We need help."
"Ah, help. Well, that is an interesting story, isn't it? But what kind of help do you want? I can do some things. Other things I can't do. Am I one of the Eight Immortals? No, of course I'm not. What do you need?"
"Papers. ID papers. For myself, my wife and my oldest son."
"Sure, sure, I can do some of them. Drivers' licenses, Social Security cards, some old company ID cards— bankrupt companies so no one can check on you. Aren't I clever? Only Jimmy Mah thinks of things like this. These cards, they'll make you look like citizens but you won't be able to get a real job with them. The INS bastards make companies check everything nowadays."
"I've got an arrangement for work," Chang said.
"And I don't do passports," Mah added. "Too dangerous. No green cards either."
"What is that?"
"Resident permits."
"We're going to stay underground and wait for an amnesty," Chang explained.
"Are you? May wait a long time."
Chang shrugged. He then said, "My father needs to see a doctor." A nod toward Wu. "His wife too. Can you get us health cards?"
"I don't do health cards. Too easy to trace. You'll have to go to a private doctor."
"Are they expensive?"
"Yes, very expensive. But if you don't have money go to a city hospital. They will take you."
"Is the care good?"
"What do I know if the care is good? Besides, what choice do you have?"
"All right," Chang said. "For the other documents. How much?"
"Fifteen hundred."
"Yuan?"
Mah laughed.
Jimmy Mah, wearing a gray suit dusted with cigarette ash and about to burst at the seams, greeted them and invited them into his upstairs office.
President of the East Broadway Fujianese Society, Mah was the de facto mayor of this portion of Chinatown.
His office was a large but plain room, containing two desks and a half-dozen mismatched chairs, piles of paper, a fancy computer and a television set. A hundred or so Chinese books sat on a lopsided bookcase. On the wall were faded and fly-blown posters of Chinese landscapes. Chang wasn't fooled by the run-down appearance of the place, however; he suspected that Mah was a millionaire several times over.
"Sit, please," Mah said in Chinese. The broad-faced man with black hair slicked straight back offered them cigarettes. Wu took one. Chang shook his head no. He'd stopped smoking after he lost his teaching job and money grew scarce.
Mah looked over their filthy clothes, their mussed hair. "Ha, you two look like you have a story to tell. Do you have an interesting story? A compelling story? What would it be? I bet I would like very much to hear it."
Chang indeed did have a story. Whether it was interesting or compelling he couldn't have said but one thing he did know: it was fictional. He had decided not to tell any strangers that they'd been on the Fuzhou Dragon and that the Ghost might be searching for them. He said to Mah, "We've just come into the port on a Honduran ship."
"Who was your snakehead?"
"We never learned his name. He called himself Moxige."
"Mexican?" Mah shook his head. "I don't work with Latino snake-heads." Mah's dialect was tainted with an American accent.
"He took our money," Chang said bitterly, "but then he just left us on the dock. He was going to get us papers and transportation. He vanished."
With curiosity Wu watched him spin this tale. Chang had told the man to keep quiet and let him talk to Mah. On the Dragon Wu drank too much and grew impulsive. He'd been careless about what he'd told the immigrants and crew in the hold.
"Don't they do that sometimes?" Mah said jovially. "Why do they cheat people? Isn't it bad for business? Fuck Mexicans. Where are you from?"
"Fuzhou," Wu offered. Chang stirred. He was going to mention a different city in Fujian—to minimize any connection between the immigrants and the Ghost.
Chang continued, feigning anger. "I have two children and a baby. My father too. He's old. And my friend here, his wife is sick. We need help."
"Ah, help. Well, that is an interesting story, isn't it? But what kind of help do you want? I can do some things. Other things I can't do. Am I one of the Eight Immortals? No, of course I'm not. What do you need?"
"Papers. ID papers. For myself, my wife and my oldest son."
"Sure, sure, I can do some of them. Drivers' licenses, Social Security cards, some old company ID cards— bankrupt companies so no one can check on you. Aren't I clever? Only Jimmy Mah thinks of things like this. These cards, they'll make you look like citizens but you won't be able to get a real job with them. The INS bastards make companies check everything nowadays."
"I've got an arrangement for work," Chang said.
"And I don't do passports," Mah added. "Too dangerous. No green cards either."
"What is that?"
"Resident permits."
"We're going to stay underground and wait for an amnesty," Chang explained.
"Are you? May wait a long time."
Chang shrugged. He then said, "My father needs to see a doctor." A nod toward Wu. "His wife too. Can you get us health cards?"
"I don't do health cards. Too easy to trace. You'll have to go to a private doctor."
"Are they expensive?"
"Yes, very expensive. But if you don't have money go to a city hospital. They will take you."
"Is the care good?"
"What do I know if the care is good? Besides, what choice do you have?"
"All right," Chang said. "For the other documents. How much?"
"Fifteen hundred."
"Yuan?"
Mah laughed.
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