It was just past eleven at night. Half the streetlights on Jamaica Avenue were broken, and the rest gave off a sickly yellow glow, as if they were about to go out.
It was early March in New York, and winter hadn't quite let go. The night wind swept in from the street corner, carrying a damp chill that made the black garbage bags by the curb rustle.
In the patrol car parked at the roadside, O'Brien took a sip of coffee and grimaced.
"How long has this stuff been sitting around? Twelve hours?"
"At least."
Patrick didn't look at him.
"How good do you think it could possibly taste?"
O'Brien put the cup back in its holder, rolled down the window, and let in the cold air. He hunched his shoulders but left the window open.
"Look at these people."
O'Brien nodded toward an empty bench by the roadside.
"There've been so many more lately. It wasn't like this last winter."
Patrick followed his gaze. The trash can beside the bench had been rummaged through, and several black garbage bags lay toppled on the ground. A rolled-up blanket had been tossed nearby, its edges coated with a thin layer of frost.
"Don't look."
Patrick shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Looking at it too much'll make you sick."
"I just don't get it."
O'Brien shook his head.
"These people have arms and legs..."
"There's plenty you don't get."
Patrick cut him off.
"You don't get why some people sleep on the street, why some people drive a Mercedes, or why your wife still puts up with you... Why think so hard about it?"
O'Brien opened his mouth, but couldn't think of a response.
Patrick glanced at him.
"How many times have I told you? These people—you feel sorry for them, but they don't feel sorry for themselves. I heard someone at the 103rd Precinct say last time that there's a shelter just six blocks away. These people don't want to go, too many rules, and no drinking at night."
"Really?"
"Really."
Patrick gave a cold laugh.
"So what are you feeling sorry for them about? They're doing just fine. They rummage through trash cans during the day, then stretch out on a bench at night... Hey, it's free."
O'Brien fell silent for two seconds. He was just about to say something when his gaze suddenly fixed on the road ahead.
Fifty meters away, beneath a streetlight at an intersection, a dark figure was riding a bicycle quickly across the street.
O'Brien narrowed his eyes.
"Look over there! A Black guy on a bicycle!"
He reached over and tapped Patrick.
Patrick followed his gaze and froze, too.
It was a black bicycle, and the Black man riding it was built like a wall. The streetlight fell on him, clearly outlining his bulky black puffer jacket.
His shoulders were frighteningly broad, and the muscles in his arms stretched his sleeves taut. Riding that bicycle, he looked like a bull astride a goat.
"Holy shit!"
Patrick spoke quickly.
"Did we just run into a brazen bike thief?"
"I know!"
O'Brien stomped on the gas. The patrol car, which had never been turned off, shot away from the curb, its tires giving a short squeal on the damp, cold road.
"Easy, easy..."
Patrick braced one hand against the dashboard.
"Who the hell are you trying to run over?"
"That bicycle—the old-fashioned black Chinese kind with the high crossbar. Those things are rarer than diamonds in New York. A Ni Ge riding one has to have stolen it!"
"It could be his."
"Have you ever seen a Ni Ge ride a bike like that?"
O'Brien pressed down on the accelerator, and the patrol car sped toward them.
"That thing's stolen, I'm telling you. I'd bet on it. Only Chinese people have bicycles like that."
Patrick didn't say anything, but he put his hand on the door handle, too. Twelve years of police instinct told him O'Brien had a point.
Fifty meters ahead, the dark figure kept pedaling at an unhurried pace. The chain made a crisp, clean clicking sound that carried clearly through the empty street.
"He's pretty relaxed."
O'Brien gritted his teeth.
"Stole a bike and still dares to ride around at a leisurely pace..."
"Quit talking and pull up beside him."
The patrol car closed in. Its headlights lit up the bicycle, and O'Brien gave the horn a quick tap.
The bicycle didn't stop. The Black man glanced back, then turned forward and kept pedaling.
"Hey, I can't believe this!"
O'Brien shouted.
"He saw us?"
"He saw us."
"And he's not stopping?"
"He's not."
"What the hell..."
O'Brien hit the horn again, holding it down for two seconds. The siren blared once as well.
The bicycle finally began to slow.
The Black man put one foot down and stopped, then looked back at the patrol car. Its headlights shone in his face, and he squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.
O'Brien pulled the car diagonally in front of the bicycle, blocking its path. Patrick pushed open the door, one hand resting on his holster.
"Get off."
Patrick said.
"Put your hands on the handlebars. Don't move."
The Black man looked at him, then obediently raised both hands.
"Officer, what law did I break?"
"I said don't move."
Patrick walked closer, looking the bicycle over.
The black paint on the frame was shiny enough to reflect light. It had curved handlebars and the high crossbar of an old-fashioned Chinese bicycle... and it was brand-new.
The chain was spotless, and even the little rubber nubs were still on the tires. It looked just like stolen property.
"Is this bike yours?"
Patrick asked.
"No."
The Black man replied.
"It belongs to the guy behind me. It's my friend's bike."
At that, Patrick took two steps back and leaned to look behind the seat. Only then did his view clear the Black man's broad frame, revealing someone sitting on the rear rack.
An Asian man.
He sat on the rack with one foot on the ground, wearing a black lightweight hoodie and dark gray cargo pants. He was immaculate, with a face so finely featured it seemed almost unreal. Under the patrol car's lights, his soft, delicate features looked as if they'd been drawn.
He hadn't said a word the whole time. He simply sat there quietly, watching the two officers with a polite smile.
Patrick looked at the Asian man, then at the burly Black man.
O'Brien came around from the other side, one hand on his holster. He'd looked stern at first, but the moment he saw the Asian man, he visibly relaxed a little. Still, he remained on guard, keeping his eyes on the Black man.
"Get off."
O'Brien said to the Asian man.
The Asian man glanced at him but didn't move.
"Sir."
Patrick's tone changed.
"Please get off the bike. It's a routine check."
The Asian man slowly climbed down from the rear rack and stood up. He was more than half a head shorter than the Black man. Standing side by side, they were like a delicate Persian cat in an aristocrat's home beside a hyena from the vast grasslands. The contrast was absurd.
"Sir."
Patrick said.
"Do you know this man?"
The Asian man nodded.
"Yes, I do. He's a friend I met yesterday."
His English was fluent, but Patrick could tell at once that he was an international student from China, because students from China were the only ones who spoke like that.
He pronounced every English word clearly, but his sentence structure was a little awkward, as if he'd lifted it straight from a textbook.
"What are you two doing out so late?"
O'Brien asked.
"He's taking me to the subway station."
The Asian man said.
"I'm going home."
Patrick glanced at the Black man. With his "I'm a crime boss" face, he was wearing an "I'm a good, honest guy" expression. His tall, powerful body was hunched slightly.
Patrick had been a police officer for twelve years, and something didn't feel right. So he asked one more question.
"Sir."
He lowered his voice.
"Do you need help? It's so cold out. If someone's forcing you to go with him, tell me. We'll take care of this Ni Ge."
At that, the Asian man smiled.
"Thank you very much for your concern, Officer."
He said.
"But I don't need help. I really did just need to get to the subway station."
"Then why didn't you take a cab?"
Patrick pressed.
"Sir, I wanted to see the Jamaica Community at night along the way... Well, my belongings were stolen, and I don't have any money or a phone."
Patrick froze for a moment, then stared at the Asian man for five seconds. His clothes weren't expensive, just what you'd expect from an ordinary middle-class family.
But that delicate face convinced Patrick that he was a Chinese man who'd never known hardship.
So Patrick looked at the Black man again.
"Show me your driver's license."
He ordered the Black man sharply.
The Black man pulled a crumpled wallet from his pocket, took out an ID, and handed it over.
Patrick took it and checked it under his flashlight... It was a high school student ID, a laminated plastic card with a white background and green lettering, and a low-resolution photo.
He looked at the photo, then at the man's weathered face, then down at the date of birth.
Eighteen!?
He handed the student ID back.
"Hey, that ID's so fake it's ridiculous."
"Nonono, Officer."
Darnell tucked his student ID back into his pocket.
"I really am a student. I live at Apartment 2B, 90-41 108th Street, Jamaica, Queens, New York."
Patrick was dubious. He turned to the Asian man.
"Where's your student ID?"
The Asian man smiled.
"I forgot to bring it."
"You forgot? Then where do you go to school?"
Lin An glanced at the Bullet Screen, then looked the officer straight in the eye.
"I'm a doctoral student at Columbia University."
"What department?"
"I study mathematics, and I'm also taking electives in financial applications. My advisor is Robert Jarrow."
Lin An continued, answering calmly.
At that, Patrick, who'd been standing ramrod straight, unconsciously lowered his head a little and took his hand off his holster.
He didn't know how to verify what the Asian student had said, but it sounded convincing. He suddenly didn't dare ask any more questions.
In the United States, a university professor was a big deal to a police officer, especially a professor in finance. That was even more...
He cleared his throat.
"Pro... Professor Jarrow?"
"Jarrow."
Lin An spelled it out once.
"J-A-R-R-O-W. He teaches at Columbia Business School and is an expert in credit derivatives pricing. His structural credit model... Of course, none of that may be very important."
"Not important," Patrick said.
"Right... No, no, this is important."
O'Brien stood behind them, mouth slightly open, looking as if someone had just slapped him with a mathematical formula. He glanced at Lin An, then at Darnell, then back at Lin An. Suddenly, he thought of something.
"Columbia College?"
he asked, his voice instinctively two notches quieter than before.
"Sir, you're a doctoral student at Columbia. So, can you calculate taxes, or... uh, something about legal... uh, tax office forms...?"
As soon as Lin An heard him, he knew what the stammering officer was trying to ask.
"I haven't taken courses in that area, since they're part of a different program. But I'm interested in it and did some research for a while. If you have questions about household finances or taxes, you can ask me. I can help you out in my spare time."
Then he turned to Darnell and held out his hand.
"Can I have your phone?"
"What?"
"Mine was stolen. I'll use yours for a moment."
Darnell didn't understand what was going on, but he knew he wasn't as smart as Lin An, so he obediently took out his phone and handed it over. Lin An immediately passed it to the police officer.
"Officer, if you need anything, call this number. My adviser has me working on a project, so I'll be around the Jamaica Community during the day and in the evenings for a while."
O'Brien was stunned.
He stared at the phone Lin An had handed him for a moment, then came to his senses and took it. He punched in a number, and O'Brien's own phone rang.
After that, he cleared his throat.
"I... Of course, I do have some questions. I'm not asking you to help me right now, it's just... just..."
"I understand," Lin An said, his tone as gentle as if he were comforting a student who'd failed an exam.
"Officer, tax season is coming up, and a lot of people have questions about this sort of thing. If you need help, you can call me. I'm not a professional accountant, but I can look over your forms and explain the rules. That shouldn't be a problem."
O'Brien's Adam's apple bobbed.
The IRS had come after him for money over his taxes this year, and he still hadn't figured out what he'd filled in wrong. His wife had argued with him about it for three nights, saying he couldn't even get the numbers right and should sign up for night classes at the community college.
"Really?"
"Of course. This is much easier for me than studying mathematics," Lin An said.
Watching this, Patrick smiled at Lin An.
"Sir, we won't keep you any longer. It's cold out... Oh, no, sir, please get in the patrol car. As police officers serving the Jamaica Community, we should help you."
He took the phone from O'Brien and returned it to Darnell, then walked over to the patrol car and opened the rear door.
"Please get in, sir."
Lin An nodded and walked over calmly, then got into the car.
"Oh, make yourself comfortable, sir."
Patrick closed the door as gently as if he were setting down an egg.
O'Brien had already climbed into the driver's seat.
"Sir, it might be a little cold in here. I just turned on the heat..."
"It's fine. It's already warm enough. Thank you."
Oh, as expected of a Chinese student at Columbia—he really was so polite.
O'Brien smiled and nodded, shifted into gear, and released the brake.
As the patrol car eased away from the curb, its wheels rolled over a small pothole, making the vehicle bounce slightly.
"Sorry, sorry..." O'Brien said at once.
"This road, Jamaica Avenue... You know, it's been neglected for years..."
"Yes," Lin An said. "I noticed when I was riding here."
Patrick sat in the passenger seat, his seat belt fastened neatly. He glanced at Lin An in the rearview mirror, then looked out the window.
The patrol car slowly crossed the intersection.
In the rearview mirror, Darnell was still standing there.
One hand rested on the handlebars of his Roadster Bicycle, while the other hung at his side. His mouth was open, and his eyes were as wide as two golf balls.
His head turned slowly to follow the patrol car—first left, then straight ahead, then right. Then Darnell remembered something.
"Hey, hey, wait for me! Wait up, Jamaica's coolest Ni Ge! I haven't gotten in yet... Damn it, watch me catch up on my bike..."
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