I take you there. I will take you inside Chinatown.
INT. CHINATOWN GAMBLING DEN
Fatty Choy is working the door. You slap hands, do a one-arm guy hug.
“Congrats, man,” he says under his breath. Turner gives him the once-over, gets up in his personal space.
TURNER
(gruff)
We need to see your boss.
Fatty Choy’s face transforms. One moment he’s your boy from the SRO, the next moment he’s disappeared, turned into a Lowlife Oriental.
LOWLIFE ORIENTAL
Sorry. Private club. No outsider allowed in here.
TURNER
I got a private club for you. It’s downtown at the precinct. I’ll book a room and give you a lift—
LOWLIFE ORIENTAL
This is a place of business—
GREEN
Wrong. This is an illegal gambling operation.
LOWLIFE ORIENTAL
I don’t know anything about no gambling. I’m just security guard. You can’t arrest me for me just doing my job.
TURNER
How about I arrest you for an aggravated assault last week? As well as public intoxication and a couple counts of resisting arrest? How’s that sound, Choy? Yeah, we know who you are.
Turner looks smug as Fatty Choy steps aside. As you brush past, he mumbles something under his breath.
“Willis,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Me too.”
You make your way through the room hazy with cigarette smoke, the light click-clack of poker chips being stacked, shuffled, tossed around. Sultry Asian Women in high-slit dresses serve beers and whiskeys to Sleazy Asian Guys in white T-shirts and slacks. Everyone, men and women, young and old, looking sketchy, looking like they’ll cut you for cheating or cut you for winning or just cut you if you look at them wrong. Or at least that’s what they look like to an outsider. But you know these fools, grew up with most of them, playing Nintendo or sneaking sips of wine cooler from the fridge in the back of the grocery store on Ninth. Average GPA in this room is probably north of three point seven, and now look at them, pretending to be tough, doing a good job at it, as they do. They’re all A students, striving immigrants, still hoping for their shot.
Above it all is the owner of this place, watching the tables from his second-floor office, one eye on the patrons, the other one on his employees.
Turner looks at Green, motions toward the stairs. Green plays it cool, sliding her hand just slightly toward the piece in her waistband as you climb the steps. Turner motions for you to enter first, the two of them falling in behind you.
INT. GAMBLING DEN—BOSS’S OFFICE—CONTINUOUS
As you reach the top of the stairs, the door opens. The Bad Guy of the Week steps out. It’s Young Fong. His eyes still red and puffy, his dad not gone even three days and already here’s Fong, back to work.
“Hey,” you whisper, trying to think of the right thing to say. A kind word. But he plays it straight. Professional. At the moment he’s not Fong. He is Chinatown Mini Boss. Medium fish in a small pond. The guy before the guy. Intermediate obstacle. An act two villain who gets you into act three. It’s a good gig, even if Fong is starting to get typecast. Something about how gentle he is, they love to play off of that, love how his mild features, his slender build and slightly pasty complexion, make him the opposite of Turner, the opposite of masculine, make this Asian phenotype slightly and inherently creepy to the Western eye.
MINI BOSS
Detectives.
(affected, enunciated)
To what do I owe the pressure?
Turner straight-arms his way into the office.
TURNER
Cut the shit. This isn’t a social call.
MINI BOSS
Oh. That’s too bad. Chinatown has much to offer for the adventurous traveler.
(to Turner)
Those who want to sample its exotic flavors.
Fong looks down into the casino at the dozens of Sultry Asian Women, as if to say, go ahead, choose one. Turner coughs, uncomfortable, adjusts himself. Fong gets up and pours himself two generous fingers of expensive Scotch.
MINI BOSS
I’m sure we can find something to your liking.
(looks at Green)
Whatever your type may be. We will accommodate you.
Fong presses a button on the underside of his desk, and a moment later a woman steps into the office. Not just a woman. You don’t—you don’t know what to. Uh. Say. Or do. With your arms. Or face. You’re frozen, a schoolboy with a crush. You’re an idiot. Wow.
She looks at you, and you look at her, and she looks at you and you can’t figure out why she’s looking at you, until you realize you’re staring at her. What—is she? You can’t figure it out.
“Do I know you?” you whisper, but either she doesn’t hear or she ignores the question.
TURNER
Enough bullshit. We’re looking for someone.
MINI BOSS
You have a warrant? Probable cause?
GREEN
We have him.
She points to you. A beat. Silence. Everyone’s looking at you.
MINI BOSS
Oh yeah? And who the hell is he?
GREEN
He’s working with us. Impossible Crimes Unit.
Turner looks at Green like, what? She looks at you. You try really hard not to blush, but your legs get weak and the skin on the back of your neck gets tingly.
GREEN
(to you)