Secret Society

Gee Sin rolled down the middle window of the van just a crack, then leaned back and sipped his steaming nai cha as he observed the area around the foot of the Manhattan Bridge.

The generic gray minivan with dark-tinted windows was parked off Division Street, providing him with cover against wind or rain, with a good view of East Broadway where Forsyth Street reached up to Chrystie Park.

Gee Sin could see the rows of businesses beneath the high bridge girders: several storefront employment agencies, Chinese vendors with outdoor ATM machines, a MoneyGram shop, and a Western Union at either end of the street. On the opposite block was a hole-in-the-wall store that sold cell phones and prepaid telephone cards flanked by a fruit stand and a stall that sold socks and thermal underwear, toothbrushes and soap, necessities for newly arrived Chinese who were about to travel yet again.

Things had been set up just the way they’d planned, Gee Sin thought. Made it convenient to find work, get cash, and remit payments. Cell phones and prepaid cards to call home regularly, and be reminded about their debts.

The steam from the cup swirled toward the sliver of open window, as he felt a quick sweep of icy wind across his bald pate. The intersection was noisy and crowded this early afternoon. The bundled people shuddered under the thunder of the subway trains overhead. The only dialect he heard was Fukienese.

Gee Sin was pleased to see the streets in this area were wider, able to accommodate sweeping turns, and the stretch of streets along Chrystie Park allowed a dozen buses to park there.

There was a Mobil gas station at the corner of Allen. He’d arranged a cash-only gas-up deal with the franchise owner for the overnight buses that parked along Pike Street. His scheme for the Hung Huen was about to bear fruit. The triad, washing money, had arranged for the financing of a fleet of coach buses, two dozen to start. Since many of the riders would be Fukienese, the Fuk Chow gang would run the daily operations.

Gee Sin, or Paper Fan, as the triad members respectfully addressed him, had orchestrated every step. He had seen how important the American expansion of the Chinese restaurant industry was. As more and more Chinese restaurants, take-out shops, and dim sum teahouses flourished in far-flung American cities, the demand for cheap Chinese-speaking labor also grew. Entrepreneurs had even demanded that certain tong-connected construction crews be transported to the locale of the new restaurant, to be housed and fed there as they built— and inflated—the costs of the business.

The Fukienese, the latest wave to fill the demand for coolie workers, were sent to restaurants and malls from Richmond to Rochester, as far west as Ohio, and north to Montreal.

Twelve dollars one-way to Boston or Philadelphia would drive any competition out.

The idea that they needed a transportation system to shuttle these workers back and forth from New York’s Chinatown, the hub, made Gee Sin realize that the unregulated tour-bus business was also a natural for moving contraband along the interstates.

A patrol car cruised by.

He adjusted the cup in his hand, placed it into the slide-out cup holder between the front seats. From his pocket he fished out a bogus driver’s license the triad had created for him. The name they’d used was Bok Ji Fan, another version of White Paper Fan. He studied the photograph with a sad knowing smile.The weight of fifty years sagged around his eyes, the brows bushy and flecked with gray. He stared out of deep-set, sunken eyes within a haunted, pale face. He reminded himself that there was much to do, and his time in America was short. He was not one who was keen on travel; the month away from Hong Kong was long enough already.

As White Paper Fan, he’d gotten accustomed to the creature comforts of Hong Kong that accorded his rank and seniority in the Red Circle.

New York was nothing but cold and gray grit.

Gee Sin thought about the triad’s Grass Sandal rank liaison officer who would drive them back to the rented condo apartment outside Chinatown. Scanning the street, he saw a bus discharge its passengers and head toward the park, exhaust pouring from its tailpipe. From a side street, a line of black funeral cars swept past him. He was glad to see the bad luck spirits fade into the avenue.

He checked his watch again, confident Grass Sandal would arrive soon. The street was productive, which was all he’d wanted to see. He pocketed the fake license, then picked up the cup, sipped the tea carefully, and watched traffic as he shut the window with his free hand.

Watch Out

Koo Jai sat upright in his bed and reached across for the lady’s watch, a gold and black Rado nestled in the soft hollows of his thick comforter, where it had landed after Tina flung it at him in a fit of jealous fury. She’d finally realized that his other girlfriends weren’t going to disappear.

Fuck that little cunt. He grinned to himself; there’d be another piece of ass soon enough, another quickie conquest. Any village girl out of the Guangjo backwater, who’d never seen better than a Timex, would surely give it all up for the diamond-speckled watch. Why do I waste my time on jealous bitches anyway? he asked himself.

He placed the Rado on the metal folding table and leaned back against the pillows. He drained the last of the bottle of Tsingtao beer and was considering opening another when there was a knock on the door.

Tina, he thought, coming back to beg forgiveness. Maybe he’d let her suck his cock if she was truly repentant.

Another knock, and then Shorty’s voice froze him

“Koo,” Shorty called, “open up.”

Strange, Koo Jai thought, pulling his pistol from beneath the pillows as he quietly stepped toward the front door.

“Shorty?” he replied. “You alone?”

“No,” Shorty answered.

“Open up!” demanded a second voice he instantly recognized as belonging to the dailo.

But here? Now? Why? Koo Jai shook off the panic, shoved the gun under the sofa cushions, then reached for the door.

Lucky smirked at the sight of Koo Jai in his black briefs.

Kongo stepped inside, tossing two cartons of cigarettes and a bag of pills onto the sofa as Shorty backed into the room, followed by Lucky.

Koo Jai moved away from the door.

Lucky spotted the butt of the pistol protruding from beneath the cushion. “Kai dai, punk.” He grinned. “You expecting trouble?”

“No,” answered Koo Jai, still confused by the surprise visit. “It’s just that no one ever comes up here.”

“Right.” Lucky snickered. “Just you and the leng nui , the pretty girls.”

Kongo stood between the sofa and Koo Jai, letting his duster hang open to show the scattergun hanging by his side. Lucky threw Shorty Ng a hard look, saying, “Take a walk. Check the park for Fuks and come back in ten minutes.”

Shorty glanced at Koo Jai, before squeezing past Kongo, relieved to escape from the overheated room.

Sensing Koo Jai’s confusion, Lucky said, “Relax. The smokes and the pills are for you boys out here. Something to keep you going while you’re watching the streets, especially near the park.” Lucky stepped to the front window, checked the view on East Broadway.

“Why? What’s up?” asked Koo Jai.

“I want you all to keep an eye on the street where the Chinese buses are parked.”

The puzzled look stayed on Koo Jai’s face.

Lucky said, “See if any Fuks are hanging around. Are they getting on the buses? Or following in their cars? Or are they just putting muscle on the street?”

“Can’t you tell me what’s coming down?” Koo Jai asked, pulling on his pants.