Crow

The March night wind was like a knife, cold and painful.

Darnell rode the Roadster Bicycle with the force of a Harley.

The chain rattled softly in the night as the two wheels rolled over Queens' pothole-ridden asphalt. The frame rocked like a rocking chair, bouncing nonstop.

But Darnell's back stayed perfectly still. He'd lowered the seat as far as it would go, barely sitting on it. He crouched like a hunting leopard, legs pumping in turn, every pedal stroke accompanied by the chain's groan.

"Bro, I'm telling you..."

Even as he sped along, Darnell kept shouting at the top of his lungs, not worried in the least about getting winded.

"Today I rode this bike to Queens, and a bunch of Ni Ge on motorcycles rode alongside me. I beat them by three blocks, seriously. The guy on the Yamaha asked me, 'Bro, you got an engine in those legs?' I'm just that good..."

Lin An sat on the back of the bike, one hand on Darnell's shoulder and the other holding down the straps of his backpack.

He'd changed into the standard outfit of a Chinese international student: a dark gray hoodie, faded jeans, and white sneakers. A pair of black-framed glasses with clear lenses rested on his nose. Behind them, his eyes looked gentle and harmless.

His backpack was stuffed with secondhand textbooks donated by the Bullet Screen patrons. Among them were volumes one and two of Financial Stochastic Analysis, along with a copy of Options, Futures, and Other Derivatives.

"Bro, you look exactly like a student from some fancy university!"

Darnell glanced back, then turned forward again.

"Are you sure you're not one?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."

Lin An's voice drifted through the wind.

"I don't know either."

"That's messed up. God must've been jealous of your brains, so He took your memories."

As they chatted, Darnell sped up. The streetlights blurred into orange columns along the road, joining into a flowing river of light. The Roadster Bicycle's tires hummed faintly against the asphalt, like some kind of machine running at high speed.

By 11:50 p.m., they'd already passed Jamaica Avenue.

As the bicycle went by Queens Central Prison, its gray concrete walls loomed in the night like a sleeping monster.

Barbed wire along the top glinted coldly in the moonlight. A searchlight slowly swept across the street, its beam lingering on them for a second.

Darnell instinctively ducked lower.

"Don't be nervous,"

Lin An said.

"I'm not nervous." Darnell's voice went half a pitch higher.

"I just think prison is no place for a good guy like me."

"Have you worn those Nikes you swiped from the next neighborhood a while ago?"

"...Those were donated. The rich donate to the poor. I was just helping with the delivery."

The searchlight moved on. Darnell straightened up and kept going at the same speed.

As they turned onto Queens Boulevard, two headlights appeared ahead.

A police car was parked by the side of the road, heat still rising from its hood. Two police officers leaned against the doors, holding cups of coffee.

One of them saw the bicycle speeding toward them, set down his cup, and raised a hand for them to stop.

Darnell slammed on the brakes. The Roadster Bicycle's tires let out a short, sharp squeal against the asphalt.

"Bro..."

Lin An lowered his voice, barely moving his lips.

"Don't panic. Let me do the talking."

As he spoke, he'd already hopped off the back of the bike.

"Good evening, officers."

Lin An's voice was calm and polite, with a distinct Chinese accent, but he enunciated every word clearly and formally, like he was reading aloud from a textbook.

Both officers were white, in their thirties. Their badges shone under the streetlights. The one doing the talking had a bit of a belly, a name tag that read "Costello," and a hand resting at his waist.

The other leaned against the car door, coffee steaming in his hand. His eyes lingered on Darnell for two seconds.

"What are you doing out this late?"

Costello's gaze shifted from Lin An to Darnell, then back again.

Darnell opened his mouth.

Lin An had already stepped forward. He took off his backpack and pulled a copy of Financial Stochastic Analysis from its side pocket, holding the cover outward. The Columbia University Press logo was clearly visible under the streetlight.

"Officer, we're students at Columbia University."

Lin An smiled, his eyes gentle and harmless behind his glasses.

"I just came from the study room in the Mathematics Building. My friend came to pick me up, and we were discussing..."

He glanced down at the book in his hand and flipped to a page filled with dense formulas.

"...the application of stochastic differential equations in the Black-Scholes model. It's a very meaningful academic exchange, you know?"

Costello stared at the formulas for two seconds, then looked up at Lin An.

With his refined, harmless Asian features, black-framed glasses, and clean hoodie, he looked under the streetlight like a bookworm who'd just come out of the library.

"You go to Columbia?"

"Yes, officer. I'm a PhD student in the Department of Mathematical Finance." Lin An sounded as sincere as if he were reporting to a professor.

"Here's my student ID."

He took a card out of his hoodie pocket and handed it over.

It was a real Columbia student ID, courtesy of the Bullet Screen patrons. Lin An had just replaced the photo with his own and resealed the plastic. Even a close inspection wouldn't reveal anything suspicious.

Costello took the ID and checked it under the streetlight. The photo showed the face right in front of him. The name read "Lin An," followed by a long student number. It was valid through 2010.

The other officer, the one with the coffee, came over for a look, then turned his gaze to Darnell.

"He goes to Columbia too?"

Darnell stood up straight and put his hands on his hips, trying to look like a college student.

But his 38-year-old face and streetwise hoodie and work pants put the words "Columbia student" as far away from him as the Hudson River.

"No, officer."

Lin An answered for him.

"He's my hired guide."

He shrugged.

"Taxis in New York are pretty expensive, so I asked him to ride me home."

Costello handed back the student ID, then looked at Darnell.

"All right."

He shifted his coffee cup to his left hand and waved his right at the bicycle.

"Stay safe. Don't ride so fast you knock this guy off."

"Thank you, officer."

Lin An gave a slight bow.

"Have a pleasant shift."

Costello had already turned and was walking back to the police car.

Darnell climbed onto the bicycle, Lin An got back on the rear seat, and the Roadster Bicycle's tires rolled onto the asphalt again, accelerating from a standstill to full speed in an instant.

It had been a close call, but Lin An's face had convinced the cops along the way to leave Darnell, who looked like a gang boss, alone.

In 2009 New York, it was a particularly hostile time for people of color. The New York police were enforcing stop-and-frisk, a policy signed by the governor of New York State and aggressively pushed by the mayor of New York City.

During that period, a Ni Ge out alone was in the most danger. New York police would most likely stop him and search him if they saw him.

If a Ni Ge cooperated, the police would just humiliate him a little, check that his ID was in order and that he had no criminal record, then let him go.

But if he resisted or refused to cooperate, or if he had a criminal record, he could get a beating at best, or be poisoned by heavy metals at worst. If he died, it didn't matter.

At the time, because Obama had taken office and for a few other specific reasons, political correctness for Black people had begun to emerge in the United States, but it didn't have much influence. White supremacy remained as solid as a rock.

So if the family of a person of color who'd been beaten to death wanted compensation, it was basically impossible.

Without Lin An along, Darnell wouldn't have dared go out at night.

The bicycle crossed Queensboro Bridge, and Manhattan's skyline opened up before them.

The Empire State Building's spire glowed with white lights. The Chrysler Building's silver spire reflected the streetlights in the night. Farther south, the spot where the World Trade Center had stood was still dark. The gap looked like someone had scooped out a piece, and it still hadn't grown back after three years.

But Broadway didn't care.

Just after midnight, the great artery running through Manhattan was still awake.

The neon lights in the Theater District still flashed. Huge posters for Broadway musicals hung down the sides of buildings: Chicago, The Lion King, The Phantom of the Opera... Their golden lettering and glossy photos shone in the night like entrances to another world.

The electronic screens in Times Square lit up the whole street as bright as day.

Coca-Cola's logo, Samsung's screens, NASDAQ's stock index—red, blue, green, layered over one another, splashing light onto everyone who passed by.

A few flamboyantly dressed street performers were still at work. A woman dressed as the Statue of Liberty stood on the steps, her green robe glowing eerily under the lights. A young Black man danced Michael Jackson moves in white gloves, holding out his hat for tourists to toss in some cash.

Taxis drove by one after another, their yellow bodies reflecting the Coca-Cola sign like flowing amber. Men and women in suits came out of the theaters. The women wore high heels, the men had loosened their ties. They gathered in small groups by the roadside, waiting for cabs and still discussing the show they'd just seen.

There was still a line outside an Italian restaurant. Through the windows, white tablecloths and red candles were visible, while waiters in black vests moved between the tables with trays.

A bald, burly man in a leather jacket stood outside the bar next door, arms crossed over his chest. Low electronic music and indistinct laughter spilled through the door.

Farther north, past Times Square, the lights grew dimmer, but the streets were still busy.

A Starbucks was still open. A few people sat inside, staring at their laptops, with what was probably their umpteenth cup of coffee.

A homeless man curled up over a vent outside the Starbucks, wrapped in a filthy blanket with cardboard beneath him. A few coins lay scattered in the paper cup beside him.

Lin An's gaze lingered on him for a second.

Bullet Screen comments scrolled before his eyes.

[Broadway, a world of luxury and indulgence]

[That homeless guy over there—how's he any different from the homeless in Jamaica Community?]

[The homeless in Jamaica don't even have a vent to sleep over]

[That's New York for you. Heaven and hell are one block apart]

[That homeless guy won't be sleeping there for long. Look, the cops are here. They're going to chase him away]

Lin An turned his gaze away.

He thought of Jamaica Community. The people lined up outside the Church waiting for food, the faces so thin their cheekbones stuck out, the shadows wrapped in tattered blankets, sleeping in front of abandoned shops.

Old Joe, the old man who'd smiled at the hope of the future in that basement, and the younger ones, more desperate, with no light left in their eyes.

Broadway's lights couldn't reach Jamaica.

And Jamaica's darkness couldn't swallow Broadway's lights.

They shared the same city, yet seemed to live in two parallel worlds.

Darnell slowed down.

"Bro."

Darnell's voice suddenly dropped. He wasn't shouting or rambling anymore.

"You still haven't told me what we came here to do."

He stopped beneath a streetlight, planted both feet on the ground, and looked back at Lin An.

Lin An didn't answer right away. He hopped off the back seat, unzipped his backpack, and rummaged around inside.

First, he took out a neatly folded, bright white T-shirt. The front was printed with the Statue of Liberty and big red letters reading "I NY"; the back bore a silhouette of the Empire State Building.

A typical tourist souvenir shirt, the kind that cost $29.99.

"Put this on."

Lin An tossed the shirt to Darnell.

Darnell caught it and unfolded it, his brow furrowing.

"Bro, this thing's for white tourists. I'm Black. If I put it on, people will think I'm selling T-shirts."

"Put it on."

Lin An repeated himself in the same tone.

Darnell looked at him, then at the eye-searingly bright shirt. He sighed, took off his hoodie, and pulled on the souvenir shirt.

Against his dark skin, the white fabric looked like it was glowing.

"What do I look like now?"

"Like a happy tourist."

Lin An took something else out of the backpack: a silver Canon digital camera, a palm-sized PowerShot with a wrist strap.

"When'd you buy this?"

Darnell asked.

"Idiot, I'm a wizard!"

"I forgot."

Darnell took the camera and turned it over in his hands.

"I know how to use one. My sister's is even more expensive than this. She made me take pictures of her, and if I took bad ones, she'd yell at me."

"Perfect. You're my personal photographer now."

Before Darnell could object, Lin An took a second souvenir shirt out of the backpack. It was dark blue, with the words "Columbia University" in white across the chest and the university's lion crest underneath.

He pulled it on and stuffed his gray hoodie into the backpack.

With the dark blue T-shirt, black-framed glasses, and refined Asian features, he looked every bit like a Columbia student who'd just finished shopping at the campus gift store.

"You really came prepared for everything."

Darnell muttered.

"That's called tactics."

Lin An zipped up his backpack and slung it on.

"Come on. Let's get something to eat first."

There were a few places near 112th Street on Broadway that were still open.

The lights were still on in a pizza shop, where a few slices in the glass display case glistened with grease under the heat lamps.

Next door was a Turkish kebab shop. Meat spun on a vertical spit, sizzling on the grill, while the air smelled of cumin and onions.

A few steps farther on was a tiny deli called Deli & Go. Its green awning read "Open 24 Hours."

Lin An pushed open the door and went inside.

The deli was small. Chips, candy, and energy bars lined the shelves, while the coolers along the wall held an assortment of drinks. At the very back was a tiny hot-food station. Two stainless-steel urns sat on an electric burner, one filled with coffee and the other with hot water.

Beside it stood a heated display case with a few hot dogs and chicken wraps inside.

The owner was a middle-aged South Asian man in a checked apron. He was watching a cricket match on a small TV. When he saw Lin An come in, he raised his chin.

"What do you want?"

"Two chicken wraps and two coffees."

Lin An pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and set it on the counter.

The owner moved quickly, lifting two chicken wraps from the heated case and wrapping them in foil. Then he set two paper cups under the coffee machine and pressed the button. Dark brown liquid poured out, steam rising with a bitter, roasted aroma.

"Seven fifty."

The owner gave him a handful of change.

Lin An stuffed the change into his pocket and picked up the two coffees.

Darnell held a chicken wrap and took a bite. With his mouth full, he mumbled something that was probably, "It's edible."

They sat down on the plastic stools by the deli window.

Outside, Broadway was dark. Streetlights spilled over the wet asphalt... A street sweeper must have passed through at some point, turning the pavement into a black mirror that reflected neon signs and headlights.

Lin An took the camera and hung it around his neck, then picked up his coffee and sipped it.

He didn't much care for the bitterness of American coffee, but right now, it helped keep him alert.

The Bullet Screen was scrolling.

[Is the streamer pretending to be a tourist?]

[Darnell in that I NY shirt looks like the Statue of Liberty's bodyguard.]

[The camera's a prop, and so is the coffee cup.]

[With a coffee cup, the cops won't stop and question you?]

[Having food and a drink in your hands tells the cops, "I'm just an ordinary person."]

[Social engineering at its finest.]

Lin An finished his chicken wrap, crumpled the foil into a ball, and tossed it in the trash. Darnell had eaten faster and was already licking his fingers.

"Your chicken wrap tastes better than mine," Darnell said.

"They're the same."

"No, yours has more chicken."

"Because I took a bite out of yours."

"...Damn."

Lin An stood, picked up his coffee, and settled the camera around his neck. He went to the door and pushed it open. The night wind rushed against his face again.

Darnell followed him out, holding his own coffee.

"Now what?"

"Follow me. Don't look around too much. Hold your cup and act like a normal tourist."

"What's a normal tourist?"

"Someone who walks around drinking coffee and stops now and then to take a picture."

Darnell raised the camera and snapped a photo of the fire escape on an old building across the street. The flash went off, painfully bright against the night.

"What are you doing?" Lin An frowned.

"Taking a picture. You said to act like a normal tourist. Tourists take pictures."

Lin An glanced at him but said nothing more.

They walked south along Broadway.

Steam rose from their coffee cups, turning to white mist in the cold air. A police patrol car passed them. The officer inside gave them a look, then drove on without stopping.

Coffee cups, souvenir shirts, and Asian faces—when the police saw passersby like that, their threat level automatically dropped.

Lin An had learned that from the Bullet Screen.

They reached the intersection at 110th Street.

Lin An stopped.

Darnell stopped too.

"This the place?" Darnell asked.

Lin An didn't answer. He studied the area. Columbia's iron fence stood to the north, Broadway faded into the distance to the south, Amsterdam Avenue lay to the west, and the entrance to Morningside Park was to the east.

A taxi drove past them, its taillights drawing two red streaks across the wet pavement.

A woman walking a dog came toward them from across the street. She wore a thick down jacket, and her small brown dog was bundled up just as warmly.

The woman glanced at Darnell and quickened her pace.

"She thinks I'm gonna mug her," Darnell murmured.

"You're wearing an I NY shirt and holding a coffee. What kind of mugger dresses like that?"

"You don't get it. In Manhattan, people see a Black guy wearing an I NY shirt and think I'm being sarcastic."

Lin An didn't respond. He raised his camera and snapped a shot toward the southeast.

The flash lit up.

The photo showed the intersection of Broadway and 110th Street: streetlights, traffic lights, the crosswalk, and the sign of a bookstore across the street that had already closed.

[The streamer's scouting the place.]

[Is this intersection on the professor's route home from Columbia?]

[Not necessarily, but he'll probably pass through here.]

[From Broadway and 110th, head west and you'll hit Amsterdam Avenue. That's where the professor lives.]

[It's about a seven- or eight-minute walk from the Mathematics Building to this intersection.]

[The streamer's calculating the timing.]

Darnell took a sip of coffee. It had already gone cold. He crushed the paper cup, started to toss it into a trash can by the curb, then glanced at Lin An and stopped.

"Bro, how much longer are we gonna stand here?"

"Just a little longer."

"Waiting for what?"

"Someone."

Darnell looked around.

The street was deserted. There wasn't even a homeless person in sight. The Starbucks across the street had closed, its lights were off, and all that remained by the entrance was a vent and a newspaper fluttering in the wind.

"No one's here."

"Someone will come."

Lin An raised the camera and took a few more shots toward Columbia. The pictures showed the iron fence, the lawn, the lit windows of the Mathematics Building in the distance, and the black car across the street.

He lowered the camera and checked the time on his phone.

12:40 a.m.

"Caw..."

Just then, a crow perched on a streetlight let out a loud call. Its voice was low and hoarse, full of ill omen.