Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

Shit. Jo realized Melvin’s super memory meant he had highly classified military secrets on his personal computer, which was just stolen.

  Dzuy rubbed his forehead hard. “Your encryption software enabled?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s call the police,” Jo said.

  “Come on, Melvin,” Dzuy said, standing up.

  Melvin looked up at Jo and Dzuy. “But it’s trivia night. We play trivia the first Wednesday of every month.”

  Dzuy sat back down and looked at Jo.

  Jo shrugged. “What if we call from here? When the police show, we can go outside and talk with him, and one of us can stay and keep playing.”

  “Okay,” Dzuy answered. “Do I call 9-1-1 or some non-emergency number?”

  Jo tilted her head in thought. “I’ve never called it before. I think we need a detective to come get information and then get a warrant to search where the laptop is. Emergency sends uniformed officers. So probably the non-emergency number.”

  “Okay.” Dzuy went outside to make the call.

  “How are you, Melvin? Want to see a doctor?”

  He shook his head. “My face hurts a little. But I’m okay.”

  Jo made eye contact and nodded to the slightly plump waitress in a skimpy outfit. When she approached, Jo said, “Coke for me, coffee for him,” pointing to Dzuy’s empty seat. Then she turned towards Melvin. “Coke, Mel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Coke for him. And start us with an order of tenders, hot wings, and barbeque wings.”

  “Got it,” she said and left the table.

  Melvin looked up at Jo. “No wine? You order pinot noir here eighty-three percent of the time.”

  “We need to make sure we’re clear-headed to help you. No more alcohol.”

  A man wearing dark slacks and a blue tie handed Jo a paper answer sheet and pen. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and continued handing sheets to the other tables competing in trivia night.

  Jo put the paper in front of Melvin. “What’s our team name tonight? We do a new one every time, right?”

  Melvin nodded. “Melzo. An amalgamation of Melvin, Dzuy, and Jo.”

  Jo smiled. “I like it. It’s clever.”

  Melvin beamed a smile up at her.

  Though he was ten years older than Jo, and a genius in many regards, Jo understood he was also a child in others. “You want to write the answers tonight?”

  He shook his head.

  Jo wrote the team name on top of the paper, looking up to see Dzuy approach.

  As he sat, he said, “An officer will be here soon to get Mel’s statement and write up a report.”

  The man with the tie shushed all the tables, explained the rules, and asked, “What famous model appeared topless on the 1993 book titled Pirate?”

  Dzuy leaned in and whispered, “Who was a famous model in the 90’s? Cindy Crawford?”

  Melvin gave a look of distain. “Kathy Ireland was on the cover of the swimsuit issue in 89, 92, 94.”

  “Was she your favorite?” Jo asked.

  Melvin nodded, his face blushing.

  Jo smiled. “I don’t think those famous models appeared topless on a book cover. I think it was a man. Who’s the most famous male model from the 90’s? Fabio?”

  Dzuy leaned forward. “Nice. I like it.”

  “Okay,” Melvin added, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.

  The emcee called out, “What is the title of the best-selling Spanish novel of all time? A hint, it is often argued to be the best-selling novel of all time.”

  Jo watched Mel’s lips move as he softly mumbled, “Bible, Don Quixote.”

  Dzuy asked, “You know this, Mel?”

  He nodded and whispered, “Don Quixote, published in 1605. It’s the second best-selling book after the Bible.”

  Jo shrugged. “Sounds good to me.” She wrote his answer on the paper.

  Forty minutes later, Jo handed their answer sheet to the emcee, confident their team had a good chance at seven wins in a row. She leaned across Mel and asked Dzuy, “Any word from the police?”

  Dzuy looked at his phone. “No.”

  She put her hand on Mel’s shoulder. “How you getting home tonight?”

  “Mom will get me after I call her,” Melvin said, his lip quivering. “But I don’t have my phone.”

  “Don’t worry, you can use mine,” Jo said softly. “Did you tell her what happened?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Jo retrieved her phone from her purse, presenting it to Mel. “Let’s give her a call.”

  With imperfect timing, the speakers started blaring the ESPN highlight feed that was silenced in this portion of the bar during trivia.

  “Let’s call from outside,” Jo said as she stood.

  Dzuy stood. “I’ll call the police again. Do you think we can go to the station to make a statement? Would that be quicker than waiting around here?”

  “Maybe,” Jo responded with a shrug. “See what they say.”

  A few seconds later, Jo had Mel enter his mother’s phone number into her phone; she made the call for him.

  “Hi, Mrs. Bartlett?”

  “Yes. This is she. With whom am I speaking?”

  “This is Jo. I’m a friend of Melvin’s.”

  “Oh, hello, Judge Channing. It is my pleasure to speak with you. Melvin says such wonderful things about you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett. I just wanted to let you know that Melvin was robbed earlier today. He’s okay. A little shaken. They took his cell phone so he wasn’t able to call you.”

  “Is he okay?” she asked in a cautious tone.

  “Yes. He has a black eye and is a bit shaken, but he seems okay. We’re still waiting for the police to take a statement and open an investigation. Dzuy and I are happy to help. If it gets late, we can make sure he gets home. Or, he can spend the night at Dzuy’s place and go to work with him in the morning.”

  “A sleepover?”

  Jo switched the phone to her other hand. “I guess.”

  “I – I’m not sure. Should I be there to help him?”

  “I think Dzuy and I can handle it. Melvin was sitting on a bench playing a game on his phone when a guy snatched the phone from his hand. He stood up to ask for it back and the guy punched him. Melvin was stunned and covered himself. The guy yanked off his backpack and ran away. Seems like it was just scary.”

  “Oh dear. What bench? What was he doing?”

  Jo looked at Melvin leaning against the wall looking at his feet. “I think he said he was playing a Pokemon game. He said the bench is a good spot for creatures to show up on his phone so he goes there a lot. Would you like to speak to him?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Jo handed Melvin the phone. “Your mom.”

  He took the phone. “Hi.”

  Jo stepped back from Melvin, turned to Dzuy, and saw he was actively talking on the phone. As she walked closer to Dzuy, she heard him recount the robbery and report that he had the location of Melvin’s cell phone and laptop. With a half-smile and slight shrug, Jo whispered, “What’s up?”

  “Making a statement over the phone. She was giving me a hard time because I wasn’t the victim. I explained the phone and laptop were mine and told her exactly where they are now. She didn’t care where they are. Said she wrote up an incident report and an officer should reach out to me tomorrow to follow up.”

  Jo walked back to Melvin, who held the phone to his ear. Jo whispered, “Everything okay?”

  “Here she is. Bye,” Melvin said into the phone, then handed it to Jo.

  “Thank you for taking care of him. He seems excited to sleep over at Dzuy’s house tonight. If he has trouble, call me, I’ll come get him.”

  Jo listened intently at the tone of Mrs. Bartlett’s voice; she sounded much older than her parents. An entire life with a special needs son had to be challenging. “Okay, Mrs. Bartlett. He’s in good hands. Just a quick update, the police have taken a sta
tement over the phone and will follow up with Dzuy tomorrow.”

  Jo watched two patrons leave the bar during the silence on the line. “Mrs. Bartlett?”

  “Excuse me, Judge. I was just considering whether I want to thank Dzuy for helping Melvin get out of his shell, or if I want to yell at him for pushing Melvin to go places that are dangerous.”

  “I’m sorry. I understand things are scary, but Melvin was at a park. It’s not considered a very dangerous spot. It was just a terrible random event.”

  She heard a loud exhale. “I know. I know Dzuy was a godsend. It’s just scary.”

  Jo turned to look at Dzuy standing next to Melvin. Somehow Dzuy seemed close enough to provide comfort without invading Melvin’s space. Even though Jo felt all the pressure of Omar, her new job, and her family’s financial hardship, she knew she was going to be okay because she had Dzuy in her life. “He is. He really is,” she said quietly.

  4

  “Beautiful garden,” Omar said as he walked across an arched bridge spanning the narrow part of a koi pond.

  The old man, using a cane, leading Omar through his thick garden said, “Thank you.”

  Omar scanned the surroundings, feeling like he was in a professionally-kept botanical garden. Fruit trees, plants, and flowers crowded into the winding red-brick path to the white gazebo.

  “Pear?” the old man asked, pointing his cane at a round fruit hanging from a tree.

  “Looks like an apple.”

  “Ever had an Asian pear?”

  “No.”

  “Tai,” the old man called to the person standing behind Omar in their single-file line. “Tìm chúng tôi ba quả lê.”

  “Okay, I get us three pears,” Tai responded.

  Omar followed the old man up to four chairs surrounding a table. The morning sun was blocked by the trees and gazebo but it still felt hot. The humidity and lack of breeze made the garden uncomfortable for Omar.

  With a little grunt, the old man sat down, resting his cane against the table. He opened and closed his hands. “Heat and humidity. Good for arthritis,” he said with an accent thicker than Tai’s.

  Omar took a seat opposite him. “Good to know. Mi madre has arthritis, years of cooking at our restaurant. I’ll tell her.”

  “You know what else helps?”

  Omar shrugged. “No.”

  The old man grunted in disgust. “Remicade.”

  “Is that a medicine?”

  “Yes. Two thousand per vial at doctor if no insurance.” He held up two crooked fingers. “I had two thousand vial taken at border. I buy for twenty, sell for two hundred to doctors.”

  Omar did the math quickly in his head. “Three hundred sixty thousand in profit, plus a forty thousand investment, gone.”

  The old man nodded. “And my guy, who does it four time a year. In jail. Can never do it again with a record.” He opened and closed his hands.

  Omar glanced at Tai inspecting fruit on a tree. “He told me you think someone else is at fault.”

  The old man nodded. “Trung. He learn my man name and make him bring big load of oxy wit my vial. He busted because of oxy. Five years he bring my medicine. No problem. One time with Trung oxy…” He threw his hands up in disgust.

  “And you spoke with Trung about this?”

  “I ask him to pay for my loss and find new delivery man. He laugh at me. Call me old man wit no crew.” He shook his head.

  “Sorry for your trouble. Did Tai speak to you about my services?”

  He nodded.

  “I can’t promise you how I will rule once I hear from everyone, but it sounds like you have a right to be upset.” Omar felt the old man’s stare.

  “Say if you rule for me. He don’t pay. What you do? He got eight guys.”

  Omar smirked. “I got more. And my guys are tougher. Whatever I rule, it will hold.”

  Tai approached, cradling three Asian pears. He brought them for the old man to select from first. He then tossed one to Omar and sat.

  The old man and Tai watched Omar, so he took a bite. His teeth felt the texture of a soft apple. His taste buds detected a lightly-flavored pear. He chewed and nodded. “Very good.”

  The old man and Tai nodded and took bites themselves.

  Omar swallowed. “Want me to meet with Trung? Do you want to come to my Court?”

  “Five thousand?” the old man asked, with his mouth full.

  “Yes. Losing side pays the fee.”

  A crisp nod. “Let’s do it.”

  “You have Brian’s card?” Omar asked Tai.

  Tai nodded, his mouth full.

  “Call and ask him to set up a meeting to discuss a tax issue. That’s our code.”

  “Okay,” the old man responded.

  Omar looked at half of the Asian pear left in his hand. “Thank you for the pear.” He looked up. “I need to summon Trung. Get everything together you want to tell or show me, just like in court. Anything else?”

  The old man shook his head. “Show him out, Tai.”

  “Tam biet bác Bao,” Tai said as he stood.

  As Omar was led through the garden, he asked when finally out of earshot, “What did you say?”

  “Goodbye, Uncle Bao. When someone older, we show respect by calling them bác before their name.”

  Omar walked in silence to a gate that would lead him out of the property. Traditions, customs, respect; all had to be intertwined in his Court.

  * * *

  A giant, muscular black man knocked on the red front door of a small, single-story home. He knocked and took half a step back, allowing the screen door to close.

  A Vietnamese woman holding a toddler opened the door. “Yeah?”

  “Trung home?”

  She pointed back to the garage. “He in there. Knock on side door.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow as he walked away. A few long strides found him knocking on the side door.

  “Come in,” a voice shouted.

  He opened the door, ducking his head as he walked into the garage. He smiled at three men sitting at a folding card table. “Trung?”

  “Yeah,” a man with a neck tattoo of a dragon responded.

  “I’m Milk. I work for Omar.”

  Milk watched Trung’s body tense and his eyes dart to a white cabinet.

  “Ain’t like that. Relax.”

  Trung eyed him warily. “What Omar want?”

  “I’m getting a card from my pocket,” Milk announced. He watched the three all sitting alert as he slowly reached into his pocket and retrieved a business card. Three slow steps until he set the card on the table in front of Trung.

  Trung looked at it. “A lawyer?”

  Milk nodded. “You know old dude, Bao?”

  Trung narrowed his eyes with a confused look. “Yes. What that got to do wit you and Omar?”

  Milk took a step back. “Omar - he’s changing the game. This is like being served with a lawsuit. You gotta call that lawyer and tell him you need an appointment for a tax issue. Omar is going to hear you and Bao out, see if there is money owed for some import problem.”

  Trung grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the table, pulled one, lit it, and took a drag while everyone remained silent. He exhaled a stream of smoke. “What this mean?”

  “Think of Omar as the judge. He’s going to decide if you owe Bao anything.”

  Trung glanced at his friends, then back at Milk. “Huh?”

  Milk felt all eyes on him. He shrugged. “I’m just here to tell you to call that lawyer, tell him you need to see him for a tax issue. Then you and Bao go to his law office for Judge Omar to rule.”

  Trung looked at his friends. “What happen I don’t go?”

  Milk shook his head. “You don’t want a say in it? He decide without you.”

  “What if I don’t do what Omar say?”

  Milk nodded at the cabinet where he assumed Trung had guns. “Hope you’re better with those than we are.”

  Milk watch
ed the two friends slump down as they turned back towards Trung.

  “How much Bao pay Omar?”

  “Losing party pays the fee. Five thousand.” Milk took another step backwards. “Any questions, talk to the lawyer and Omar.”

  “Omar go to war for five thousand?” Trung asked with disbelief.

  Milk shook his head. “Omar is going to decide if you owe Bao money. It’s just like court, but for gangsters. If you got another problem, you can bring it before Omar another day.”

  “Court for gangsters,” one of the friends said with a smile.

  Trung raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Why you come my house and tell me?”

  “It’s my job,” Milk said with no inflection. “Call the lawyer. Bring anything or anyone you want to that hearing to show why you don’t owe Bao money.”

  Trung raised the card, looked it over, and shrugged. “I call.”

  Milk nodded, turned around, opened the door, and left without another word.

  5

  “Officer Maggiore, please proceed,” Jo said from the bench.

  A squat woman with soft, unremarkable, but pleasant features, stood and approached the lectern in a dark police uniform. She set a folder on it, pulled out a half sheet of paper, looked at it, then looked up to Judge Jo.

  “I am Officer Kristy Maggiore. I have been an officer with the San Diego Police Department for the last seven years. I have been trained and certified in traffic enforcement, including the use of radar and lidar devices and visual speed estimates.”

  With more interest than usual, Jo paid close attention to Maggiore laying a foundation for her speeding ticket.

  “I was on duty, assigned for traffic enforcement,” Maggiore continued.

  Jo’s head tilted. She forgot to testify that she calibrated her speed gun. Jo shifted her gaze to the defendant. Attractive and clean-cut. He reminded Jo of the late Brad Gecina whom Maggiore may have had a thing for.

  “The defendant’s car approached, I used my speed gun to record his speed at fifty-seven miles per hour. The posted speed limit is forty-five.”

  Jo looked at the five deputies and officers seated on the bench to see if any of them noticed that Maggiore forgot to say she estimated the defendant’s speed with her eyes and wrote the number down. The law enforcement seemed bored, just waiting for their cases to be heard.