mixed, and at different levels in the process became firm tofu, silken tofu, tofu sticks, tofu skins, and soy bean milk drink. The smell was thick upstairs, hanging in the hot air, suffocating. This went on twenty-four hours a day.
Jack looked down the street and saw the line of empty carts moving into the Tofu King. He took a roll of composite sketches of the rapist from the glove compartment and checked his watch. It was ten-thirty.
The sky darkened and a few Ghosts appeared on the street. Jack watched them, four youths with streaked hair and leather jackets, as they took up positions on the corner. Behind them, farther down the street, Jack saw a soft doughy-faced Lucky, his onetime friend Tat Louie, behind sunglasses, chatting easily with Uncle Four, making accommodating gestures with his hands. Jack narrowed his eyes at them, the Pell Street big shot, Ghost Legion gang leader. An arrogant power meeting on the streets they ruled.
A few more Ghosts came onto the street, took up space on the opposite corner. They observed all that passed, signaling to one another across the street with cat whistles, woofing at pretty girls, flexing the tattoos on their skinny arms.
The two leaders shook hands, and then the Big Uncle ambled down Bayard Street.
Jack watched the Ghosts strut off, keeping his eyes on Lucky, who turned and stared through his black glasses momentarily at the Fury. Lucky raised his middle finger and waved it loosely, sneered, then crossed the street and disappeared around the corner.
A tinge of sadness colored Jack's vision, but he pushed away the feeling it brought. Tat Louie was a stranger now, deep on the other side of the law.
Jack grabbed the roll of composite sketches and slid out of the car.
Inside the Tofu King, he saw Billy stamping about, waving a yellow paper in his hand, cursing, "niggers with badges, them motherfuckers." He slammed the paper down on the counter, turned, and sawJack. He shook his head and frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down.
Jack stood ready to listen, his face sympathetic, nodding. "The Department of Health, Wealth, I should say, came yesterday," Billy hissed. "Then this motherfucker gives me a ticket 'cause there's some papers in the street. Told 'im it wasn't my shit, must've blown down from the corner, from a car or something, you know? The kid swept this morning already. What the fuck you want me to do? Put him out there all day with a broom in his hand? Motherfucker says `Eighteen inches from the curb, bro. You got garbage, you got a violation.' Just like that, the motherfucker. I called him a spear-chucking, watermelon-eating black cocksucker. He laughs and walks away. Shit. Gonna cost me seventy-five. That's a lotta dao jeung. Damn it, City Hall makes a killing off of Chinamen. Chinatown is a goddamn gold mine to them. The traffic pricks cut tickets by intimidation. They know most Chinese don't speak enough English to argue. Health and Sanitation target the restaurants. Department of Buildings, Fire Code inspectors, they go after the construction crews. Plainclothes issues summonses to sidewalk peddlers, grocers, the gift shops. Everyone down here's paying some fine, payoffs not included. It's bullshit. No other minority group in the city pays off like the Chinese do. How come we don't have no NAACP?"
Billy paused to catch his breath. "Man, the city's got more niggers on the payroll than Welfare, and they all drop down here like the black plague, gettingpaid, busting on the yellow man."
Jack shook his head, then Billy grinned. "I'm telling you, Jack, I gotta get out of this business." He tossed Jack a bean milk.
"Write it off, Billy," Jack said. "It comes with the turf." He gave Billy a few of the composite sketches. "I need you to post these. Show 'em to your workers. See if they hear anything."
"This the guy, huh? The Chinatown Rapist?"
"That's our impression of the guy."
"What a scumbag. I'll post 'em Jack, sure, but I don't know."
"What?"
"There's
Jack looked down the street and saw the line of empty carts moving into the Tofu King. He took a roll of composite sketches of the rapist from the glove compartment and checked his watch. It was ten-thirty.
The sky darkened and a few Ghosts appeared on the street. Jack watched them, four youths with streaked hair and leather jackets, as they took up positions on the corner. Behind them, farther down the street, Jack saw a soft doughy-faced Lucky, his onetime friend Tat Louie, behind sunglasses, chatting easily with Uncle Four, making accommodating gestures with his hands. Jack narrowed his eyes at them, the Pell Street big shot, Ghost Legion gang leader. An arrogant power meeting on the streets they ruled.
A few more Ghosts came onto the street, took up space on the opposite corner. They observed all that passed, signaling to one another across the street with cat whistles, woofing at pretty girls, flexing the tattoos on their skinny arms.
The two leaders shook hands, and then the Big Uncle ambled down Bayard Street.
Jack watched the Ghosts strut off, keeping his eyes on Lucky, who turned and stared through his black glasses momentarily at the Fury. Lucky raised his middle finger and waved it loosely, sneered, then crossed the street and disappeared around the corner.
A tinge of sadness colored Jack's vision, but he pushed away the feeling it brought. Tat Louie was a stranger now, deep on the other side of the law.
Jack grabbed the roll of composite sketches and slid out of the car.
Inside the Tofu King, he saw Billy stamping about, waving a yellow paper in his hand, cursing, "niggers with badges, them motherfuckers." He slammed the paper down on the counter, turned, and sawJack. He shook his head and frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down.
Jack stood ready to listen, his face sympathetic, nodding. "The Department of Health, Wealth, I should say, came yesterday," Billy hissed. "Then this motherfucker gives me a ticket 'cause there's some papers in the street. Told 'im it wasn't my shit, must've blown down from the corner, from a car or something, you know? The kid swept this morning already. What the fuck you want me to do? Put him out there all day with a broom in his hand? Motherfucker says `Eighteen inches from the curb, bro. You got garbage, you got a violation.' Just like that, the motherfucker. I called him a spear-chucking, watermelon-eating black cocksucker. He laughs and walks away. Shit. Gonna cost me seventy-five. That's a lotta dao jeung. Damn it, City Hall makes a killing off of Chinamen. Chinatown is a goddamn gold mine to them. The traffic pricks cut tickets by intimidation. They know most Chinese don't speak enough English to argue. Health and Sanitation target the restaurants. Department of Buildings, Fire Code inspectors, they go after the construction crews. Plainclothes issues summonses to sidewalk peddlers, grocers, the gift shops. Everyone down here's paying some fine, payoffs not included. It's bullshit. No other minority group in the city pays off like the Chinese do. How come we don't have no NAACP?"
Billy paused to catch his breath. "Man, the city's got more niggers on the payroll than Welfare, and they all drop down here like the black plague, gettingpaid, busting on the yellow man."
Jack shook his head, then Billy grinned. "I'm telling you, Jack, I gotta get out of this business." He tossed Jack a bean milk.
"Write it off, Billy," Jack said. "It comes with the turf." He gave Billy a few of the composite sketches. "I need you to post these. Show 'em to your workers. See if they hear anything."
"This the guy, huh? The Chinatown Rapist?"
"That's our impression of the guy."
"What a scumbag. I'll post 'em Jack, sure, but I don't know."
"What?"
"There's
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