Jake rolled the old Subaru station wagon down the driveway in neutral and dropped the clutch as he hit the street. The car bucked once and let out another backfire that woke every sleeping neighbor on the street.
Chapter 13
China Air Flight 43 touched down at JFK International Airport with a screech, the jumbo jet’s tires leaving a streak of rubber on the heavily scarred blacktop of Runway 13. Chow Ying followed the herd to immigration and customs, a process measured at JFK in lunar movement, not minutes or hours. He endured the scrutinizing stare of the immigration officer and answered precisely one question—that he was here on business—before America’s first line of defense against undesirable foreign elements turned him loose on the Big Apple.
The taxi turned left onto Grand Street from Broadway, past a stretch of pavement marked by narrow sidewalks made even narrower by hawkers selling their fake Gucci bags and Tag Heuer watches. From Grand Street the taxi turned right down Mott, cutting through the Northern end of Little Italy and the ever-expanding Chinatown. New York’s Chinatown, home to the largest Chinese population outside of the mainland, was a microcosm of east meets west, in the biggest melting pot on the face of the earth. Chow Ying stepped from the taxi and looked down the block in both directions. The sounds and smells wafting through the air were as familiar as the worn shoes on his feet.
Under the evening light of the city, couples walked to dinner as shopkeepers shuttered their vegetable stands and meat counters for the night. A young man on a moped darted off on the beginning of a delivery run. Chow Ying stood under the neon light of a nearby barbershop sign and pulled the number from his shirt pocket. He tapped the arm of an Asian passerby, a man of equal age but considerably less stature. “Do you know where this address is?” he asked in Mandarin Chinese, the official language of China.
The man responded in Cantonese, a dialect Chow Ying did not speak, and the dialogue ended as abruptly as it had begun.
An elderly woman with a bagful of winter cabbage, broccoli, and carrots, gave Chow Ying precise directions in Mandarin with a heavy Beijing accent. Chow Ying said thank you in their shared local dialect, and the old woman with numerous wrinkles and far fewer teeth, smiled and patted Chow Ying on his back.
A dark red door and a single light marked the inconspicuous entrance of 234 Centre Street. The old brick building took up a quarter of the block. The windows were dark, the façade unwelcoming, and the crumbling mortar that held the structure together was straining to keep it all in one piece.
Chow Ying pushed the small black button and waited. An audible buzz accompanied the automatic lock release, and Chow Ying stepped into the foyer of the dark building. Despite his sketchy past and criminal inclinations, Chow Ying had never been behind bars. Until now. The cage that kept unwanted guests from entering, and prevented unsanctioned exits to those inside, was a three-sided cell that formed a u-shape against the brick wall and the front door. A security camera attached to the ceiling in the corner watched his every move. Chow Ying was unfazed. Someone knew he was there. He pulled out a cigarette and lighter, and polluted himself while he waited.
He heard the voice from the shadows before he saw his host.
“Who’s there?” the voice asked in a calm, almost peaceful tone.
“Chow Ying. C.F. Chang sent me. He gave me this address and told me someone would meet me here.”
A small hand pulled on the chain dangling from the underside of the lamp, and a dull light stretched meekly across the room. A lone desk sat in the middle of the otherwise barren first floor. Mr. Wu yanked opened the top desk drawer, pulled out a key, and made his way across the room to release Chow Ying from his temporary confinement.
“My name is Wu. Follow me.”
Chow Ying trailed the small man across the room and down a flight of stairs so narrow that he had to turn sideways to traverse. At the bottom of the stairs were two identical black doors, and Mr. Wu knocked lightly on the one to the left. The door opened, and the buzz of people and machines in motion washed away the silence of the old brick building.
Like the dialect of the old woman who gave him directions on the street, the familiar hum of sewing machines was a sweet reminder of home. Eighty seamstresses, voluntary illegal slaves, packed the basement of 234 Centre Street. Imitation designer bags were their specialty, sold on the street by equally illegal vendors. Imported cheap labor and iron-fisting an army of street vendors had made Mr. Wu a Chinatown legend.
Chow Ying continued behind Mr. Wu across the floor, past a line of girls bent over their machines, backs hunched, eyes squinting. One seamstress paused to look up at the source of the shadow on her workstation as Chow Ying passed and was immediately reprimanded. Chow Ying smiled. Employee relations at its best.
Chow Ying entered Mr. Wu’s small cluttered office and took a seat without waiting for an offer. Chow Ying wasn’t here to play games. Mr. Wu was no one to him, a co-worker at best, both ultimately employed by C.F. Chang. This was business, but there was no need for formalities. Mr. Wu didn’t offer any niceties and Chow Ying didn’t expect any. Certainly not after the cage at the front entrance.
“Here is everything you need,” Mr. Wu said, handing Chow a small nylon bag with a thick waist strap.
Chow Ying opened the bag and examined the essentials for a life on the move. An untraceable revolver, bought from the black market on the mean streets of the Bronx. Ten grand in cash peaked from under the gun, mostly hundreds, but with a smattering of smaller bills. The last item Chow Ying pulled out was a sleek silver Nokia cell phone with a charge cord.
“Where am I going?” Chow Ying asked.
“Washington. You have a reservation on the Amtrak Metroliner to D.C. tomorrow morning. Here is your ticket. Just in case, the ticket is under the name Zao Gun. Amtrak security is non-existent, they don’t ask for identification for ticket holders unless you are buying the ticket at the window. There is no security check. Once you reach D.C, you are on your own. Here is a name and address. C.F. Chang implied you wouldn’t need any further explanation.”
Chow Ying looked at the piece of paper, said nothing, and put it in the bag with the money and the phone. He took the gun and shoved it in the waist of his pants, pulling his shirt over the small bulge.
“One more thing,” Mr. Wu asked.
“What?”
“Laoban asked me to keep your passport until you get back.”
Chow Ying smiled. “Sorry old man, but you should have asked for it before you gave me the gun. The passport stays with me.”
Mr. Wu looked at Chow Ying, considered the statement and its source, and nodded. “Very well.”
Chapter 14
Jake’s Subaru stalled at the intersection of Constitution Avenue and Fourteenth Street, and nearly conked out again at a red light in the 1800 block. He made the prudent mental note to take the car to the mechanic as soon as his next paycheck arrived. He pulled a u-turn across the double yellow lines in the middle of the road, a perfectly legal driving maneuver in the nation’s capital, and putted his way into an empty space left by a vacating van. It was four blocks to the intersection of Twenty-Second Street, an easy hoof.
Jake took his time strolling down the wide sidewalk under the old elm trees that gave more than ample shade but did little to alleviate the city’s brutal humidity. It was going to be another scorcher and the humidity was already stifling, clinging like an electric blanket on a summer night. The nation’s capital was built on a swamp, millions of tons of earth poured into wetlands to create half of the city. And despite the paved roads and grandiose architecture, the water remained in the ground like a hidden ghost, invisible piping insuring a never-ending supply of moisture to the local climate.