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.Or perhaps, as with Chu, I thought, an off-road holding station for someone with a job to do.The area Rawlings directed me to—Howe Street—was shoved up against an intersection formed by the railroad tracks and West Street, also known as Business Route 4.It was one block long, worn, nondescript, residential, and abandoned in appearance.Its west side was occupied by a row of weather-beaten wooden homes facing an overgrown field and an empty, gutted, salmon-colored factory building labeled with a barely legible wooden sign announcing the Green Mountain Work Shop.Its serried ranks of shattered windows made clear that, nowadays, its only function was as a target for every rock-wielding kid in the neighborhood.Howe was a carbon copy of the street Heather Dahlin had taken me to in Hartford, and that our own Asians had chosen in Brattleboro.There was a nomadic feeling to all three of them, as if their inhabitants, regardless of race, occupation, or prospects, knew they should only carry the basics, and never completely unpack.The building he pointed out looked a little worse off than its neighbors—stained, sagging, and covered with old scalloped asbestos shingles, half of which were cracked or missing.The windows were devoid of decorations or shades, and the yard was vacant and neglected.“Still empty?” I asked, not bothering to kill the engine.“Yeah.One day they were here.The next they were gone.A few worked at the local restaurants or grocery stores, but they were the exception.”“Nice cars with out-of-state plates every once in a while?”“Yeah, that’s right.” He looked at me, a little surprised.“I was the one your office contacted to check this Chu out.According to the neighbors I interviewed, the people who came in the flashier cars were the only ones who caused any nervousness.They usually traveled in pairs or groups, dressed in showy clothes, and had a way of strutting around that made people feel uncomfortable.Our biggest problem here is with Hispanics, so the area’s already racially tense—adding a few Asians didn’t help.Not that they did anything—they were more like cruising sharks, you know? Swimming around all the other fish.’Course, we’re only talking eight or so people at a time, max.”“And what about the others?” I asked.“They kept to themselves—maybe fifteen of them at any one time, all living in that one place.We always figured it was part of a pipeline, but that’s not our jurisdiction.Like I said, we got bigger problems.”That sounded familiar.I looked up and down the block and then checked my watch.It was getting near suppertime, and the sky just beginning to fade.“Where’s the nearest dive? Bar, dance club, whatever?”He gave me a quizzical look and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.“A few blocks down west.Why?”“I was thinking if I drove a fancy car and strutted my stuff, I might want to unwind someplace with the boys.”Rawlings gave me the grin of a man suddenly catching the scent of something interesting—a pure cop’s reaction and totally at odds with his tweedy appearance.“Right,” he said slowly and appreciatively and began giving me directions.Unfortunately, that first stop came to nothing.The owner of what turned out to be a threadbare, pleasant, neighborhood bar not only didn’t recognize the picture of Chu I was carrying with me, he didn’t think a single Asian had ever crossed his threshold.The same held true for the next two places we visited.Rawlings shook his head as we got back into the car.“This could take a while, Lieutenant.If they didn’t frequent the local bars, then we’ve got a shitload to choose from.Rutland has no shortage of gin joints.”“How ’bout karaoke bars?” I asked, suddenly inspired.“Where you sing along with the music?” he asked dubiously.“Yeah, we got one of those.”We left the west side and went up the hill to the gaudy Route 7 strip, eventually pulling into the parking lot of a building so shoddily built under its camouflage of blinking neon it looked ready to fall apart.But by this time it was almost eight o’clock, and Mort’s, as it was called, was dressed to do some serious, if low-rent, business.Inside, the light was dim and bizarre, supplied mostly by blinking Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling.The music was low and schmoozy.Unfortunately, the magic wasn’t working—the place was almost empty.The karaoke fad, it seemed, was on the skids, and I was pretty sure we were about to strike out again
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