"You Make! You Make!" *** by Frank Hickey***. I land in Hong Kong looking for an honest private investigator job. Arriving without contacts feels risky. A poised young secretary ushers me into a detective agency. "Whom do you know in Hong Kong?" she purrs. "I met a cab driver at the airport," I say. "How is your Cantonese?" she asks. "Can count up to ten," I answer. "And say 'I love you.'' "That's useful," she says. "Your resume says New York District Attorney's Office as a detective." "Yes," I brag like a kid. "America's best and most honest District Attorney's office.". She ushers me into a cubicle of white beaverboard. A pouchy spoiled young man commands the cubicle. He shows fat cheeks under a greasy black pompadour. Different KITSCH from the Royal Hong Kong Police choke the desk and walls. A white ceremonial baton rolls near his hands, bearing the insignia. A plastic tissue box echoes the same theme. Banners and plaques complete the image. "You are Hong Kong Police?" I ask in shaky Cantonese. "No," he answers. "Just friends." Back in New York, cops would call him 'a buff.' He hungers to be a cop but cannot pass the psychology tests. So he hangs with cops, sucks up their culture, badges and toys. "I give you good job," he says in ruptured English. He scans my resume. "Says you speak French?" He pronounces it 'Fransh.' "Yes," I answer. "Talk Fransh me," he commands. I do. Then I come up for air. "You speak Fransh?" I ask. He's got me copying his pronunciation. "No," he answers short, like a warlord. I continue my monologue. At this time, England still controls Hong Kong. It is an open market. Anyone can run a detective agency with no government license or control. Sometimes, it feels like the Wild West. "Okay," he wheezes. "Dere a lady here, Hong Kong. She Fransh. You talk Fransh to her, hol' her hand, you kissy her, hah!" He winks. It looks obscene. "You make her you galfriend!" he spouts. "I take picture!" "I can't do that," I protest. "I'm a Godly boy." "You make! You make!" he shouts. The shouts excite his sex. Something sweaty oozes in the cubicle. "I worked important cases," I gripe. "Micromanaged by legions of lawyers.In flawless suits. This ain't the same kinda movie. . "A joker like you might get your pictures and kill both of us, me and la Mademoiselle.". He squeezes to his feet. A fat hand hovers near the white billy club on his desk. "Hold on there, cow-flop," I say. "I don't have to sweat any Internal Affairs or Supervising Detectives anymore. I'm a civilian. "You touch that surrogate joy-stick and you won't believe what happens next." Fuming, I grab my resume. He takes it. The paper rips down the middle. He holds the part with my name and home phone in New York. Feeling righteous, I stride out of the cubicle, past the secretary and back into the Hong Kong alleys. Breathing fresh air, I'm ready for the next interview. The next day, my mother phones me. "Listen, Frank," she says. "This very nice woman from Hong Kong keeps calling. She's with a detective agency and they have a good job for you". **Frank Hickey Frank was a cop. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.