Messing with the Mob (Chinatown)

I was once told that China was the cradle of civilization, a nestling rock for the Golden Age of reason and the centerpiece of global philosophy and knowledge. Having never been to China myself, I can’t even being to tell you if that statement is true or not. But, as a resident of the fine island of Oahu, Hawaii, I can tell you that walking through Chinatown evokes none of those notions.

The atmosphere is a chaotic disarray of tourists, locals, and all those in-between bustling about in bare recognition of one another. The air smells like the strong mixture of booze, piss, and the aroma of meat and foods being cooked. Police sit on every corner ignoring homeless bums and thieves alike. Each little nook and cranny has its own interesting interaction of life-shattering proportions. One is just as likely to make a friend as to get robbed here.

It was the perfect place to go if you were looking for trouble, and I, myself, am not a man of plain demeanor.

My place in Chinatown’s underworld is that on the borderline. I interact with it, and waver back and forth between criminal miscreant and troubled citizen regularly. It feels like it was only yesterday that I met a drug dealer, took a walk, and found myself tumbled into a world of underground gambling halls, whores, and drugs that would make even the most Holy of Priests and politicians blush in discomfort.

And I find myself returning to it. Not because I’m a miscreant – no, I’m perfectly fine not being involved in any of that nonsense – but the thrill of interaction with it is a high all its own. That’s why on this night, like many nights, I rambled half-drunk down King Street.

“Hey boy! Hey! Haole boy!” A familiar voice called to me. I didn’t even need to turn.

“Not interested, Lani,” I responded. I was not in a whoring mood. Don’t get me wrong, she was the most adorable Samoan whore in town – I was just not in the mood.

“Oh please, please Robbie!”

“Not tonight, hun. I’ve got things to do.”

With that, the interaction ended almost as fast as it began. She had other customers, and I had more important matters to attend to. Stopping an opiate fiend on a hunt is a futile endeavor.

There are only a few places that one can get, guaranteed, no-cop-set-ups, high-grade Opiates. Aside from a few shady niches in Nanikuli, there was an opium den in North Shore. But I was in town, and in no mood to travel that far. No, here is where I would make my mark.

My eyes darted back and forth King Street before sprinting across. The only thing that could ruin my night, aside a mugging, was a Jay-Walking ticket (same difference in my book. One is legal). And, sure enough, I was standing before a shady building with all cameras and blacked out windows.

This was a place of legends. Nowadays, when people usually talk about “fronts” they are talking about loaning people drugs – they rarely mean an actual Business Front. The kind of business that is never closed, never has traffic in nor out, never has the “OPEN” light on, and nothing ever happens at. But never goes out of business. Seemingly.

This is a place of lore. A pure, legitimate, mob house. I dare not write its name, but any man worth his means can find it.

When I was first here with my drug-dealer connection I was picking up a bottle of Vicodin for my knee (I promise). Today they treat me with the same respect then as they do now – none – but with a little less suspicion of the scrawny white guy in the large sunglasses. The atmosphere is much lighter for me as well. Now when I walk into the empty diner with no chairs, tables, or menu I can just cut straight to the chase. No double-talk.

But the eyes still follow me. The eyes of the three big braddahs sitting near the entrance, and the one sitting at the rear door behind the counter never leave you. I’m no longer worried that they’ll beat me down, take my wallet, and dump my body into the Pacific – but the fact that they could never really leaves the mind. And that’s just the way they like it.

“Oh hey, auntie! Howzit?” I say, walking to the counter.

”Howzit boy? Whatchu looking for?” the woman asked.

“Lookin’ to party, auntie. What’s good on the candy menu?”

She shuffled under the table in a lock box for a moment before looking up.

“You know the rules, boy. You ask, I show.” She responded. She was never off her game.

“Oxy. Largest doses you can scrounge.”

“Oh. Into trouble again tonight?” She replied, making small talk. That’s cool of her – she rarely makes small talk. I could speculate that it’s the batu talking, but I shouldn’t assume. That’s just methed up.

“Nah nah nah, auntie. No trouble tonight. Just looking for a nightcap.”

“Still talking to Lani?” she said, the sound of shuffling pills in bottles shaking beneath the table. And there it was – she pulled out that lovely orange bottle. Inside was an assortment of Red, Blue, Green, and White pills. This was the good shit. The time-release shit.

“Only when I have money,” I said. “Now what do we have here?”

“I got sixties on the pour, boy. 30s, 15s, and 5s if you’re looking for something lighter.”

“I’m looking for a nightcap, not a hospital visit.”

“Same difference. Now, what’s your number?”

I pondered it for a moment. I could always chop up the larger ones in parts – less time if I was caught with less pills. But the larger the amount the less likely I was to ration it. Opiates have a habit of doing that to a man.

I finally settled on three 60s - $120, if you’d believe it. A buy-two-get-one-free deal.

As much as I’d like to tell you there is more to this story, there isn’t. I could, possibly, tell you that I went in the back and played video slots. I could have told you how I went back to Lani and lopped off a corner for a night of company.

But none of that happened tonight. I was not in the mood for gambling, and Lani was already booked up for the evening.

With that in mind I left the front store. Stumbling to my car, I tossed the parking ticket into the bushes and drove home to my Pearl City abode. As paranoid as I am, I felt safer in a den of thieves than I do on the H1.

After all, who knows what kinds of madmen are out there?