threw up,” Lorna said flatly. The Chinese cop wouldn’t let her clean the sink. Her eyes flickered at the clicking sound inside the apartment. “What’s that?”
“They’re taking pictures.”
Down the hall a door opened. A gaunt elderly woman in a pink flannel bathrobe cautiously emerged from her apartment with a garbage bag. “What’s going on?” she demanded querulously. “I’m a sick woman. I’m not supposed to be disturbed.”
Sergeant Joyce motioned with her head toward the woman. Without a word, April crossed the hall to talk to her.
“Who are you? What is this, a convention?” The woman peered at April through watery eyes.
“We’re with the police. There’s been an accident,” April told her.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just get out of here as soon as you can.” She thrust the garbage bag into April’s hand and closed her door with a bang.
In the six years April had worked the Fifth Precinct in Chinatown, first walking the beat, then as a detective, no one had dared call her a bitch or hand her their garbage for disposal. In Chinatown, people believed the law existed for one purpose only: to cause trouble for perfectly innocent citizens. The police were there to imprison or deport them, steal their money, and maybe beat them up in the process. In Chinatown, police were treated with fear and respect.
But here, on the affluent Upper West Side, no one was afraid of the police. No one respected them, and no one was grateful when they did their job. Here, the police were held in contempt by the rich, and cursed and shot at by the poor. Considering the fact that the police department was the city’s only hedge against chaos, April sometimes thought being a cop was worse than a thankless job; it was a cruel joke. Maybe that was the reason so few Chinese wanted it.
She marched to the door marked EXIT with the old woman’s garbage. Near the door something touched her. She brushed her face with her free hand. Nothing was there. Still, for a wild moment, her armor was pierced and she felt elation. What was it? No one was anywhere near her. At the end of the hall, Sergeant Joyce stood talking to Lorna Cowles.
Must be her mother who traveled around with April sneaking her ideas in whenever she could. Many years ago Sai Woo had told April that the air was in constant motion, not with wind and rain and snow and sleet but with the activity ofpowerful gods and ancient spirits that could do whatever they wanted to human life. She had warned April to watch out for them and try to decipher the hidden meaning in everything in order to make the gods work for, not against, her. For spirits could blow hot or cold in a person’s face and alter his feelings and his life in an instant. Turn a man away from his wife, toward evil and ruin. Turn a woman toward the golden light. You never knew what they were going to do.
This was another way in which April was disobedient. She refused to believe in golden lights and shabby gods that had been lost even to China for more than half a century. She was American, lived in a rational world where things could be explained. Where things
had
to be explained. Every day of her life, every case she worked had an official beginning, had to be written up on numerous forms. Every case had to be officially opened, investigated, and officially closed. The blanks on the forms were small. There was no room for subtlety.
Yet the system turned out to be more tricky and complicated than any capricious spirit her mother could invent. Even when the laws were crystal-clear, lawyers and judges shrouded the path to punishment in an impenetrable fog, putting a dozen different spins on every count against every criminal. People killed one another in riots, on the streets, murdered them brutally in their own homes, and their lawyers got them off. They stole cars and sold drugs and assaulted children and were out on the street again without blinking. Who knew why this was
“They’re taking pictures.”
Down the hall a door opened. A gaunt elderly woman in a pink flannel bathrobe cautiously emerged from her apartment with a garbage bag. “What’s going on?” she demanded querulously. “I’m a sick woman. I’m not supposed to be disturbed.”
Sergeant Joyce motioned with her head toward the woman. Without a word, April crossed the hall to talk to her.
“Who are you? What is this, a convention?” The woman peered at April through watery eyes.
“We’re with the police. There’s been an accident,” April told her.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just get out of here as soon as you can.” She thrust the garbage bag into April’s hand and closed her door with a bang.
In the six years April had worked the Fifth Precinct in Chinatown, first walking the beat, then as a detective, no one had dared call her a bitch or hand her their garbage for disposal. In Chinatown, people believed the law existed for one purpose only: to cause trouble for perfectly innocent citizens. The police were there to imprison or deport them, steal their money, and maybe beat them up in the process. In Chinatown, police were treated with fear and respect.
But here, on the affluent Upper West Side, no one was afraid of the police. No one respected them, and no one was grateful when they did their job. Here, the police were held in contempt by the rich, and cursed and shot at by the poor. Considering the fact that the police department was the city’s only hedge against chaos, April sometimes thought being a cop was worse than a thankless job; it was a cruel joke. Maybe that was the reason so few Chinese wanted it.
She marched to the door marked EXIT with the old woman’s garbage. Near the door something touched her. She brushed her face with her free hand. Nothing was there. Still, for a wild moment, her armor was pierced and she felt elation. What was it? No one was anywhere near her. At the end of the hall, Sergeant Joyce stood talking to Lorna Cowles.
Must be her mother who traveled around with April sneaking her ideas in whenever she could. Many years ago Sai Woo had told April that the air was in constant motion, not with wind and rain and snow and sleet but with the activity ofpowerful gods and ancient spirits that could do whatever they wanted to human life. She had warned April to watch out for them and try to decipher the hidden meaning in everything in order to make the gods work for, not against, her. For spirits could blow hot or cold in a person’s face and alter his feelings and his life in an instant. Turn a man away from his wife, toward evil and ruin. Turn a woman toward the golden light. You never knew what they were going to do.
This was another way in which April was disobedient. She refused to believe in golden lights and shabby gods that had been lost even to China for more than half a century. She was American, lived in a rational world where things could be explained. Where things
had
to be explained. Every day of her life, every case she worked had an official beginning, had to be written up on numerous forms. Every case had to be officially opened, investigated, and officially closed. The blanks on the forms were small. There was no room for subtlety.
Yet the system turned out to be more tricky and complicated than any capricious spirit her mother could invent. Even when the laws were crystal-clear, lawyers and judges shrouded the path to punishment in an impenetrable fog, putting a dozen different spins on every count against every criminal. People killed one another in riots, on the streets, murdered them brutally in their own homes, and their lawyers got them off. They stole cars and sold drugs and assaulted children and were out on the street again without blinking. Who knew why this was
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