The Kindhearted Police Officer

It was just past eleven at night, and half the streetlights on Jamaica Avenue were broken; the light from the remaining half was as dim and sickly as a dying breath.

In early March, New York had not yet shaken off the winter. The night wind poured in from the street corners, carrying a damp chill that made the black trash bags on the roadside rustle.

Inside a patrol car parked on the side of the road, O'Brien took a sip of his coffee and his entire face twisted into a grimace.

"How long has this stuff been sitting out? Twelve hours?"

"At least."

Patrick didn't look at him.

"What did you expect it to taste like?"

O'Brien shoved the cup back into the holder and rolled down the window. The cold wind rushed in, and he hunched his shoulders, but he didn't close it.

"Look at these people."

O'Brien jerked his chin toward an empty bench by the side of the road.

"So many have popped up lately. It wasn't like this last winter."

Patrick followed his gaze. The trash can next to the bench had been overturned, several black garbage bags lay toppled on the ground, and a rolled-up blanket with a thin layer of frost on its edges was tossed nearby.

"Don't look."

Patrick shoved his hands into his pockets.

"It's sickening to look at."

"I just don't get it."

O'Brien shook his head.

"These people have hands and feet..."

"There's a lot you don't get."

Patrick cut him off.

"You don't get why some people sleep on the street, you don't get why some people drive Mercedes, you don't get why your wife is still living with you... why think about it so much?"

O'Brien opened his mouth, but couldn't find a reply.

Patrick glanced at him.

"How many times have I told you... these people, you pity them, but they don't pity themselves. I heard someone at the 103rd Precinct say the shelter is only six blocks away, but these people don't want to go. They complain there are too many rules and they don't let you drink at night."

"For real?"

"For real."

Patrick sneered.

"So what are you sympathizing with? They're living quite comfortably. Digging through trash cans by day, lying on a bench by night... hey, freedom is free."

O'Brien was silent for two seconds, and just as he was about to say something, his gaze suddenly locked onto something.

Fifty meters ahead, under a streetlight at an intersection, a dark figure was riding a bicycle quickly across the road.

O'Brien narrowed his eyes.

"Look over there! A black guy on a bike!"

He reached out and tapped Patrick.

Patrick followed his line of sight and was also stunned.

It was a black bicycle, and the black man on it was as sturdy as a wall. The streetlight hit him, casting a sharp silhouette of his bulky black down jacket.

His shoulders were terrifyingly broad, his arm muscles straining against his sleeves, and the way he rode that bike looked like a bull riding a goat.

"Holy shit!"

Patrick said quickly.

"Did we just run into a brazen bike thief?"

"I know it!"

O'Brien slammed his foot on the gas. The patrol car, which hadn't been turned off, lunged away from the curb, its tires letting out a short, sharp screech on the damp, cold pavement.

"Slow down, slow down..."

Patrick braced one hand against the dashboard.

"Who the hell are you trying to kill?"

"That bike, that old-fashioned black Chinese bike with the high crossbar—that thing is rarer than diamonds in New York. A Ni Ge riding it? It's definitely stolen!"

"Maybe it's his own."

"Have you ever seen a Ni Ge riding a bike like that?"

O'Brien floored the gas, and the patrol car accelerated forward.

"It's stolen, I'll bet you, it's absolutely stolen, because only Chinese people have bikes like that."

Patrick said nothing, but his hand also rested on the car door handle; twelve years of police instinct told him that O'Brien was right.

Fifty meters ahead, that black figure was still pedaling the bicycle at a leisurely pace, the chain emitting a crisp, clean clicking sound that was exceptionally clear on the empty street.

"He's quite relaxed."

O'Brien gritted his teeth.

"To steal a bike and still dare to ride it slowly down the street..."

"Stop talking nonsense, pull up alongside him."

The police car closed the distance, and as the headlights illuminated the bicycle, O'Brien pressed the horn, letting out a short, sharp blast.

The bicycle didn't stop; the black man glanced back, then turned his head forward again and continued pedaling.

"Hey, I can't believe this."

O'Brien shouted.

"Did he see us?"

"He saw us."

"And he's not stopping?"

"Not stopping."

"What the f..."

O'Brien pressed the horn again, this time holding it for two seconds, and the siren wailed along with it.

The bicycle finally began to slow down.

The black man put one foot on the ground to stop the bike, looked back at the police car, and as the headlights hit his face, he squinted and raised a hand to block the glare.

O'Brien swerved the car to cut him off, blocking the front of the bicycle, and Patrick pushed the door open, his hand resting on the holster at his waist.

"Get off."

Patrick said.

"Put your hands on the handlebars. Don't move."

The black man glanced at him and obediently raised his hands.

"Officer, what law did I break?"

"I told you not to move, so don't move."

Patrick stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over the bicycle.

The black paint on the frame was shiny enough to reflect a person, with curved handlebars and a high crossbar—an old-fashioned Chinese bicycle... brand new.

The chain was spotless, the rubber nubs were still on the tires, and it looked exactly like stolen property.

"Is this bike yours?"

Patrick asked.

"No."

The black man replied.

"It belongs to the person behind, my friend's bike."

Upon hearing this, Patrick took two steps back and leaned to the side to look behind the seat, only then did his line of sight pass over the black man's broad frame to discover that someone else was sitting on the rear rack of the bicycle.

An Asian.

He was sitting on the rear cargo rack with one foot propped on the ground, wearing a thin black hoodie and dark gray cargo pants, looking clean and tidy. His face was so exquisitely refined it felt unreal, and under the police car's lights, his features were as soft as if they had been painted.

He hadn't said a word from start to finish, just sitting there quietly, watching the two policemen with a polite smile on his face.

Patrick looked at the Asian, then at the burly black man.

O'Brien had also circled around from the other side, his hand on his holster. His expression had been serious, but after seeing the Asian, he visibly relaxed a little, though he still maintained basic vigilance, keeping his eyes fixed on the black man.

"Get off."

O'Brien said to the Asian.

The Asian glanced at him but didn't move.

"Sir."

Patrick changed his tone.

"Please get off the bike, routine inspection."

The Asian then slowly climbed down from the rear seat and stood straight. He was more than half a head shorter than the black man; standing together, they looked like a delicate Persian cat from a noble household next to a hyena from the vast savanna, the sense of dissonance explosive.

"Sir."

Patrick said.

"Do you know this man?"

The Asian nodded.

"I know him, he's a friend I met yesterday."

His English was very fluent, but as soon as Patrick heard it, he knew this Asian was an international student from China, because only students from China spoke like that.

Every word of his English was enunciated clearly, and the sentence structure was a bit awkward, as if it had been lifted directly from a textbook.

"What are you two doing out this late?"

O'Brien asked.

"He's walking me to the subway station."

The Asian said.

"I'm heading home."

Patrick glanced at the Black man... he was standing to the side, his face that screamed "I'm a gang leader" currently wearing an "I'm very honest" expression, his tall, strong frame slightly hunched.

Patrick had been a police officer for twelve years, and he felt something wasn't right, so he asked one more question.

"Sir."

He lowered his voice.

"Do you need any help? It's such a cold night; if you're being coerced, just tell me, and we'll help you deal with this Ni Ge."

The Asian laughed upon hearing this.

"Thank you very much for your concern, Officer."

He said.

"But I don't need help; I really just need to get to the subway station."

"Then why don't you take a taxi?"

Patrick pressed on.

"Sir, I wanted to see the Jamaica Community at night along the way... fine, my belongings were stolen, I don't have any money or a phone on me."

Patrick was stunned for a moment, then he stared at the Asian for five seconds; the clothes on the latter weren't expensive, just the level of an average middle-class family.

But his refined face made Patrick certain that this was a Chinese person who had never suffered a day in his life.

So, Patrick looked at the Black man again.

"Driver's license, let me see it."

He said sharply to the Black man.

The Black man pulled a crumpled wallet from his pocket, took out an ID card, and handed it over.

Patrick took it and shone his flashlight on it to look... it was a high school student ID, a laminated plastic card with white background and green text, featuring a low-saturation photo.

He glanced at the photo, then at that mature face, and then looked down at the date of birth on the ID.

Eighteen!?

He handed the student ID back.

"Hey, isn't this ID a bit too ridiculously fake?"

"Nonono, Officer."

Darnell stuffed the 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 half-convinced, then he turned to the Asian.

"Where's your student ID?"

The Asian smiled.

"I forgot to bring it."

"Forgot it? Then where are you a student?"

Lin An glanced at the live stream comments, then looked the police officer straight in the eyes.

"I am a doctoral student at Columbia University."

"What department?"

"I'm majoring in mathematics, and I'm also taking elective courses in financial applications; my advisor is Robert Jarrow."

Lin An continued to answer calmly.

Upon hearing this, Patrick, who had been standing straight, couldn't help but lower his head slightly and loosen his hand from his holster.

He didn't know how to verify what this Asian international student was saying, but it sounded very legitimate, and he suddenly didn't dare to continue questioning him.

In the United States, for a police officer, a university professor was a big shot, especially a professor in finance—that was even more...

He cleared his throat.

"Ja... Jarrow?"

"Jarrow."

Lin An said, spelling it out.

"J-A-R-R-O-W. He teaches at the Columbia business school and is an expert in the field of credit derivatives pricing. His structural credit models... of course, these probably aren't very important."

"Not important."

Patrick said.

"Right... no, no, no, this matter is very important."

O'Brien stood behind them, his mouth slightly agape, wearing an expression as if he had just been slapped in the face by a mathematical formula. He looked at Lin An, then at Darnell, and then back at Lin An. Suddenly, something occurred to him.

"Columbia University?"

He asked, his voice subconsciously two octaves lower than before.

"Sir, you're a doctoral student at Columbia, so you must know how to calculate taxes, or... uh, regarding legal... uh, IRS forms..."

As soon as Lin An heard this, he knew exactly what the stuttering officer was trying to ask.

"I haven't taken courses in that area because they belong to a different major, but I have an interest in it and have done some research for a period of time. If you have any personal financial or tax questions, you can consult me. I can help you out in my spare time."

After saying this, he turned to look at Darnell and held out his hand.

"Give me your phone?"

"What?"

"My phone was stolen, let me use yours for a moment."

Darnell didn't quite understand, but he knew he wasn't as smart as Lin An, so he honestly took out his phone and handed it over. Lin An then passed the phone to the officer.

"Officer, if you need anything, please call this number. Because of a project with my advisor, I will be active in the Jamaica Community during the day and evening for this period of time."

O'Brien froze.

He stared at the phone Lin An had handed him for a moment, then snapped back to reality. He took the phone, dialed a number, and then a ringtone began to play from O'Brien's own person.

After doing this, he cleared his throat.

"I... of course, I do have some questions. Not that I need to consult you right now, just... just..."

"I understand."

Lin An said, his tone as gentle as if he were comforting a student who had failed an exam.

"Officer, tax season is coming up soon, and many people have confusion in this area. If you need to, you can call me. I'm not a professional accountant, but I can help you look over the forms and explain the clauses; that shouldn't be a problem."

O'Brien's Adam's apple bobbed.

He had been chased by the IRS for a sum of money on this year's tax return, and he still hadn't figured out where he had filled it out wrong. His wife had been arguing with him about it for three nights, saying he couldn't even get numbers right and might as well go enroll in night school at a community college.

"Really?"

"Of course, this is easier for me than studying mathematics."

Lin An said.

Patrick, standing to the side, saw this and smiled at Lin An.

"Sir, then we won't disturb you any further. It's cold out now... oh no, sir, please get into the police car. As officers of the Jamaica Community, we should provide you with assistance."

He took the phone from O'Brien's hand, returned it to Darnell, and then turned to the side of the police car and opened the back door.

"Please get in, sir."

Lin An nodded, walked over calmly, and sat inside the car.

"Oh, please sit comfortably, sir."

When Patrick closed the car door, his movements were as gentle as if he were handling an egg.

O'Brien had already sat in the driver's seat.

"Sir, it might be a bit cold in the car, the heater just turned on..."

"It's fine, it's already quite warm. Thank you."

Oh, as expected of a Chinese international student from Columbia, he really is polite.

O'Brien nodded with a smile, shifted gears, and released the brake.

As the police car slowly pulled out from the side of the road, the tires rolled over a small pothole, and the car body gave a gentle jolt.

"Sorry, sorry..."

O'Brien said immediately.

"This road, Jamaica Avenue... you know, it's been in disrepair for years..."

"Yes."

Lin An said.

"I noticed it when I was riding here earlier."

Patrick sat in the passenger seat, his seatbelt fastened neatly. He glanced at Lin An through the rearview mirror, then looked out the window.

The police car slowly drove through the intersection.

In the rearview mirror, Darnell was still standing in the same spot.

He held the handlebars of that old bicycle with one hand, his other hand hanging at his side, his mouth agape, and his eyes widened like two golf balls.

His head turned slowly as the police car moved, first to the left, then straight ahead, then to the right. Then, Darnell remembered something.

"Hey, hey, hey, wait for me! Wait for the coolest Ni Ge in Jamaica, I haven't gotten in yet... damn it, watch me chase you down on this bike..."