Wrong Conclusions: A Novel

By Richard Uhl

Tom Tyler, a salesman for a food service company, doesn't believe in luck. For twenty-five years, he's worked hard to achieve success at his job and in his marriage, even resisting the temptation to have an affair with a beautiful co-worker.

But Tom's luck is about to change. After discovering his car has been stolen, he stumbles into the underbelly of Chinatown, where a violent underworld thrives. All he wants to do is get to a police station, but before he can, two thugs confront him on a quiet side street. Tom barely escapes the encounter as a man known only as Fong, a Chinese gang leader, watches from the shadows. When Fong sees Tom enter a police station, he assumes the worst and orders him killed.

Now, Tom finds himself battling for his life. Likewise, so does Ming Yee Lin, an illegal immigrant who Fong has snuck into the country and enslaved.

To free themselves from the gang, both Tom and Lin will need some breaks to start going their way. Otherwise, they will find themselves dead because of Wrong Conclusions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 7, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595610389

Richard Uhl

Richard Uhl resides with his wife in the Lowcountry of South Carolina near Hilton Head Island. This is his second suspense novel, inspired by a horrifying family event that he witnessed as a child. Visit him at Uhlbooks.com

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Wrong

Conclusions

Richard Uhl

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Wrong Conclusions

Copyright © 2008 by Richard Uhl

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-49275-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-50268-4 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-61038-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

For Janet

The Inspiration. Always.

Chapter 1

Tom was a firm believer that you made your own luck, whether good or bad, through conscious thoughts and acts largely within your own control. He was about to be proven wrong. On the street far below, Tom’s luck was changing.

Tony quickly slid between the rows of cars. He knew exactly what he wanted and was very good at his work. It was amazing how easy people made it for him. Too many unlocked doors. If he was lucky, he might even find a set of keys dangling in the ignition. He peered into the cars looking for the shiny reflection in the glow of the parking lot lights. It would be easier, faster, and more comfortable if he found keys.

A cold wind kicked up. The job was safer in this weather when people hurried out of chilly parking lots. Still, right now, Tony wished it were July. If it was, he could do the job, drop the car, and be off to Coney Island for a cold one and a dog. Maybe then, he’d get lucky and hook up with some horny broad and get laid on the beach. Summer was sweet.

There it was. Not too new, but clean and big enough to fit the bill. Forget about the beach, the broad, and the brew. It was time to get to work. In one slow turn Tony surveyed the lot—no one in sight. On Park Row, a few women rushed off toward the subway, bags full from late afternoon shopping in Chinatown. He noticed a couple of cops further down the block. They were on their way back to headquarters with nothing more than a steaming cup of coffee on their minds and would not be a problem.

Tony’s friends thought he was crazy for working this area. One Police Plaza, headquarters of the New York City police department, was only two blocks away. So what. Those clowns were so busy kissing butt and worrying about their next promotion that they had no time for real police work. He liked the extra spice of pulling jobs right under their noses plus the Park Green lot had a nice selection of eligible vehicles. A lot of cops and court personnel probably parked here. Most of those guys made a decent living so they had enough bread to afford a decent set of wheels.

He’d shopped this lot dozens of times. It depended on what the boss needed. If it was for show, you know, maybe to entertain some visiting slime ball, he might try the tennis courts off York Avenue. Good chance of finding a Town Car or Caddy just right. If the job just required cheap transportation to haul some shit, he’d go to one of the malls. All kinds of easy wheels at the malls and of course plenty of slobs who never thought to lock them up.

Today, Tony happened to be in town enjoying a little pasta and red wine with a paison when he got the page. They needed a deep trunk—must have some bulky load. Tony didn’t ask—he never did. Sometimes he’d read a story in the papers and figure out where the car had gone and what they’d used it for, but mostly it was better if he didn’t know and didn’t get involved. The caller said not to worry about the condition of the car—just make sure the trunk was deep and it was clean enough to run at night. Tony finished his wine and strolled down Mulberry Street to do some shopping.

The car was a gray Century, probably an ’84 or ’85. The trunk would be big enough. A set of keys in the ignition and a tug on the door handle told him that this was the one. The door popped open and he slid inside in one smooth motion. He gave the parking lot one more look and noticed a couple exiting the nearest building. He’d wait until they passed. Some of the guys carried heat on the job. Not Tony. In a fight he could take care of most men—and women; forget about it. Besides, going to the joint for grand theft auto and going for manslaughter were two very different raps. Naw, no need for that. Tony would take care of himself and let the Holy Mother take care of the rest. He slouched down in the driver’s seat and waited.

The couple got in a car a couple of rows from Tony and quickly drove off. Seeing no other activity in the area, Tony started the Buick and swung out of the lot. Five minutes later, he was on Canal Street heading for the Holland Tunnel. The job was a piece of cake.

This Buick was old but still ran pretty well. It had been a good choice. Tony toyed with the radio until he found a classic rock station. A Led Zeppelin song ended and some broad started talking about a hair replacement system. He laughed aloud. One thing Tony would never have to worry about was plugging someone else’s hair into his scalp. His girlfriend called him an ape, but that was fine with Tony. He liked his thick, wavy black hair.

Get to the god-damned traffic report, Tony yelled to the bimbo in the radio. What’s the tunnel like?

This was not the best time of day to pull a job in lower Manhattan. Rush hour was murder on the tunnel. Too bad the call hadn’t come a little earlier. He could have been out to Jersey by now and on his way. Well, it didn’t matter. He had to do the job just the same and the money was good. So Tony sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic for twenty-five minutes waiting to squeeze through the Holland Tunnel into Jersey City.

His instructions were to take the Century to the Lombardi Rest Area on the New Jersey Turnpike. Tony had used this drop many times and liked it. The turnpike was a good ride and, after he was finished, he could catch some dinner with Sal and Vinny at Vinny’s place in Hoboken. Vinny’s wife made an unbelievable eggplant dish. Tony imagined that she did things just as unbelievable with Vinny, but tried not to think about that. He’d never get to eat at that table. Besides, Vinny would have his legs broken if he found out that Tony even thought about Laura that way.

Tony refocused on his driving. He didn’t want to blow the job by having some big black mother of a state trooper pull him over. That wouldn’t be good and then he’d miss Laura’s eggplant too. He stayed in his lane and almost obeyed the speed limit. It wasn’t much further to the Lombardi. When he got there, he would call Sal to come get him and then maybe go in the restaurant for a quick cup of coffee while he waited.

The meadowlands were dank and dark by the time Tony swung the Buick into the rest area. Before dropping it, he pulled up to the gas pumps and had the attendant top off the tank. Tony never knew where they took these cars so he always filled the tank. It was a nice touch—probably appreciated by the boys.

He remembered to leave the toll ticket in the glove box and the doors unlocked with the keys under the passenger’s seat. He thought how sick it would be if someone else found them and ripped off the car for a second time that night. Almost as bad would be forgetting to leave the ticket. He remembered hearing the story of a guy who did just that. When the second driver got to his exit, the toll taker tried to charge the full fare for the entire length of the turnpike. The driver got stupid. He should of just paid it, but instead got into a shouting match with the toll taker. Eventually, a trooper was called and they discovered that he had no papers for the car. The guy got stuck with a stolen vehicle rap after the trooper ran the plates. Tony was more careful than that. He parked the Century under a halogen lamppost, left the ticket and the keys, went into the building, and called Sal.

˜

What a promising start to the new year. Tom Tyler relaxed in the leather armchair and surveyed the panoramic view of lower Manhattan. Urban sprawl filled the oversized window. His host, the managing partner, had just excused himself to use the men’s room. Tom knew that he had really left to confer with other members of the administrative committee. On his return, Tom was confident that they would sign an agreement giving Tom’s company a five-year contract to operate the food service program at this large, prestigious law firm.

Today’s meeting was the culmination of a carefully constructed sales process initiated by Tom back in August. Tom viewed this success much the same as he did other good fortune that had graced his life. The comfortable house in the suburbs, a wife who still loved him after a quarter century, two children growing into responsible adults, and a successful career were not the products of good luck.

˜

For as long as Julie could remember, this corner of the house had been her favorite. She could lean back in the swivel chair and slide easily between her notes and the word processor. Court recording was a pretty stress free job most of the time. Julie worked as much or as little as she wanted and transcribed her notes on her own schedule. Her job had enabled them to put away enough money to send both kids off to college. Now that Jamie attended Vassar, all of the hours spent pounding on a keyboard and the numerous typewriters before it had been worth it. Years ago, Julie had looked forward to the day when she could lighten her schedule and enjoy more free time. Funny, now that it was here, she seemed to be spending more hours, not less, working in this favorite corner.

The setting sun sprayed interesting patterns across the wall behind her desk. This room had originally served as a screened-in porch. Sometime during the house’s fifty years, a previous owner had converted it into a sunroom by adding insulated windows and heating pipes. Probably intended as a small den, Julie had long ago claimed it as her home office. She had decorated the room to her taste with light cream-colored paint over the original dark wood paneling. She had added lacy floral curtains in shades of pink and apple green. The parquet floor and oak French doors complemented the walls. The doors connected her sanctuary to the living room and the rest of the house. Tom came in sometimes to see how her work was progressing or to bite her on the neck if he had plans for later in the evening. But mostly he stayed away and gave her this space.

Julie and Tom had been married nearly twenty-six years. They would celebrate their anniversary the first week of June. Julie had just made lunch reservations at the Culinary Institute of America and been lucky to get a one o’clock seating. The CIA was a popular dining venue. Julie always enjoyed the trip up the Hudson River Valley to Hyde Park.

This anniversary would not be as exciting as the two weeks spent on the beaches of Hawaii for their twenty-fifth, but it might be nice to spend the day alone with Tom. They seemed to be drifting apart of late. Her hours at the courthouse had increased and Tom was spending more time at the bars with the boys after work. A couple of times she had kidded him about having one of those mid-life crisis affairs. He had chuckled, but seemed annoyed by the suggestion so she had stopped joking about it. Julie felt no less in love with Tom and wasn’t questioning his feelings for her. Still, the closeness that she craved wasn’t there like before and it was starting to nag at her. She meant to talk to Tom about it.

The sun was nearly below the tree line now and Julie wasn’t making much progress with the transcription of her notes. The case was a dull, tasteless, product liability suit. Just the kind she dreaded. Unfortunately, it appeared that the testimony would drag on for several more days. She ignored the dancing sunlight on the wall and turned her attention back to her notes.

Julie labored over the testimony of a dentist who had examined the alleged victim. She wondered how a piece of metal one inch long could be baked into a loaf of bread. The baker subpoenaed to describe the baking process might shed some light during tomorrow’s anticipated testimony. She went back to the dentist’s account with some distaste. His description of the injuries to the mouth and gums was detailed and gory. Even now, as Julie transcribed his words, they turned her stomach. Julie had never dealt well with blood. Tom had always tended to their scrapes and cuts when Kevin and Jamie were young. Julie forced herself to deal with these minor tragedies when he wasn’t around, but she never did so easily and she always felt like she would pass out at any moment.

The telephone rang just before she completed the transcription. She turned on the brass floor lamp, adding to the light produced by her telescoping wall-mounted desk lamp, and reached for the phone.

Hello, she said into the receiver.

Hi Julie. I’m glad I caught you.

It was Betty Simon.

The Tylers and Simons were neighbors. Betty and her husband Al lived three houses down from the Tylers on Broad Street. Over the years, discovering mutual interests, they had become close friends. Tom and Al shared a passion for golf, played equally poorly, but still enjoyed the early morning drives to Bethpage. Julie and Betty enjoyed good food. Over the years, they both battled with their waistlines. At the moment, Julie was winning that battle. Betty was not. Betty always said that she wasn’t fat; she was just too short for her weight. Maybe so. At barely five feet tall in heels, she often tipped the scale at more than one hundred fifty pounds. Julie occasionally approached that weight. The difference was that Julie stood five feet eight in her stocking feet and always looked svelte.

Betty and Al made a mismatched couple. He was as tall and thin as Betty was short and plump. Al resembled pictures of a young Abraham Lincoln—before the beard. The Simons had been good neighbors since moving into the neighborhood in 1981. Julie acted like a big sister to Betty, helping her with advice on everything from childhood diseases and winning the homework wars to how not to get screwed by the washing machine repairman. Maybe it was Betty’s bubbly personality and the way that her short, curly blond hair shook when she giggled that had drawn Julie to Betty in the first place. Julie tended to be quiet and reserved to the point of stiffness. Betty was good for her.

Hi kid, how are you? Julie answered.

I’m fine. We’re all fine except Jimmy. He’s working on another head cold.

Jimmy was the youngest of the Simon’s three boys. Their oldest, Joe, had been a toddler and Rick just a baby when the couples had first met. Joe was now a teenager, Rick acted like one, and Betty and Al were starting to understand the insanities and anxieties of raising teenagers. Jimmy was four. Julie sometimes wondered if he had been the product of a latent desire for a daughter or merely the result of a great night of dancing and champagne. She was too polite to ask.

How’s Tom? Betty inquired.

Fine. Back in the routine, she answered.

Yeah. I had to push Al out of bed this morning. I told him this would be a great week to go to work. Every executive on Long Island would be calling to buy new computer equipment. You know—a fresh start in the new year and some good way to spend that holiday bonus. Were you in court all day?

Julie briefly described the case to Betty.

Have you recovered yet from New Years? Betty asked.

Just about, Julie replied. We had a great time as always. The thing I do not understand though is how come we have trouble making it to midnight and our children are ready to party long after the ball has dropped in Times Square. I think I had more energy when my two were babies.

Maybe you’re just getting old, was Betty’s sly answer.

Julie laughed. No way, not yet, and you will still catch me before you know it.

They both laughed.

Seriously though, Julie continued. "Tom and I had a great time and want to thank you again. The fresh ham was delicious and made a great excuse to drink all that wine. It was fun playing Trivial Pursuit with your boys although they are getting too smart for us."

Isn’t that the truth. I’m glad you had fun. Our New Year’s party is one of those nice traditions. It’s a great way to close out the holidays. Now, it’s back to the grind. Al and the posse are going camping with the Boy Scouts in a few weeks and I was wondering if we could get Tom to watch Jimmy that Saturday afternoon so that you and I could cruise the miracle mile.

Where are they going? Here on the island?

No. This time it’s serious winter camping upstate in the Catskills at the other camp. Joe and Rick are totally psyched. I’m not so sure about Al.

This amused Julie. Al was a devoted father and a good sport, but probably could do without cold feet, a frostbitten nose, and smoke-filled clothes. Tom had avoided the scouting experience. Kevin had tried Cub Scouts for a year and a half before deciding that rebuilding old radios and designing go-carts was far more interesting. Julie wondered if Tom ever regretted not having had the opportunity to share a pup tent with his son.

"I’m sure Tom wouldn’t mind watching Jimmy, but I’ll ask him and let you know. I think Tom enjoys doing the little boy things with him. It kind of brings him back to when Kevin was Jimmy’s age and they played with G I Joe figures and wrestled on the floor. I’ll ask him tonight. He’s in the city. Should be home around seven."

The idea of a day of shopping with Betty in Manhasset appealed to Julie. Maybe they could go early and stay for a late lunch at the Wellness Café. Chef salad or some kind of chicken topped with sprouts would be nice. It would also give Julie a chance to catch up on local gossip. With both of her children out of the school system, Julie missed the little dramas and petty power plays that she thought she had despised during nearly twenty years of involvement.

Would she and Betty start to drift apart without the common bond of their children’s school activities? She hoped not. Julie did not make friends easily and wasn’t really that close to her co-workers. The nature of her work wasn’t conducive to developing close relationships. She was determined not to lose her special relationship with Betty. She needed their closeness more than ever now to replace the loss of Jamie to Vassar. Plus, there was that emotional void where Tom’s affection used to be.

I’d better let you go, Betty announced. You have work to finish and dinner to cook.

Every once in a while, Julie was jealous of Betty for being home all day without having to rush from one task to the next. Not very often though. Julie still enjoyed the stimulation that her work provided.

I did want to plant one other idea in your head, Betty added. Would you and Tom be interested in going with us to Chinatown for Chinese New Year?

Sure. When?

We were thinking about Sunday after the camping trip. Maybe going in early in case the weather is iffy.

Is Chinese New Year that soon? Julie asked.

Yes. I think that weekend falls right in the middle of it this year. You know, she added with a snicker, You and I should enjoy the celebration this year. I think it’s the year of the cock.

Betty laughed heartily at her little off color joke.

Julie blushed despite being alone in the house.

The year of the rooster? was her rhetorical reply. I think it is a great idea. I’m sure Tom would go for that. I will talk to him and let you know. Where do you want to go?

Well, how about either Sun Luck or Peking Palace? I could go for the garlic shrimp at Sun Luck or just about anything at Peking Palace.

Julie thought for a moment.

I vote for Peking Palace, she responded.

She liked Betty’s idea very much. It had been weeks since she and Tom had ordered Chinese food and she couldn’t remember their last visit to Chinatown. Being there for Chinese New Year would be special. They had experienced it with the Simons before. Julie enjoyed the sense of excitement and adventure, the crowds, the children running through the narrow, twisting streets, and the fireworks. Her mouth began to water.

You’re making me hungry, Betty, she said. I’m ready for Chinatown right now. Maybe I can get Tom to go Chinese tonight.

Good luck, Betty giggled. Let me know. OK? I’ll start lining up my credit cards. I’ll really let you go now. Say hi to Tom for me. I’ll talk to you later, sweetie.

OK, Betty. You take care. Give my best to Al and the boys and again thanks for everything the other night. Bye!

Julie hung up and looked at her watch. She could work for another hour or so before she would have to start dinner unless she took a chance that Tom would agree to Chinese. If he did, she could probably finish the transcription. Julie considered her alternatives. Tom would want Chinese. She went back to work.

Betty’s call was a nice break and her work progressed at a better pace after it. Julie transcribed for another half hour before breaking to stretch. She stopped in the small powder room beyond the living room then went into the kitchen for something to nibble on and a Diet Coke. She found a half full can of peanuts and sat at the small, round Formica table pushing a pile of mail flyers and coupons to one side. As Julie enjoyed her snack, a cat bounded from the radiator cover into her lap. Mittens was a twelve-year-old domestic short hair with white spotted brown fur. She was definitely Julie’s cat.

Hello Mitts, Julie purred in the cat’s face. Where have you been hiding all afternoon?

Julie tenderly stroked the cat under the chin as she continued leafing through the flyers. The model on one of them reminded her of Kevin. Julie wondered where her son was at this moment and how he was doing. She missed him more than she’d imagined she could. Certainly more than when he had left that first time for boot camp. Kevin had joined the navy right out of high school. In his four years of service, he had grown up and learned to accept responsibility. No one was more pleased by this transformation than his father was. After years of frustrating battles, they were finally growing close again. Of course, with Kevin’s newfound maturity came a down side. His newfound independence translated into less time with them on his infrequent visits.

Kevin’s orders stationed him on an aircraft carrier based in Norfolk until his ship rotated over to the Mediterranean. For six months, they received only sporadic letters and postcards from a variety of Italian, Greek, and Spanish ports. There was one memorable phone call, from Gibraltar of all places, right before they left for Hawaii. Julie remembered how Tom’s eyes had filled with tears of pride because Kevin had remembered their anniversary.

Kevin spent part of a thirty days leave with them in early August at the rented house in the Hamptons. A steady stream of Kevin and Jamie’s friends paraded through the house on their way to the beach. It was almost like old times. Then Kevin returned to Norfolk. They hadn’t seen him since. He expected to be home for the Christmas holidays following a training cruise through the Caribbean, but the navy cancelled his leave two days before it was set to begin. Kevin called to inform them of the change of plans, but was vague as to the reason. The holidays came and went with no further word from him—not even on Christmas day. Jamie’s return from Vassar did little to relieve Julie’s depression. Kevin’s carrier had gotten underway before, but they had always known something about its whereabouts. An air of apprehension hung over Julie.

Answers to their questions came on New Years Eve. During his nightly news broadcast, Peter Jennings announced the deployment of American warships to the Persian Gulf. Apparently, Saddam Hussein was again testing the United Nations sanctions and the no fly zone restriction placed around his country. Julie realized her worst fears. Kevin would be right on the front lines if war broke out again. He had escaped involvement in the Gulf War of 1991. Not this time. If they fought, Kevin would be directly involved as a CIC electronics specialist. All those years tinkering with radios might now help his country win a war.

Julie finished her snack, rolled Mittens off her lap, and returned to the transcription work. Energy level renewed, she breezed through the pages and would clearly finish before Tom’s arrival if she had no further distractions. Unfortunately, the metallic sound of the telephone again interrupted. Julie considered letting the answering machine take it before reluctantly picking up the receiver.

Hello, she said.

Hi, honey, a familiar voice said in return.

Tom. I was just talking about you with Betty. Oh oh, does this mean that you are going to be late for dinner?

Well, you know how much you hate that old tank that I drive. Your prayers have been answered.

Alarm in her voice, Julie said, Oh Tom, did you have an accident? Are you all right?

No, her husband reassured. I’m fine and I don’t think this was an accident. They ripped off my car.

It took several seconds for this revelation to sink into Julie’s brain. Her momentary concern was quickly replaced by confusion.

Tom, what do you mean they ripped off your car? Who is they?

Tom sighed into the phone. I don’t know who they is. I do know that I got to the parking lot and my car is gone. Someone stole it.

Julie could not keep the worry out of her voice. Where are you Tom? Are you sure you are all right?

I’m fine. I’m in a phone booth in Chinatown just across the street from where I left the car. I had a sales call in the court complex and while I was up there someone helped themselves to the Century.

Now that he had absorbed the initial shock and anger of his discovery, he was beginning to see how ridiculous it was to be upset over someone stealing a 1986 Buick. After all, the tank was seven years old. He sounded calm, almost amused by this misfortune. Julie admired Tom’s even temperament.

What are you going to do now? she inquired.

Tom watched traffic inch along on Park Row as he sorted out his thoughts. He listened to Julie’s breathing on the other end of the wire. Finally, he replied.

Honey, I’ve got to report the theft to the police. I think there’s a station somewhere in Chinatown. I’ll go find it and after I guess I’ll catch the subway up to Penn Station and take the train home. Why don’t you go ahead and eat without me.

Julie had already begun worrying about the insurance and the cost of a new car. Her appetite was gone.

Tom, I can wait until you get here. I was thinking that we might order Chinese takeout. Would that be all right? Do you want me to pick you up at the train station?

Tom responded with a long belly laugh.

Just what we need for dinner. Chinese. Maybe I can pick it up here before I leave.

Julie smiled at his humor.

I don’t know how long I’ll be, Tom continued. Please, go ahead and order whatever you want and eat without me. I’ll pick on the leftovers when I get home. Don’t worry about getting me. If I want a ride from the train station, I’ll call you.

All right honey, Julie acknowledged. Good luck. I hope everything works out. Oh, getting back to Betty Simon. She wanted to set up a couple of dates with us. I thanked her again for New Years and told her I would talk to you about getting together. I guess we can discuss it when you get home.

Yeah, OK, Tom answered. It’s starting to get cold and I want to try to get this taken care of before rush hour trains stop running. We’ll talk when I get home. See you later.

Bye, Julie responded. I love you, she hastily added.

Chapter 2

Tom stepped away from the phone booth. He removed his wire rim glasses, blew cold air on the lenses, and wiped them with his handkerchief. Replacing the glasses and pushing them up the bridge of his nose, Tom took a deep breath and surveyed the area. He seemed to recall walking past a police station somewhere in Chinatown on a previous visit to the neighborhood. He remembered the day—one of those unbearable, sticky New York summer days. Not like today. The cold grew more numbing by the minute. Tom coaxed the collar of the camelhair coat up around his neck and wished that he had taken Julie’s advice to wear a scarf. The collar rubbed gently against his sandy brown hair. Tom looked ten years younger than his age of forty-nine despite touches of gray in his hair. Exercise helped to maintain his lean look. Standing just over six feet and cutting out the jelly donuts didn’t hurt. Tom was satisfied with his body. He wore suits well and thought he looked sharp. Good thing. First impressions were everything in a sales job.

The neon lights of Chinatown glowed in the deepening gloom. In the distance, Tom saw a tacky, red-roofed pagoda that disguised the building’s function as a bank. Nearer, Chinese lantern-style streetlights gave the sidewalks the look of a far away land. Tom debated whether to walk along Bowery or head up Mott Street. He thought he remembered the police station being near Canal Street. Better to go straight up Mott and avoid the maze of crooked, narrow neighborhood alleys. He pulled smooth brown leather gloves from his coat pockets and slipped them over his chilly fingers. Turning the corner, he started up Mott.

Tom held out little hope of recovering the Buick. He had no faith in the police department’s ability to find it and figured they wouldn’t put much effort into the search. The car was probably already sitting in some chop shop in Brooklyn waiting to be stripped bare. Tom wondered why a car thief would even have an interest in an old bomber like the Century. They might do me a favor he thought as he continued hiking up Mott Street. Still, he should make the report for insurance purposes.

Chinatown, as always, was alive with activity. Tom passed a string of curbside produce stalls and fish vendors. A very short Oriental woman with a wrinkled, leathery face was involved in an animated argument with the clerk at the nearest shop. She held up a large, wet, silver fish and pointed at its dull, lifeless eyes as she repeated what sounded like a complaint in singsong Chinese. The fishmonger whipped his head rapidly from side to side as he wiped his hands on an already bloody apron. He jabbed at the woman’s fish and at the pile of fish splayed out over a mound of grayish ice while he defended the quality of his product. This only further agitated the woman. Tom guessed that they both enjoyed their bartering and eventually a sale would be made.

The crisp, clean air could not mask the sharp odor hanging over the heap of fish. It burned Tom’s nasal passages as he passed. Blue crabs snapped at him from a wooden bushel basket. Overhead, a string of white light bulbs swung from the tattered awning casting stark beams of light over everything and reflecting brilliantly off the melting ice. People scurrying from shop to street to stall to store choked the lower end of Mott Street. Ninety percent of them were Asian and the vast majority were women out gathering supplies for the evening meal. Tom stood head and shoulders above most of them and his light complexion and fair hair were a sharp contrast to their straight jet-black hair and pasty faces.

Tom snaked his way through the crowd. Despite a conscious effort, it was impossible to avoid bumping into people and he received several scowls from women whose ribs he grazed with his leather briefcase. Along the narrow street, people entered several of the literally hundreds of restaurants that dotted the Chinatown neighborhood. Perhaps they were pausing for a cup of hot green tea or an early dinner. He looked forward to his Chinese takeout meal. Maybe he would call Julie when he got to Penn Station and see if she had ordered yet. If not, he would request shrimp with lobster sauce, pork egg roll, and wonton soup. She would say, that’s what you always order, which of course was true. He could reheat it in the microwave when he got home.

The slope of the street increased as he climbed deeper into the heart of Chinatown. There were fewer sidewalk vendors, which made walking easier. Tacky souvenir shops were now interspersed with more tiny restaurants and a hole in the wall bookstore. Its single grimy window prominently featured Asian pornographic magazines. Tom noticed a glossy copy of a Chinese language issue of Penthouse. A mostly undressed Chinese girl displayed an oversized chest and leered seductively at him from the cover. He couldn’t decipher