by Henry Chang
Observing them in the cooler, from behind the mirror glass in the watch room, Jack saw Pasini hand DaShawn a cup of water. When he was done drinking they’d have his fingerprints on the cup, and his DNA inside. An old trick.
Pasini wore a sympathetic face, worked his act like a Father Confessor, the good cop.
Jack tried to place DaShawn’s face, flashing past in his mad dash from the apartment. A pair of deep-set eyes, and a flat nose with thick greedy lips below. A face crossed with fatigue and anger.
Jack buttoned the speakers, saw Pasini look up toward the sound before taking the empty cup with him.
In the watch room Pasini said quietly, “You up for this?”
“All the way,” Jack answered.
“Look, it’s your case,” said Pasini. “The chief just needs to know you’re okay with it, the vic being Chinese and all.”
“Not a problem.”
“I didn’t want to push him into lawyering up. But he’s playing tough guy anyway.”
They watched DaShawn yawn, then spit on the floor through gold-capped teeth.
“Let’s see how tough,” Jack said.
“Step in anytime you’re ready.”
Jack nodded, took a slow, deep breath, and felt the pull of the stitches in his chest. He stepped into the cooler and heel-slammed the door behind him.
Bitch Up and Turn
DaShawn looked up, disgusted, whining, “Aw, man. Not you again.”
Jack had figured that DaShawn was weak.
Wordlessly, Jack placed a tape recorder on the table and activated it.
DaShawn sneered at the recorder. The machine started pounding out the gangsta rap lyrics of the tape taken from the crime scene. DaShawn was stunned to hear it so loud in the small room, surprised that the yellow cop had picked up on it.
Jack circled behind him, let the rap run a few more beats before stopping the machine. He stood to one side of DaShawn, saying into the sudden silence, “Whup dat Chinee, huh? Chop, chop,chop?”
A nervous grin tightened DaShawn’s face.
“Funny, ha?” Jack said, leaning in, saying in a soft voice. “You shot me, you little bastard. Shoot a cop? That’s attempted murder. That alone gets you twenty-five to life. Shit, you really hit the big time now, son.” He took the tape from the recorder and waved it in front of DaShawn.
“That gives you motive. You’re a hater,” Jack said, slapping down the photograph of the three boyz in the hood. “That’s you and the gang.” Using the evidence like a box cutter, slicing away at the would-be hard-ass.
DaShawn’s eyes danced over the photo even as Jack flipped down the Polaroid shot of Tyrone. “And that’s your homey, Tyrone.” Jack paused before adding, “Who, by the way, says it was you. He says you killed the delivery boy.”
“Boo-shit,” protested DaShawn.
“Tell you what, homeboy,” Jack sneered, “you’re going down for this shit. We’ve got the Chinese kid’s blood on the bat. And the hammer. And your prints are all over them.”
“So whut?” DaShawn said. “ Lotsa people prints there, yo. We all played baseball, so whut?”
“And on the hammer? You all played hammer -ball?”
“Yeah, we wuz fixing up the crib, doing the Home Depo . . .”
“Smart-ass huh? Well, your boy Jamal also says it was you all the way.”
“Nah, he ain’t said no shit like dat.”
“Oh yeah, you, all the way. Gave you up to save his own sorry ass.”
“Nah, nah, you trying to gas me, yo.”
“Jamal said you, with the bat, swinging for the yard.”
“Nah, playing me wit dis booshit.”
“Tyrone said you, with the hammer.”
“Tryin’ ta punk me . . .”
“Did you do the stabbing, too? Where’s the knife?”
“I ain’t stab no one.”
“You’re saying Jamal stabbed him?” Jack continued. “Or you both stabbed him? Or you took turns stabbing him?”
“Neither one of us! And Jamal ain’t said nuthin like dat.”
“You? Or Jamal? Or Tyrone?”
“Man, step offa dat shit.”
Jack leaned down, put his palms on the table, disgust on his face, and said, “You’re looking at life, son. This isn’t TV here, you can’t change the channel. Better tell the truth, because Jamal and Tyrone are offering up your dumb ass, said you had the gun, you led the way. You know what a life sentence is like?” Jack smiled, shook his head slowly. “No weed. No pussy. Matter of fact, you’re going to be the pussy. Telling you, better fess up, son.”
“Booshit, all booshit.”
“Jamal turned on you, kid. Bitched up and turned. He said he’s not doing the bid for what you did. Tyrone, too. Said you bugged out. All he wanted was some Chinese food, but you got carried away.”
“Lying, you lying.”
“Plus we got you with the gun. That’s A-One Attempted Murder. On a cop, too.”
“We ain’t know you wuz a cop. Chinee? Shit. You ain’t had no uniform on. We thought you wuz coming back from the takeout, looking for a tip.”
“You’re lucky if you don’t get the needle.”
“Nah, man, I ain’t know you wuz a cop.”
“You ain’t know I was a cop? I yelled it out, fool. In English, not Chinee.”
“We ain’t heard shit.Wu Tang was slammin’ off the player, we couldn’t hear shit. All we saw was ching chong in the peephole.”
Jack huffed, “ And you know what? The Big Surprise?” smiling a Chesire Cat smile. “We got your DNA, too. Wanna bet we match it on the kid’s body?”
DaShawn slowly waggled his head in disbelief, speechless.
“ Jamal said you needed money. He said—”
“No, he ain’t. No, he ain’t.”
Jack straightened up, took a breath, and said, “Last chance. I’m tired. I want to go home and sleep. Take a nap. Who the fuck needs this?”
DaShawn was squeezing his fingers, rubbing his knuckles, the jittery bird in his eyes. Tyrone? Punk-ass Tyrone? But not Jamal.
“I’m tired,” Jack repeated. “Maybe I’ll just pass this shit along to the DA. If you don’t want to deal to save your own ass? Fuck you then. It’s a slam dunk anyway.”
“ Jamal?” DaShawn started drifting. “ Nah, booshit.”
“You’re all going down. It’s just a matter of how long. I can hook you up now, or you can lawyer up. Whatever. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.”
He watched DaShawn’s stare go distant.
“Gametime, DaShawn.” Jack went toward the door. “Fuck, just let the DA charge you. Murder is a bitch bid, kid.” He chopped down the door latch.
A low rumble came out of DaShawn. The rumble sounded like aah-ite and built to a roar as he slammed his fists on the table.
“Aaahite!! He screamed. “Aaaahiite!!”
Jack put a fresh tape into the recorder.
“Tell it.” He thrust the machine forward.
Takeout
“When the delivery came Jamal said, ‘Run the cash, ching chong.’ Then the Chinese kid went into his pocket and Jamal hit him in the back with the hammer. The kid threw the money to the floor. He started yelling and crying, trying to git away. Then Tyrone stabbed him and Jamal tossed a blanket over him, still beating him with the hammer. Tyrone kept stabbing into the blanket ’cause he kept moving, kicking his legs. Then Jamal grabbed the bat and hit him real hard on top and he went down. Jamal, mo times wit da bat. The kid was still crying but not so loud anymore. Tyrone finished him off with the hammer, ’til he didn’t move no more.”
DaShawn took a breath, was quiet a long moment. “I thought we wuz jes gonna rob him,” he said. “I know Jamal wanted money for sneakers, but I didn’t know Tyrone and him wuz gonna kill the guy. Swear to God, yo.”
Jack leaned back and caught the rest of DaShawn’s version.
“After, Jamal got mad. He was bitchin like ‘Damn. Chinee muthafucka only had fitty-one dollas.’ Tyrone was laugh
ing, saying, ‘Shit, Nigga. No Air Jordons fo yo nigga ass!’ Jamal started cursing ‘Ah’ma have ta git two mo dese chinkees fo enough paper, yo.’ Tyrone said ‘So call in another takeout, nigga,’ but Jamal slapped him, said, ‘Everyone is closed now, fool.’ Then he was yelling, ‘Come on, clean dis shit up! Move dis ching-chong mofukka outta here before five-o comes down.’ Tyrone saying ‘Lookit all the blood. Red, too.’ He thought Chinee blood was yellow. They was laughing.”
Jack felt his hatred rise. They were all laughing, a hysterical joke, even as they wrapped the body, sponged up the blood. He stopped the tape recorder, made DaShawn scribble a statement implicating the other two.
“It was dem who done it. Tyrone and Jamal, they killd the Chinee kid.”
Jack took the signed statement and the tape, left the room, and went back to the detective’s area. Pasini waited there, grinning like he was impressed.
Jack reloaded the rap tape, readied the photographs. He gave Pasini a nod and headed for the holding cell where Tyrone was waiting to turn on his pals.
The Medical Examiner’s report had been delivered by one of the uniforms, who’d placed it in the wire basket on the detective’s table. It had Pasini’s name on it but Jack opened it anyway, took a long hard look.
Grisly morgue pictures of the teenager Hong’s body. Seen at different angles the body had thirteen stab wounds, from a knife blade eight inches in length, front and back, torso, stomach, shoulder, back, and arms, just everywhere. Some of the thrusts pierced his stomach and exited out of his lower back.
One stab had pierced his heart.
Six additional wounds to the head and shoulders, round quarter-size indentations about a half-inch deep. Blunt force impressions. One of the gangstas had swung the hammer like he was doing demolition work.
Metacarpus, phalanges. Broken fingers, both hands. Defensive wounds.
Fractured ulna, left forearm. Warding off the blows.
Fractured tibia, fibula, right side. A broken leg, dislocated kneecap. Kicked and hit going down.
Separated clavicle, the shoulder.
Three broken ribs on the left side. The bat.
An evidence photo of a Paul O’Neill Yankee Slugger, autographed model.
Shattered discs at the base of the spine, and higher, at the back of the neck. The bat, a swinging, killing club. Hitting home runs against Hong’s body flailing underneath the blanket.
The face has fourteen bones. In Hong’s face, twelve of these had been shattered. Mandible, palate, malar: jawbone, mouth, cheek. The black wood cracking through bone and gristle and teeth, crashing through nose and mouth.
A mutilated, destroyed face, then another photo showing a heavy metal Estwing, the claw hammer ripping out the nasus, the nose, the cartilage of septum, also the left eyeball (found in blanket). Facial structure crushed. Shattered occipital orbits, with skull fragments driven into the temporal areas. Displaced mastoid, and on and on, each notation consistent with a ball bat or hammer blow to the face.
Jack didn’t know if it was because of the side effects from the painkillers, but he felt sickened. He knew that this horror went on every day in this city, in America, in the world.
There were more than thirty incidences of blunt-force damage.
Jack took a breath, closed the report. In his head he was hearing grievous groaning and sobbing, the banshee wail welling up around the sad street of funeral parlors across from the playgrounds of his youth.
Death and Desperation
Koo Jai stepped away from Canal and went down Baxter, entering Chinatown the back way, through the park, and away from Mott Street where he’d risk running into Lefty. Or Kongo and the crazies crew. But he needed a sense of what was coming his way because he didn’t have what the dailo demanded. Fuck! That fuckin’ wristwatch and that stupid cunt were his downfall.
Coming around to Mulberry, in the distance, a funeral taking place. Fuck! He’d put together eight thousand, and of course the bunch of watches the dailo didn’t want. Fuck that, he wasn’t about to dump the Rolexes, Cartiers, and Rados, worth ten thousand at least, even if he was desperate. Fuck that. And none of the crew came up with any money, all full of excuses. They’d hoped to plead their case to the dailo, hoped that reason would prevail. Fuck them, too. He thought of Sai Go the bookie, whom he was now certain had complained to the dailo.
The funeral band started, warming up despite the cold day. Three brass trumpets and a trombone, and two drums, a snare and a bass. Pacing a slow walk to a sad dirge.
If he saw him at OTB, fuck Sai Go, too.
A few black-garbed relatives came outside to smoke cigarettes, the smell of incense billowing out behind them.
To avoid their bad karma following him, Koo Jai crossed away from the section of funeral parlors, and stayed to the park side, to where Worth led him around a bend to OTB, and later, back to East Broadway, anguishing, Right, where the fuck am I getting twelve thousand?
He thought momentarily of robbing the Fuk mahjong club but knew it would be heavily guarded during the holidays. fuckin’ hak, bad luck, he cursed. Black karma was following him.
* * *
Outside the Wah Fook funeral parlor, the drivers maneuvered their black Lincoln Town Cars for the day’s processions. Two trips in the morning, one in the afternoon. The Hong funeral, the smallest of the three, led off, a flower wagon trailing the dark hearse, ahead of four Lincolns and a minivan.
Earlier, the Fukien East Lions group had trekked down to the Alphabets and performed a lion dance in front of the New Chinatown takeout to drive away the evil spirits. One member set off a mat of firecrackers, the staccato blasts shooting forth bits of colored paper that settled on top of the frozen slush.
A squad car sat on the corner of Fifth Street, watching, but the uniforms refrained from citing the illegal fireworks ban.
At Alexandra’s suggestion, the Chinese Health Clinic had dispatched a team of Chinese-language grief counselors to the Hong home, an illegal basement rental in Sunset Park. The parents, who hadn’t slept in two days, were racked with grief, in stunned disbelief at their loss, their only son, their joy and their hope, the A-student who was going to be someone in Mai quo Fukienese America, gone, forever lost to brutal, senseless violence. Gone, their American dreams all gone. The murderers, hok-kwee black devils, teenagers too lazy or stupid to succeed in school, their brains dulled from drugs and alcohol, their hearts hardened by racism and hate, animal souls consumed by lust and violence.
The grief counselors were themselves stunned.
Sociopathic was a word not found in the Chinese language, an idea the parents could not comprehend. How could human beings have no regard for the evil they do? Unless, of course, they weren’t human beings but m’hai yun, a lower species of animal.
What could the grief counselors say? None of it made any sense.
In China, a criminal who committed murder would have received a Beijing haircut, a single nine-millimeter bullet to the head, followed by government’s bill to the executed person’s family for the price of the bullet.
In China, Jack knew, cops were liberal in their application of the law, justice there more pragmatic: do the crime, and you were executed. Simple as that, in a country with a billion people. There was no death row. There was no twenty years of appeals. China was six thousand years of civilization. They knew what worked. And they didn’t play.
He watched the funeral gathering from a distance, near the ball fields of his childhood.
The neighboring businesses on the street, from the undertaker at one end to the headstone cutter at the other, were all moved by the tragic death, and had contributed to the funeral, according to the Chinese press.
The Chin brothers’ Kingdom Caskets Inc. donated the simple bronze-colored coffin, a no-frills metal-veneer box.
Peaceful Florist discounted the floral wreaths, and the family’s village association paid for the funeral and the plot.
Several radio-car drivers had offered to drive the family
for free to the cemetery in Brooklyn and back to Chinatown.
On the park side, a group of Buddhist monks from the Temple of Noble Truths concluded their prayer service and planted sticks of incense in the iron urn by the curb.
A group of Puerto Rican schoolgirls passed by and cracked jokes, goofing on the bald heads and saffron robes of the monks. Chino Viejo! Oh snap, like kong foo, their giggling cutting through the dirge.
Inside the Wah Fook parlor the air was thick, heavy with the pungent cloud of jasmine incense that cloaked the room. The overhead lights were dimmed to set off the glow of candles softly illuminating the gathering of grieving, sobbing faces.
A small gathering, barely twenty people.
Out by the main doorway, the reporters and photographers waited at a respectful distance. Jack walked by them and made his way to the incense urn, paying his respects by planting three sticks of incense and bowing. Stepping to the casket, he bowed again, turned, and came to offer condolences to the family before returning to the main door.
The reporters made notes in their pads, a sad end to another violent New York City story.
Another dead Chinese deliveryman.
There is enough anger here, Jack felt, in this small room. But where was the greater rage out there in the community? Would the Fukienese demonstrate again? Or would the old-guard Chinatown Cantonese make a statement?
No justice, no peace?
No just us, no please?
The community’s activist media would stay focused on this, Jack thought, and the DA’s office would be very aware of that. This one wasn’t going to be bargained away in some sealed juvie deal.
There was a freestanding black-and-white photograph of Hong, a smiling teenage face, just above the altar space. Below that was the closed casket the parents were forced to accept, so horrified were they by the damage to their son’s face.
A ring of flowers surrounded the closed coffin.
They could hear the band starting up across the street on the park side, a sad sweet “Nearer, My God, to Thee” in four-four time.
