Lucy was in contrast feeling loose and on top of things. It was a Kim moment, combining as it did the yanking of wool over the eyes of vaguely defined malign forces and impressing her peers with her brilliance and mystery. And she was enjoying talking to this boy, something she hardly ever did, would never be caught dead doing as the grotesque beanpole Lucy Karp, but now, in the urgency of the situation, she was mobilizing Claudine as well as Kim, so the charm just gushed out, delightful dirty nonsense: “Warren, I know you’re interested in sexual perversions. Have you been to the new place on Broome that caters to Asian sadomasochists?”
Blushing giggles. “You’re the only perverted one here, Lucy,” said Janice.
“More than you know, my dear,” said Lucy, “although Warren could probably both teach us something, eh, Warren? Anyway there is one.”
“There is not. Don’t listen to her, Warren.”
“Yes, it’s called Thais That Bind,” said Lucy casually, at which Warren, who took an inordinate delight in puns (in English-any fool could pun in Chinese), cracked up and fell in love, in that order. Warren’s laughter infected the two girls, and soon they were all three staggering against walls, clinging to each other, convulsed by the hysteria-so irritating to the adult world-that is peculiar to the adolescent psyche.
Lucy was not entirely lost in herself, however, and had been keeping an eye on the two ma jai. They were standing a half block away, conversing and glaring at the three kids through their dark glasses. They did not like that there was laughter going on, since there was at least a possibility that some of it was directed against them. As Lucy watched, they seemed to make a decision and started to move rapidly toward the group, pushing through the Mott Street crowds, who were quick to yield the way.
Lucy sobered instantly, grabbed the two other kids by their arms, and tugged them north on Mott Street. The two gangsters now pulled close enough to nearly tread on their heels and started to talk nasty.
“Look at the three girls,” said the thin one. “Which one do you want?”
Pockface said, “Only one girl has an ass worth fucking. One is too big and the other has none at all.”
And much worse as they moved up Mott and across Canal. Warren kept mumbling out of the side of his mouth, asking for an explanation: Why are these guys following you? Why don’t you call a cop? What’s going on? Where are we going? To all of which Lucy replied with soothing words and urged them all along west on the north side of Canal Street, nearly running, Warren pale and tripping over his feet, the thugs dancing around them, poking them, calling out the colorful obscenities with which Chinese is so plentifully supplied. They collected disapproving glances from the shoppers and merchants along the way, but no one interfered.
Lucy judged her distances and nudged Warren in the ribs.
“Warren, the Pearl River Market is coming up. When we get there, cut and run in. They won’t follow you.”
“No, I’ll stay with you,” said Warren, surprising both of them as the words came out. His glasses were misted with strenuous perspiration. Lucy frowned. She had never been gazed at with devotion before, and it made her cross.
“Warren, just go! It’s a plan. We’ll be all right. Now. . run!” She shoved him away, and he vanished into the large Chinese food store. In the same motion she spun and shouted at the gangsters, “Gou pi! Cao ni ma bi!”
It took a second for the gangsters to understand that a skinny white girl had yelled at them, in public, “Dog fart! Fuck your mother’s pussy!” In that instant Lucy (and a split second later, Janice) were off like deer, the gangsters pursuing. So intent were they on the chase that they failed to notice when they crossed Baxter Street, which marks the border, in gangland, between China and Vietnam.
Halfway to the next street, Lucy slowed; Janice looked in panic over her shoulder to see what was wrong and discovered that the two ma jai had disappeared.
Gasping for breath, hands on her knees, Janice demanded, “What happened? Where are they?”
“Someplace they’d probably rather not be,” Lucy replied, gasping. “It’s okay, we’re cool now.”
At this Janice Chen, who had been holding herself in with great effort since Doyers Street, exploded.
“Cool? What the hell do you mean, cool? What are you doing to me? What’s happening? Who were those guys and what did they want? Where did they go? I swear, Lucy, I’ll strangle you if you ever pull anything like this again.” And more in the same vein, with the waterworks thrown in. Janice finally collapsed into a heap on the pavement, leaning against a wall. Lucy squatted next to her.
“They were trying to send you a message, Janice.”
“What? Who? What message?”
“Whoever shot those guys. They want your family to know they can pick you up whenever they want.”
“Why me? Why not you?”
“Because it’s your store, Janice. They might have figured that if somebody saw something, it was a family member. Remember how that guy looked up when Mary panicked? And nobody knows I was there. Which is good, because they won’t be keeping an eye on me and maybe I can find out what’s going-”
“Stop it!” Janice shrieked. “I can’t stand this mystery stuff like it was some game you’re amusing yourself with. It’s not TV, Lucy. It’s not one of your books.”
She stood up abruptly and brushed herself off. “I don’t want this to be happening. I just want to be a regular person and let other people worry about murders and shit.”
She looked so miserable standing there, weeping, that Lucy reached out to put an arm around her shoulder, but the other girl shrugged it away.
“No! Just leave us alone, huh? Just leave us alone!”
She ran off in the direction of the Asia Mall. Thus did Lucy learn what her mother well knew about the heroine business: that, unlike in books and movies, the people one saved were not always grateful. Rather the opposite, in fact.
It was part of Karp’s management style to appear unannounced at various bureau offices at the end of the day, to pick up the kind of gossip that would not ordinarily reach the ears of the D.A. and to generally spread the sort of terror without which prosecutorial organizations tend to get lazy and sloppy, as he had recently demonstrated in the case of People v. Ragosi. He stopped by the Felony Bureau, to find the Felony chief, Sullivan, gone for the day, amused himself by poking a few sticks into various anthills, and then went down the hall to Homicide.
Ray Guma was sprawled out on the green couch in the bureau chief’s office when Karp walked in, not dissuaded by Roland’s growled “Go away!” Guma was drinking from a giant container of coffee, and Karp could smell the bourbon in it from the doorway. It was known that Guma often softened the day with a snort after the Supreme Court judges had gone home, which they all liked to do around four, and the place reverted to its natural proprietors. No one begrudged Guma this frailty. He had not been known to appear drunk and incapable in court (drunk, yes; incapable, never) and besides, he was from another age, which the younger men, reared on the movies of that epoch, suspected was tougher, cleaner, and supported a nobler masculinity than their own deplorable era.
“What can I do for you, Butch?” asked Roland, smiling like a haberdashery salesman.