Year of the Dragon Page 11

  Powers looked up from some papers.

  “There’s a Chinese guy upstairs,” said Lom. “He’s got a problem that’s typical of many of the people of Chinatown. He speaks a good deal of English.”

  For a moment Powers looked ready to snarl at Lom. Already bogged down in paper work, he could not afford to get bogged down in particular Chinamen too.

  But, instead, he followed Lom upstairs where Lom made the introduction: “Captain Powers, Mr. Quong.”

  Powers’ hand shot out. Quong, smiling nervously, did not see it, for he was busy bowing.

  “Is an honor, Righteous Worthy,” said Quong. “Is very great honor.”

  When the bow ended Powers’ hand was still out there. After a moment, Quong took it. He seemed as timid as a young girl, and he would not or could not meet Powers’ eyes.

  “Sit down, Mr. Quong,” said Powers. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Lom led the former schoolteacher back over his narrative. Lom did not care about Quong, but about the impression he was making on his commander and he directed Quong to speak in Cantonese, as this would establish him as invaluable translator. But Powers quickly became impatient - the interview was taking too long - and Lom was obliged to allow Quong to explain himself whenever possible in English.

  Thus the story unfolded. In a farm village at the edge of the Pearl River in Kwangtung Province, Quong had served as schoolmaster for more than twenty years, and had held the rank of learned scholar.

  “The class structure in China is quite rigid,” commented Lom to Powers. “Learned scholar is pretty high.”

  Quong had run a one-room schoolhouse for all grades up to age fifteen. He had taught the little ones to draw their ideographs; he had taught the older ones Chinese history and as much of the five classics as they would sit still for, and he had been an admired figure in the village.

  Then had come the cultural revolution. The Gang of Four was in control. Learning became unpopular and men like Mr. Quong were suspected of deviationist tendencies. Rumors began to circulate: the schoolmaster might be sent somewhere for reeducation, or arrested, or driven out.

  “When was the Gang of Four?” murmured Powers to Lom.

  “A couple of years ago, Captain, a couple of years ago.”

  Quong was terrified by the rumors, because he feared for his young wife and small son. On a certain night, gathering a few possessions, he led them out of the village, trotting down the road toward Hong Kong more than a hundred miles away. Quong, in the lead, carried a stick to ward off the dogs. They woke dogs in every village they trotted through, but when alone under the moon were not safe either, and had to trot more silently than ever so as not to disturb the earth gods.

  “Earth gods?” said Powers. “But he’s an educated man.”

  “He’s also Chinese,” commented Lom.

  After many nights they reached the coast at the edge of Deep Bay, across from the British Crown Colony, and a boatman, promising to take them across, took all of their money, then forced them out into shallow water when still about a mile from shore, and they were obliged to wade and swim the rest of the way, their possessions above their heads. Once ashore they resumed trotting. They trotted three more nights toward Kowloon, where Quong’s wife had a relative she had never met. They went to his house, a small flat. She addressed him as Third Uncle and he took them in. When told they had no money, he agreed to accept all of their jade and gold instead - two pairs of earrings and a brooch. In return, he gave them part of one room sectioned off by curtains. Quong was lucky. He found work as a laborer in a land-fill project, six days a week, twelve hours a day. He saved his money, for he had conceived the idea of emigrating to America, the Gold Mountain, and he made contact with one of the Triad societies that provided false immigration papers, paying the cost in monthly installments over a period of years.

  The Triad society had an arrangement with the New York branch of the Nam Soong Tong. Passage to New York would cost fifty percent of Quong’s earnings for the next ten years. He agreed.

  The Quongs were flown to Vancouver, then led across Canada to Toronto where, with fifteen other Chinese men, women and children, they were crammed by white demons into the false bottom of an oil tank truck for the drive across the border to Niagara Falls. The hatch was slammed shut and bolted from the outside. There was no light or headroom and very little air. They squatted in the dark hip to hip, arm to arm, unable to stand up or shift position. The temperature rose higher and higher, reaching, probably, 120 degrees. The truck was motionless for several hours. Some of the women fainted, and some screamed, but no one came to open the hatch. Hours later, the truck began to roll again.

  They were let out in New York City, drenched by then with sweat and piss, and most of them half crazed from the claustrophobia and the fear.

  Here Quong’s face broke into a broad grin, and he reverted to Chinese.

  “I haven’t heard anything yet,” interjected Powers, “that sounded funny.”

  “He crossed the border illegally, Captain,” said Lom. “He put one over on the American authorities. He’s proud of it.”

  “Great,” said Powers. “He’s an illegal alien. What do we do about that?”

  But the grinning Quong had extracted his green card, which he was trying to thrust on Powers - who did not want to take it.

  “I’m not an immigration officer, Mr. Quong. I don’t have any right to ask to see your green card. What’s he saying, Lom?”

  “He says the Nam Soongs regularized him the next day. He went by tong headquarters and his green card was ready and they gave it to him.”

  Powers took the card, studied it briefly, and handed it back.

  “Counterfeit?” asked Lom.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I guess he’s a very naive fellow.”

  “He’s a schoolteacher. He came halfway around the world to get here, more than twelve thousand miles. He trotted nearly all the way. His green card is none of our business, do you understand me, Lom?”

  Quong, still grinning, had been peering from one face to the other. “Green card good,” he said. “Velly good. Cost much money.”

  “Where do you work, Mr. Quong?” asked Powers.

  “Velly good job, Righteous Worthy,” said Quong, “velly good job.”

  He worked in a clothing factory on Pell Street. His job consisted of snipping off the loose ends of threads from finished trousers. He was paid five cents per pair of trousers snipped clean, and was allowed to work twelve hours a day, he reported proudly, thereby being granted the opportunity to earn much money and pay off his note. At first he tried to pay it off by gambling.

  He could not gamble anymore, he said, and explained why. One night he had begun to win at the fan-tan table in a gambling den on Mott Street. His run went on and on. The money piled up. He won enough to pay off the tong, and have money left over, and with this realization he came to his senses and pushed back from the table.

  Here Quong paused, gave a rueful grin, and shook his head sadly.

  As a big winner, he was entitled to a limousine home. It was explained to him that the owners always provided limousines for big winners, like himself, because they were pleased at his good fortune and wished to contribute further to his happiness.

  With thousands of dollars in his pockets Quong climbed into the limousine, and told the Chinese driver to take him to Times Square. He had never been in a limousine before, nor to Times Square either. The car rolled along. He sat back on the plump cushions, and closed his eyes and contemplated his rosy future.

  The door was yanked open. The car had stopped and two Chinese youths had him by the arms. They yanked him out at gunpoint and robbed him of every cent. They did not rob the driver, Quong noticed. The driver stood by watching, and once the robbery was over he got back into the limousine and drove off, leaving Quong on the sidewalk with his pockets hanging out.

  “That’s armed robbery,” said Powers. “Did you report that to
the police?”

  “Is nobody’s fault, Captain. I velly foolish man. I learn good lesson. I no gamble anymore.” He had seen one of the boys later on Mott Street and was told he belonged to the Flying Dragons, who were very dangerous boys. “I learn a good lesson,” he said again, and laughed.

  “You said you had a problem with your son,” Powers prompted, after a moment.

  “Is not worthy of your notice, Righteous Worthy,” protested Quong.

  “Try me.”

  Quong’s son had joined the Flying Dragons, he said. The Dragons were gangsters. The boy wore new clothes. He was being led into a life of crime - had perhaps already committed crimes.

  “And he’s only fifteen years old,” said the former schoolteacher, and he turned away blinking.

  His wife worked in the kitchen of a restaurant on Mulberry Street, he said. She prepared vegetables for the chef and cleaned up afterwards, working from eleven in the morning until the restaurant closed at about midnight. So neither of them had had time to watch the boy. Recently Quong had punished his son. He had administered the beating, he said, by which the boy would remember his guilt.

  “What did he say?” asked Powers.

  “The Chinese rarely resort to physical discipline,” Lom said. “He took a stick to the kid, and hasn’t seen him since.”

  Quong paused. His manner brightened and he brought out a photo of his son for Powers to admire.

  “Note how his ears are set close to the head,” said Quong proudly. “And the lobes are long. These are signs of high intelligence.”

  Powers studied the photo. Was this the same boy he had watched being recruited in the school yard? He could not be sure. He handed the photo back.

  “My son understands which are the four valuable things,” said Quong hopefully.

  “The four valuable things?” said Powers.

  “Ink, ink slab, brush and paper, Captain,” said Lom.

  “I see.”

  Powers began to speak gently, and Quong to nod his head up and down as if he understood. Whether he did or not Powers did not know. There was no law against a boy, any boy, associating with other boys, even if the others might in fact belong to the Flying Dragons, Powers said. However, the law did state that boys were obliged to attend school to age sixteen, and this could be enforced, though not by the police. Truant officers enforced the truancy laws. Powers would alert the truancy office. Also, he would take every possible action under the law against the Chinatown youth gangs, because to drive them out of Chinatown was his first priority.

  Somewhere in the course of this speech Powers saw he had lost Mr. Quong, who had pleaded for help, and instead was receiving words. Quong rose to his feet and, smiling and bowing, he began to back his way out of the room.

  “Thank you, Righteous Worthy, for time and attention. Thank you velly much,” Quong said, and was gone.

  For Lom, the interview had gone well. “These Chinese gentlemen are so graceful, aren’t they, Captain?” he commented.

  Powers said nothing.

  “I’ve prepared a memo for you, Captain,” said Lom, and he not only handed it over but also stepped to Powers’ side to point out details in his sketches of the ten important elders. “I think you and I should go call on them, one by one.

  Powers said, “I wish we could do something for Mr. Quong. I wish we could give him back his son.”

  Lom agreed. “If the kid is running with the Dragons, it’s bad news. Those guys’ll blow you out of your socks. Shall I begin setting up our appointments?”

  Powers folded the memo and gave it back. “Sure, set them up,” he said.

  AT THAT moment, young Quong was about to be formally inducted into the Flying Dragons. Together with Nikki Han and six other boys he trooped down the stairs into a Chinatown cellar. Two of the boys carried Chinese lanterns and Nikki Han carried four steel tent pegs about two feet long, some lengths of rope and a small sledgehammer. In the darkness under the tenement they lit the lanterns, which cast eerie shadows upon the walls. They were under a Chinese grocery. Young Quong, peering up, could see seeds and leaves that hung from the rafters, drying. He was wearing his new clothes and grinning, happy among his new friends. His hair was growing out. In a few weeks it would be long enough to tease into the bouffant style of the other boys.

  He no longer felt alone.

  Nikki Han tapped one of the tent pegs an inch into the floor. Pacing his distance carefully, he tapped in each of the other three pegs similarly, so as to form a square. Nikki Han then handed the sledgehammer to Quong saying, “Drive each of those pegs in halfway.”

  The dirt floor was trodden solid, and Quong had to swing the hammer hard. By the time all four stakes were planted, the fifteen-year-old was breathing hard, though still grinning. He felt himself a working member of the gang, and appreciated by the others, and he did not know about the ritual he was about to undergo. He handed the hammer back to Han.

  Upon a command from Han, the other youths leaped upon Quong, tore off all his clothes, and threw him down naked onto the floor. Since he did not comprehend, he struggled, but he could not move. Hands held him spread-eagled. Other hands lashed his wrists and ankles to the four stakes. He was terrified. His ass squirmed uncontrollably on the dirt, and his head lashed back and forth. His frantic eyes sought an explanation, but none came. The lanterns were placed at his head and between his feet, and the other boys backed off into the darkness, and stripped to the waist, though he could not see this. Nor could he see them take out knives. For a time there was no sound, no movement. Quong’s terror mounted.

  From out of the darkness came first a maniacal scream, then a butcher knife - the lantern light flashed off the blade - and then the Chinese youth attached to it. The lantern light danced on his flesh and on his weapon, and he lunged for Quong’s face, and drove the knife into the dirt beside his left ear.

  Quong screamed.

  In rapid succession other gang members, torsos glistening, flew screaming out of the darkness and planted knives and cleavers around the perimeter of the naked figure. Quong screamed louder than they. His sphincter muscles let go. Now as he twisted and squirmed he only soiled himself further. He began to babble, and his eyeballs rolled almost out of his head.

  Nikki Han strode forth into the light. “Enough. Untie him.”

  Quong, quivering, got to his feet. He was handed a newspaper, with which he cleaned himself up as best as he could. Sweat ran down his breastbone, the muscles in his face twitched, and he was weeping uncontrollably. His clothes were handed him and he got dressed. “Give him the initiation ritual,” ordered Nikki Han.

  Quong was handed a paper written in Chinese and ordered to his knees. The boys crowded around him. One held a lantern high so that he could read. “As long as I live I am a member of the Flying Dragon Tong,” he read in a trembling voice. “Even if I die, I am still a member. If I betray the tong, Heaven and Earth will destroy me. I will obey all the rules of the tong. If I don’t I will die under the condition of being shot. The secret of the tong must be kept or I will die under a thousand knives.”

  The oath continued. “If one is found to be a traitor, the punishment is death. We are all brothers of each other. If a brother is in trouble or danger we must respond, or die under a thousand knives. The tong leader is the adviser of all events. If anyone tries to get rid of or kill him the punishment is death.”

  Having completed the oath, Quong was allowed to stand up. His head moved among the drying seeds and leaves, and the other boys stepped forward grinning, and began pummeling him on the back. His tears dried and he began to smile. They were all talking at once in Cantonese. Quong was now a sworn member of the Flying Dragons. He beamed with pride. His terror had been worth it. He was truly one of them now.

  Nikki Han handed Quong a short-barreled .32-caliber revolver which he brandished this way and that, as if it were a toy pistol, which it was not. Like a small boy he pointed it at the far wall. “Tock! Tock!” he cried, which was the noise a
Chinese child makes when playing at gunfire. “Tock! Tock!”

  Nearly bursting with happiness and pride, Quong thrust the revolver into his belt under his shirt and all the boys trooped up the stairs out of the cellar and stepped into the sunlight on Mott Street.

  LATE IN the afternoon Lom entered Captain Powers’ office. Powers, in uniform behind his desk, looked up.

  “Well, Captain,” Lom said, “I’ve been able to set up the first of those appointments for us.”

  Powers, peering over his half-glasses, studied Lom. “I won’t need you to come along, Lom.”

  “Excuse me, Captain.”

  Powers had thought the matter out. “I think it’s better if I go by myself.”

  “But Captain-” Powers did not know these elders, Lom told him, nor understand the Chinatown power-structure, nor speak Chinese. Lom would be invaluable to him, as he had been invaluable to the dozen precinct commanders before him.

  Powers shook his head, cutting him off. “I’ve made my decision on the matter, Lom.” Another trap avoided, Powers reflected.

  “But Captain,” protested Lom, “what about my prestige?”

  “Perhaps my prestige,” murmured Powers, “ought to come first, do you think?”

  When Lom made no reply, Powers said: “You know what I wish you’d do for me, Lom? I wish you’d find Quong’s kid and have a talk with him. Maybe you can do some good. After that, go see Quong. Make him understand that his police department is doing everything for him that it can. Now hand me over your list, if you will.”

  “Yes sir,” mumbled Lom, and he laid it down on Powers’ desk and went out.

  WILBUR D. LURTSEMA, producer of the Seven O’clock World News Report, was a big man with a big paunch, who tended to bull his way through life belly foremost. He came bulling out of the men’s room now, fingers still working at his half-zipped fly, and bumped smack into Carol Cone. His hands were wrongly placed to ward her off. As a result she caromed off him into the wall, and nearly went down.