As he entered Chinatown, Jay strode down the center of Canal Street, on any other day a pedestrian death wish. He felt like the cartoon character Pigpen, filth clinging to his skin, trailing a cloud of dust. Jay sensed eyes upon him, so he turned around to see about twenty Chinese men following him at a respectful distance. One fell in step alongside Jay. “You okay?” the man asked. “Yeah,” Jay said, “I’m okay as long as I keep going. If I stop, I’m not going to want to start again.” “Where you going?” “The firehouse on Canal and Allen.” “Okay,” the man said, “we’ll make sure you get there.”
