Loving Time awm-3

by Leslie Glass

  A few seconds later, with no more words having been said, the Captain had departed. Lieutenant Bernadino turned to April. “You want to be a detective, Officer?”

  “Yes, sir,” April replied.

  “Then report for promotion first of the month, ten A.M.” He handed her the paper so she would know where to go.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, taking it.

  She often wondered how she had been assigned to the Two-O, where Chinese-speaking detectives were not exactly in the highest demand.

  “I was hoping to meet the new C.O.,” she said now.

  “Good man,” Alfie said, nodding and chewing. He wouldn’t comment either way. Didn’t matter to him who came and went; things didn’t change much in the detective squad. He didn’t say that Captain Chew might very well be out at one of the three thousand and two meetings and social events at which the Chinatown leaders expected their top man police chief to be in attendance every month. Nor did he ask April why she wanted to see the captain, or what was up with her. “What goes around comes around,” he said after a moment.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” she murmured. Her watch read 11:55. George Dong closed his office from twelve to one. “Well, I got to go.”

  Alfie smiled and took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Thanks for dropping by,” he said.

  The offices of Dr. George Dong were in a new building right across the square from 1 Police Plaza. He was on the second floor, facing south. In fact, every time he came out of his office, rain or shine, the very first thing George Dong saw was the prisonlike brick structure of police headquarters. April noticed this as she waited for him downstairs.

  Three days a week George Dong operated on eyes in the morning and had office hours from three to six in the afternoon. Two days a week he was in his office all day except from twelve to one, when he shut the office for lunch. He had told April his schedule to indicate how well-ordered a person he was, balanced and in control of his life. Worthy of attention and respect.

  This was the kind of information that was guaranteed to throw April into the slippery bog of despair about herself. Although she had mastered her facial muscles about the same time as she learned to read, she was in control of absolutely no aspect of her own life. There was nothing orderly about her life except the inevitability of chaos and the dense fog that surrounded nearly all of her cases as she walked into them.

  “You could have come upstairs.” George pushed out of his building’s entrance at exactly 12:02.

  “I just got here,” she murmured.

  So much for greetings. They were in the very early stages of getting to know each other and did not shake hands or kiss. In fact, neither April Woo’s nor George Dong’s face revealed anything at all. Their Confucian heritage had taught them the essential rules on the cultivation of mind and heart. In this case, wu wei (nondoing and knowing you’re not doing it) was an absolute necessity.

  The first time April met George he’d been carrying a Wilson tennis bag and wearing a navy warm-up suit with red stripes down the legs. He had a round moon face studded with small, nondescript features. Not exactly chubby, but in no way well formed by Western standards, George reminded April of a Cantonese dumpling to which all spices had been added, then erased. Garlic is smashed and placed in the pan, swirled around in peanut oil for thirty seconds, then carefully removed so that no traces whatsoever remained in the sauce. The idea was blandness made your tongue work to find the flavors.

  George was like that. April did not know whether the tennis racket was for real or for show, but she did not miss the meaning of the warm-up suit at their first meeting. He was reserving judgment on her. For the office, however, his attire was a different matter. Today George was wearing an excellent English tweed jacket of the sort April had seen on Jason Frank, the other doctor she knew. And gray slacks and a crisp blue shirt with white collar and cuffs. He looked every inch the successful professional. Without further ado he started walking, thus commanding April to follow.

  Today he was going west two blocks to his newest favorite restaurant. Inside the crowded restaurant was an empty table in the window that seemed to have been reserved for him. When they were seated at it, without asking for the menu, he ordered in Chinese.

  “That okay with you?” he asked April when the waitress was gone.

  She nodded and told her first lie. “Sounds great.”

  “Good.” He twisted his gold signet ring around his finger, studying her speculatively. “Have you ever had a permanent?” he asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  He pointed to the top of her head.

  Ah, one of those frizzy jobs that always looked so wrong to April on Asians.

  “No. Have you?”

  “You should consider it. Curly hair would look great on you.”

  Her mother had curly hair. It looked shitty on her. April nodded a second time. Her training told her a low-class person speaks and reveals his immaturity. The perfect Confucian model is a person who does not speak and lets his silence reflect his wisdom. Mike called this restraint of feeling and passion passivity and told April he sometimes felt like slapping her for being like a stone. Even now, in a Chinese restaurant with George, she felt her sluggish blood stirring, just thinking about Sanchez’s perverse opinions.

  She realized she had tuned George out. He was telling her how a few weeks ago he did laser surgery on the cataracts of the grandmother of the owner of this restaurant, and now the ancient zumu could see better than when she was a girl. The old woman’s children and grandchildren were so impressed that she no longer needed her glasses, they thought the three thousand dollars was a small price to pay. George never got a bill for any of the meals he ate there.

  “Wow,” April murmured; “must be nice.”

  “There’s nothing nice about it. I feel good helping people,” George said importantly.

  April played with her chopsticks. Her mother believed George Dong was the ideal candidate for marriage and wanted her to close on the deal soon. She was having trouble working up an interest.

  “But then there’s a downside to everything.” George looked at her gravely.

  “What’s the downside?” April piped up dutifully.

  “The family thought it was such a miracle that their blind zumu could suddenly see without her glasses, they all wanted the surgery.”

  April didn’t laugh. She could see how that could be awkward. “How did you manage that situation?”

  “Twelve pairs of contact lenses.” Now he laughed.

  And now April understood why an American-born Asian like George, who had grown up in Queens and attended Columbia University and Columbia Medical School, would come down to Chinatown to practice medicine. Here, his patients never questioned his fees, didn’t rely on insurance to pay their bills, and thought he was a god.

  She laughed, too. “That’s a lot of contact lenses.”

  “The disposable kind.”

  “Ah. Makes a difference.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  He fell silent as April poured the tea. It was the right kind, with the leaves floating around in the pot. George watched her.

  “Can you cook as well as you pour?”

  April moved one of the tiny cups to his side of the table. Her father was a chef. George had to know that. “I know how,” she said, raising her eyes to look at him directly. She didn’t have a whole lot of time to hang around the house chopping, though.

  “I like a woman who can cook.”

  “And has curly hair. Any particular color?”

  George flushed. “So you know,” he said.

  April nodded. It was a common police technique to make the person on the other side of the table think you already have the whole story even when you don’t have a clue. The waitress deposited some metal serving dishes on the table and removed their covers. On the one closest to her, wrinkled gray sea slugs and smooth white squid lazed around in brown oyster sauce. April repressed a shudder.
r />   “My mother told your mother, right?” George asked.

  Again April nodded. George shrugged and immediately launched into the story of the lost love who’d broken his heart. A girl with curly yellow hair from Philadelphia who played the violin and was a Catholic. Apparently the affair had gone on for a long time although neither family approved. Religion was the issue with his. Anyway, by the time they both graduated from medical school, the girl had left him for an Indian anesthetist. Seemed pretty clear to April that George would enjoy never getting over it for the rest of his life.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?” April hid a sea slug under a piece of lettuce on her plate and delicately picked up a piece of lemon chicken.

  “You’re very old. Why aren’t you married?”

  April was twenty-nine. She raised the piece of lemon chicken to her mouth and held it there, perfectly balanced in the chopsticks, while she delicately took a tiny bite. Twenty-nine was not so old, certainly not very old. Then she took another bite and another until there was nothing left. She was trying to think of something to say that would not damage either George or herself. Finally she put the chopsticks down and answered.

  “Heaven does not speak, but the four seasons proceed on their course,” she murmured.

  “No kidding. That bad.” George propped a tweed elbow on the table to support his chin while he gazed at her with interest. “I think we may have something going here. What do you think?”

  April dabbed her lips with the stiff white napkin. She did not want to tell another lie. So she poured another cup of tea and looked remote.

  twenty

  At four P.M. on the second day of the Raymond Cowles case all the phones were ringing at once. Some of the second tour was hanging around chewing the fat, ignoring the tinkling bells. The third tour was half in, half out. Mike Sanchez wandered into the squad room looking queasy.

  As he sank into his chair at the desk next to April’s, she leaned across the notes she’d been reviewing and wrinkled her nose to sniff at him.

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded.

  April closed her eyes, trying to identify the odd odor that clung to his leather jacket and the front of his shirt. It was a familiar scent, but one she had never before associated with him. In her mind’s eye she saw gold and red, coins and ribbons, knew what it was. She opened her eyes. Got it.

  Mike was frowning at her. “I smell or something?”

  “Just a scientific experiment,” she murmured.

  “Oh, yeah?” Now he was sniffing at his armpits. “What?”

  “I told you. I was just trying to figure something out.”

  “I never tell who I’ve been with. It’s nobody’s business.”

  “What are you talking about? You don’t have to tell me. I know where you’ve been, so I know who you’ve been with.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where and who?”

  “Well, could be one of two places.” She ticked them off. “You’ve either been to a Buddhist funeral or a Catholic church.”

  “Uh-huh, and how do you know that?”

  “Incense,” she said triumphantly. “And you’re no Buddhist. So that means you went to church with your mother, had a lot to eat, and feel like throwing up now.”

  “You knew that,” he protested. “I already told you that.”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t.”

  “Yes, I told you yesterday. You told me you had a date with that asshole Ding Dong, and I told you I was going to Mass with my mother on account of its being the Mexican Day of the Dead.”

  “Shit, Mike, I did not tell you that.” April slammed the flat of her hand on the papers, then looked at it because it stung like a son of a bitch.

  “Ha,” he said. “Ha.”

  Now he thought he was speaking Chinese. “Wǒ ni hèn,” she spit out.

  “Oh, no, you love me. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Sergeant Joyce hated it when anyone had a happy moment. Now she stomped over and stood looking from one to the other. “What’s going on?” she demanded, hands on chunky hips.

  “The regular doorman’s on at Cowles’s building. I was just going over to question him.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “And we’re going to have another chat with Mrs. Cowles.”

  “Fine, then stop playing and get the fuck out of here. Check when the autopsy’s scheduled and see what they’ve got in the way of prints while you’re at it.”

  “I checked on the prints already,” April said, glad to have a bomb to toss at them. “Two sets of prints all over the apartment. Raymond’s and someone else’s.”

  “Oh, anything else you’d like to tell us this year, like whose they are?” Joyce shrilled.

  “They’re running a computer check.” April’s eyes were innocent. “Maybe we’ll know something tomorrow. Maybe next week.” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  “What about the plastic bag and the masking tape? Anything on that?” Mike asked.

  April shook her head. “Raymond’s prints, only Raymond’s. Looks like it just might be a suicide.”

  Joyce raked her fingers through her hair. “Okay, get going.”

  Mike got up, the grin still on his face.

  Joyce hit him with one of her paranoid stares. “What’s so fucking funny? Want to share the joke?”

  “No joke, Sergeant. Just indigestion. You wouldn’t believe what I had for lunch.”

  April reached for her bag. She didn’t think they’d believe what she’d had for lunch either.

  The sun made a stunning show of an autumn afternoon as they emerged from the precinct. It was warmer today, almost springlike.

  “Let’s walk. I could use the exercise,” Mike said.

  “Fine.” They turned right and strolled slowly to the corner.

  “You have only one day of the dead?” April asked as they waited for the light.

  “Nah, there are a ton of obligations. Every family member has a saint’s day. Even when they’re dead you’ve got to remember them all. Aunts, uncles—you name it. Then there’s birthdays. You’ve got to remember those, too, even after they’re dead. Also the day they died. Day of the Dead, that’s kind of like All Saints’ Day.”

  The day before yesterday. April turned her face to the warmth. “You have a saint?”

  “Saint April.” He laughed. “How’s Dong doing, any better than me?”

  The light changed. They crossed the street to the east side, where the sun slanted from the west, warming the sidewalk and obscuring the view into store windows with its glare.

  April squinted through the sunlight. “In Chinese, you know, every day is the day of the dead, kind of makes being alive torture. You mess up and every ancestor back to creation curses you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the responsibility of doing the right thing keeps going from one generation to the next. They think when you lose the fear of angering the ones who came before, you have no reason to be honorable. You can do anything, like the kids in the gangs, kill anybody.”

  Mike was thoughtful. “Isn’t there such a thing as forgiveness?”

  “Nope. You mess up, and you have to kill yourself.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Right now it looks like suicide. You think that’s what happened to Raymond?” They reached Seventy-ninth Street and crossed to Raymond’s corner.

  “You believe in all that honor stuff?” Mike shook his head incredulously.

  April gave him a hard look. Mike hadn’t divorced his wife after she’d left him years ago. And today he’d gone to church with his mother to pray for relatives he’d never met and eaten the Day of the Dead foods she’d been cooking for him all week, enough of them to make him sick. “A lot of people do. What about you?”

  “I never think about it,” he said.

  The regular afternoon doorman was nut-colored, middle-aged, scrawny. His cap of black hair had white patches all around the edges. He shot t
hem an inquiring look as he opened the door for them. April pulled her ID out of her shoulder bag.

  “Are you Tomás Torres?”

  He dipped his head.

  “Detective Woo.” She pointed at Mike. “Sergeant Sanchez.”

  Torres dipped his head again.

  “We’re here about Raymond Cowles. He died on Sunday night. You hear about that?”

  Torres let his head bob some more.

  “You remember anything about him?”

  “Like what?” The voice was soft and wary.

  Ah, he could speak. “Like his habits, who came to visit him, things like that.”

  Torres glanced at Sanchez. “Por lo visto está una mariposa,” he told Mike.

  Sanchez smiled at April. She frowned. He looked like a butterfly?

  “You want to say that in English for the lady?” Mike said.

  The doorman turned to April. “He was a very exactly man, kept to himself.”

  Not an exact translation. “Visitors?” she asked.

  “One visitor.”

  “Only one?” That narrowed things down.

  “Yeah, name was Tom, like mine. That’s why I remember.”

  April’s brow cleared. Oh, a butterfly. Raymond Cowles was a butterfly. That clarified things.

  “Know this Tom’s last name?” Mike asked.

  With a little smile, Torres shook his head. “He only had the one name. Tom’s coming up. That was his name.”

  Mike asked for a description. Torres gave them one. Tall, dark, handsome in an effeminate kind of way. The two guys looked like two peas in a pod, almost like brothers.

  “Maybe Tom was Raymond’s brother,” April said as they headed back to the police lot to pick up a unit.

  “Sure, and maybe they came out of the closet together. Maybe Tom didn’t like the result and whacked Raymond for messing with him.”

  April shook her head. “Only Ray’s prints were on the plastic bag.”