Henry Chang - Year of the Dog

A crowd of old folks had gathered, blocking the sidewalk outside Sam Kee Restaurant. Jack crossed the street, away from the dingy storefronts that had seen the better days of his youth.

Billy’s tofu factory was down the block. Billy Bow, the only son of an only son, was Jack’s oldest neighborhood friend. He had been Jack’s extra eyes and ears on the street, and he’d provided Jack with insights and observations into the arcane workings of the old community.

The Tofu King was the work of three generations of a longtime Chinatown family, the Bows. It was once the biggest distributor of tofu products in Chinatown, but was clearly no longer the king. Competition had grown steadily as new immigrants from China arrived, and the Tofu King now resorted to promotional gimmicks to hang on to its customers. Every Tuesday was Tofu Tuesday, half-price for senior citizens, and after 6 PM daily, rice cakes and dao jeong soybean milk were three for a dollar.

Billy’s grandfather had started it all by growing his own bean sprouts, then perfected the process of cooking soybeans and passed it on to his son, Billy’s dad, who then hooked up with soybean farmers in Indiana, and expanded the shop. Finally, Billy, conscripted into the family business, targeted their tofu products toward a more diverse health-oriented marketplace, and expanded the shop into the Tofu King. Now the business struggled, not only to maintain its place against the new competition, but also staggering under myriad business costs that kept rising.

Jack remembered the three rudderless years he’d worked in the Tofu King, in the suffocating backroom, cooking and slopping beans into foo jook tofu skins, and tofu fa custard. That was long after his pal Wing Lee died, but before Jack had finally graduated from City College.

When he peered through the steamy storefront window, he could see Billy near the back, animated, making faces, and gesturing with his hands.

Jack stepped into the humid shop and listened as Billy ranted on about the latest atrocities. “The health department, wealth department is what they should call it, comes down with a new regulation every fuckin’ month. Just so they can shake down more money from Chinamen.”

Preaching to the kitchen help, thought Jack.

“Ew ke ma ga hei, motherfucker,” Billy cursed in his best Toishanese, the original tongue of the first immigrants to Chinatown. “Thousands of dollars in fines.”

Jack picked up what he needed, went toward Billy who continued to vent in the general direction of the slop boys in the back. They frowned and nodded their heads at everything he said.

Feigning surprise, Billy turned to Jack and laughed, “Oh shit, it’s Hawaii Five-0! Green cards out, everybody! Book ’em, Jack-O.”

Jack was happy to see Billy grinning, a momentary departure from the edgy-depressive that Billy normally was.

“Wassup, man? You look like you got some man tan there.” Billy took a breath, shook his head sadly as Jack plopped onto the counter the three plastic containers of bok tong go he’d taken from the refrigerator case.

“What’s up with the crowd outside Sam Kee’s?” Jack asked.

Billy chortled. “They’re waiting for the free for ngaap duck. The inspectors said it’s now illegal to hang ducks and chickens in the window, without temperature controls. Gave old man Kee a two-hundred-dollar fine, and a citation.”

Jack was shaking his head, looking for So what?

“ So the old man catches a fit, threatens to throw the ducks into the street. All the old folks are hoping to catch a freebie.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Jack grimaced.

“I don’t think so, either.”

“All he’d be doing is inviting a Sanitation rap.”

“Jack, yo, ducks and chickens been hanging in Chinatown windows a hundred years. All of a sudden it’s a health issue?”

“Hundred Year’s Duck. Isn’t that the house special at Wally’s?”

“It’s all bullshit,” Billy continued, “When was the last time we had an epidemic down here? Eighteen-ninety-three or something?”

Through the frosted street window Jack saw the green car with the sanitation sergeant seated inside, idling at the corner of Bayard.

“The city’s just trying to pump bucks by pickpocketing the Chinamen, brother. Kee junior called it the Fuck the Duck Law. The Choke the Chicken Law.”

Jack chuckled, knowing that the more things changed in Chinatown, the more they remained the same. Been going on a hundred years. Old Man Kee had probably been too slow with the payoff, or the department had sent an overzealous, perhaps racist inspector looking to advance. The Chinatown lawyers found ways to work around municipal regulations all the time. Administrations changed. This, too, would pass.

“Everybody’s talking,” Billy said quietly, “about the Ping woman. The Fukienese one who got killed?”

Jack nodded, the cause of the demonstration at One Police Plaza.

“Three hoodie-wearing punkass, hip-hop motherfucker wannabe thug gangsters.” Billy’s eyes steeled over. “And I lost half the backroom boys yesterday ’cause they went to the protest at police headquarters.”

“It ain’t easy,” Jack said.

“Fuckin’ A that. The Fukienese Association wants the punks to hang. They hired white lawyers even. Sorta like a legal lynching.”

Jack checked his watch, thinking how long-winded Billy could get.

“But crime never takes a holiday, huh,” Billy joked. “So what else you need, kid? Some fun or some skin ?” Both were references to tofu products, but sounded perverted with drug and sexual innuendo.

The two of them broke out in laughter at this inside joke that arose from the many sweaty hours they spent in the cook room, boiling the beans.

Billy loosed a long sigh, adding, “You remember Jeff Lee? Got a little office in a warehouse on Pike Street?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “JK Trading, something like that.”

“Well, he was asking for you. I tried calling you, then I remembered you said you were away for vacation.”

“Why? What’s up?” Jack asked.

“Someone took like eight thousand worth of stuff, but they didn’t see no entry.”

That’s Ghost turf, thought Jack, dailo Tat’s territory.

“No forced entry? Didn’t Jeff call the cops?”

“Yeah, they came,” Billy answered. “The burglary cops, you know. They made a report, told Jeff they thought it was an inside job.” Billy leaned closer and said quietly, “Look, I told Jeff you’re out of the precinct, but he was just asking, maybe you could take a look around. Like a second opinion.”

Jack felt it again, the tension at the back of his neck, the reasons why he had to leave the Fifth Precinct. The Chinatown way, the Chinese mistrust of policemen and government officials, a historical divide covering centuries of corruption in China, and Hong Kong, where they’d refined corruption to an art form.

All the good things he accomplished as a cop here, made possible because he was Chinese.

All the bad things that happened along the way, also because he was Chinese.

Still, he thought he could have made a difference if only he could have kept his Chineseness out of it.

“C’mon,” Billy snapped, breaking Jack’s drift. “ What fuckin’ inside job? Jeff works the place with his father and sister. It’s a desk and a coupla chairs, not JC Penney. They deliver to the vendors mostly. They don’t get a lotta walk-in traffic out there.”

“I had enough trouble in this precinct, Billy. I can’t chump some other cop’s report,” said Jack.