Hot Poppies by Reggie Nadelson Read Free Book Online Page B

Chen’s mouth was world class. Shit-for-brains, he said, shit a brick, shit-scared, shithead, shit and derision, whatever that meant, and all of it in the first few minutes after we met. Shit this, shitty that. Fuck fuck fuck. It didn’t mean anything. I swore I’d clean up my own filthy mouth. Fat chance.
    â€œSo how come we’re talking, if we’re not talking about Dawn?”
    â€œThey told me to call you. I’m a good chap. I’m the fucking cop prince of Manhattan. Also, I knew your name.”
    â€œYeah? How’s that?”
    â€œThe Abramsky thing,” he said. “There’s a dead fucking girl. Chinese. When there’s Chinese shit, they call me. I’m Chinese but I’m not Chinatown if you get the drift. I’m special squad. I’m not part of the shit that goes down here where no one trusts a cop and the cops gotta pay attention to all kinds of bullshit from the family associations. Abramsky got lucky, I was in town. I took his rolodex. You were in it. I had heard the name. Out of the blue the bleeding Taes ring me up. I think, fuck-a-duck, everywhere I go, it’s bloody Artie Cohen.”
    â€œSmall world,” I said.
    â€œI know a lot of people.”
    â€œSo let’s talk about the girl. Who was she?”
    â€œSome fucking miserable illegal. There’s loads of money in illegals down here, thirty, thirty-five grand per. You put three hundred in a boat, that’s nine mill plus add-ons. For a single load. We’re talking two billion a year. It’s big. Bigger than anything around here. Bigger than dope. But you know all that.”
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œWhere you been, Art?”
    The check came and I reached for it, but Chen tossed a few bills on the table, changing the game so I owed him. He got out of his chair and looked at me like I didn’t interest him that much; maybe I didn’t.
    Jerry Chen was slick. He pulled on the silky white parka, snapped the pockets, zipped the sleeves, Velcroed the front panel, slid the cigarettes and the lighter into his jeans, put on the shades, smoothed the high-priced hair and extracted a pair of cashew-colored suede gloves. “Let’s take a walk,” he said.
    On Lafayette we set off towards Canal Street, Chen walking in the snow-covered streets like he owned them. Twenty-four hours after the snow started, the stuff was still falling from the sky.
    â€œSo who do you think let her into your pal’s place?” Chen watched his reflection in the shop windows. I saw mine next to him. Chen was wired. I was the color of tripe. I needed sun.
    â€œIt was 47th Street. Could be it had to do with diamonds.”
    â€œFuck that shit,” he snorted. “This ain’t Breakfast at Tiffany’s , trust me, Art. I don’t know why she was fucking dropped at your pal’s. I don’t know. These girls never fucking leave Chinatown. Was it some kind of dumping ground? Somebody used it to hide from the wife? From the cops? Who?”
    â€œWhere we going, Jerry?” I could see he hated it when I called him Jerry.
    â€œLooking around.” He strolled into a shop that sold ginseng and herbs. Chen prodded some old-fashioned scales, saw the balance was off, but he only shrugged. “I’m not some beat cop,” he mumbled to me. From behind the door to a back room came an incessant clicking. Click click click. It could drive you crazy. Chen said, “You hear it?”, hammered on the door and shouted, “Police.”
    The door opened. Chen sauntered in. A man with a frightened face peered at him through rimless glasses and folded his arms anxiously. At a table, two other men played with the clicking tiles. A refrigerator stood in the corner, there was a chipped stove and Chen lifted the cover off a pot that sat on it and looked in. Flipping through the pages of a notebook, he tossed it back on the table, looked slowly around, said, “Just