Lucky

by Henry Chang

  “Sure.” Be conciliatory. Agreeable. He leaned back on the couch, returned her smile.

  Body language, he was thinking when she leaned forward, her blouse pushing against the suit jacket.

  “Let’s start with the most recent shooting. On the rooftop in Chinatown?”

  The smile came off his face. “I chased a murder suspect up to the roof. He pulled a knife and I got cut.”

  “You discharged your weapon how many times?”

  “Two. Maybe three.”

  “You didn’t actually shoot him?”

  “No.” He looked into the short distance between them, licked his lips, knowing he shouldn’t have.

  “Why not?” she pressed.

  “He dropped the knife.”

  “Would you have shot him if he hadn’t?”

  “Yes, if he came at me.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No. He made the right choice. I had the drop on him.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I brought up his ancestors.”

  “His ancestors?”

  “How he could meet them real quick.” He fought back a grin that came out like a smirk.

  “You challenged him?”

  “I wanted any reason, any move.”

  “To kill him?”

  “To shoot him, yes. To take him down.” The frown returned to his face.

  “You didn’t want to kill him?”

  “I wanted to arrest him, but I knew I was bleeding out. And I wasn’t going to let him escape.”

  “You were ready to shoot him?”

  “If necessary. I needed to cuff him.”

  “What defines ‘necessary’?”

  “Any move toward or away from me. He wasn’t getting away.”

  “No escape?”

  “It’s happened before.”

  “In San Francisco?”

  “That’s an open case, too.” He was impressed. She’d taken a good look inside his jacket. “A perp got away.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t like people getting away with murder.”

  “You desire justice?”

  “You could say that.”

  She got up from the chair and went to the Parsons table. She handed him a bottle of water before sitting her long legs back down.

  “Thank you.” He took a big swig before she continued.

  “What happened in the Smith Projects?”

  He flashed back to the ghetto housing projects, jing foo low, just outside of Chinatown.

  “It was just a black kid with a .22 popgun. I was lucky. He wasn’t.”

  She crossed her arms and waited for him to continue.

  “I wounded a perp. Killed a dog.” Downplaying it all the way.

  “You should have been scheduled then,” she said. “How did it go down?”

  “It happened like that.” He snapped his fingers. “All I saw was jaws, flying at me. I shot. Just reacting. There was a guy swinging a bat. I shot two, three times.” He paused. “The dog crashed into me. A table fell over. I kept shooting.”

  She stared at him and waited.

  “Then everything was quiet. Until the EMS came. Other cops too.”

  “How did you feel?”

  “I was afraid, like my life could end right there. But they had it coming. I had to defend myself. Just trying to stay alive.” She nodded, moving him along.

  “The department justified the shooting. By the book,” he said.

  She made some notations, shifted her body, crossed her legs the other way. Brushed her hair back with her hand. She leveled a look at him.

  “Okay, let’s move on to Seattle.”

  He remembered the big Chinese thug who came out of nowhere, barreling into him. He saw in his mind the second hitter approaching, aiming for a head shot.

  “You shot and killed two men?”

  He remembered his canned response.

  “They were trying to kill me. I was defending myself.”

  “You’re good at self-defense?”

  “So far I’ve been lucky.”

  “Do you count on being lucky?”

  The question made him think of Chinatown gang leader and boyhood blood brother “Lucky” Louie, lying in a coma at Downtown Hospital.

  “No,” he answered. “Odds are your luck runs out at some point.”

  “How do you feel about killing them?”

  “Look, they attacked me and I killed them.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “I don’t take it to bed with me.” He thought his answer threw her off beat momentarily.

  “What happened in that case?”

  “That case is still open. Can’t say much except that I apprehended an unrelated perp. And there’s still a missing woman.”

  “Okay, we can come back to that. You’ve been wounded two times, correct?” Her rat-a-tat style made him hesitate.

  She’d excluded the shuriken attack in Seattle, the sap to the head on Pell Street, and the bone-deep slice to his elbow. But maybe those hadn’t made it into his jacket yet?

  “More, actually . . .”

  “I mean gunshot wounds?”

  “Well, yeah, then you’re right. It’s twice.”

  “Tell me about your first wound, your left arm.”

  He took a shaolin breath through his nose, found his balance on the couch, and leaned forward. “During the course of an investigation I encountered a person of interest. We had a fight and he pulled a gun and I got wounded. A graze wound in my left bicep.”

  “What happened to the POI?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  She gave him a look that reminded him who was in control.

  “He got killed later, not by me.”

  “How do you feel about that?” She rested her hand under her chin.

  “Nothing.” He shifted back on the couch. “He was a bad guy, got killed by another bad guy.”

  “Okay, your second wound?”

  He remembered a fleeting image, someone running and firing shots back at him. “That was the black kid in the Smith Houses.” He dry swallowed. “I was lucky again.”

  “What happened in that case?”

  “They killed a deliveryman. I hope they do a long stretch.” He took another sip of the water as they paused, letting the tension subside.

  “Have you had nightmares, detective?”

  “Not really. Nothing job related.”

  “And the men you killed?”

  “Just part of the job.”

  “Is there anyone you can confide in? Parents? Siblings? Someone you can spill to?”

  “No one.”

  “No spouse? No girlfriend?” She rested her hand on her chin again, assessing him.

  “No girlfriend.” He shook his head, keeping Alexandra out of it. “No spouse.” He thought he saw a tiny smile cross her face.

  “And no dreams?” she asked again.

  “No, no dreams.” He didn’t want to talk about the nightmares. They’d make him look like damaged goods, and he didn’t want nightmares slipping into his personnel file. And now he wondered if she was coming on to him, in some subliminal way, because she’d made him nervous the same way that Alexandra did when they first met.

  “So no bad feelings, no nightmares? Everything is okay?”

  “I’m okay,” he lied again, thinking she’s heard all this before, like cops reading from a cue card. What did she expect from cops anyway? Right, I get nightmares all the time. I had to turn to self-medication. I don’t see the public the same way anymore. I’m the last in my family line, and I’m alone. No relationship to speak of. I’m depressed. I’m damaged. I’m fucked up. I need psychiatric help. What cop is going to co
nfess that?

  Instead everything was just line of duty, nothing personal, didn’t bother me in the least.

  “You know it’s unhealthy to keep things bottled up inside?” That look again from her.

  “There’s nothing bottled up,” he said.

  “Nothing personal, just line of duty?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s what ninety-nine percent of officers involved in shootings say.”

  “Well, must be the truth then.” He smiled.

  “So you’re disaffected emotionally?”

  He was cautious about the terminology making him appear dysfunctional somehow, and was unsure how to respond. “I just didn’t take any of it personally. Just moving on,” he offered.

  “Moving on?”

  “Just to get back on the job.”

  “Aren’t you on the job now?”

  “But I’m being checked out, my mental fitness.”

  “It’s just due diligence on the part of the department. You know it’s for your own good?”

  “Yes, you’ve been a great help.”

  “You’re not patronizing me, are you?” she asked through her smile.

  “Patronizing? I wouldn’t disrespect you that way.”

  “Okay, excuse me. I’ll just be a minute.” She got up abruptly and disappeared behind the wall-panel door. He thought he heard her rustle some papers.

  He finished the bottle of water, wondering how much time was left in the session. He felt he’d been there forever.

  She reappeared, and instead of sitting down she unlocked the front door.

  “We’re done for now, detective. But we need to schedule a follow-up.” Surprised, he got up from the couch.

  “Again?” Now he was the one asking questions.

  “We need to discuss . . .”

  “What?”

  “The man on the rooftop, for one.”

  “The immigration cops iced him. Kicked him back to China. That’s it.”

  “Okay, but the department requires a follow-up. I’ll have an outline for the next session.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll contact you,” she answered. “There’s no rush.” She opened the front door, held it for him. Still in control.

  “Okay, thanks for your help,” he said without feeling, catching a glimpse of her pretty face as the door closed. He was already pushing out the front exit when he heard her office door locking behind him.

  Crossing the street, he couldn’t help feeling wrung out, on the wrong end of a pysch wrestling match. Then lashed by a velvet whip.

  The cold afternoon revived him. He shrugged his shoulders, rolled his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d splurged on a full-body massage.

  Shrinks, he mused, gotta be wound tighter than white on rice.

  Desire

  The Mustang welcomed him like a warm glove, and he drove it east, toward Fook-Jo Land, his nickname for that northeastern edge of Chinatown populated mostly by Fukienese Chinese, the latest wave of immigrants from South China.

  As he cruised East Broadway with the window down, the wind felt good on his face, blowing out the bits of images and emotions that May McCann left adrift, like bullet fragments, in his brain.

  He saw where the neighborhood blended over—Hasidic, Latino, black, Chinese—cultures clinging to times long past. We were supposed to move on, through the generations, and assimilate into good Americans. Whatever that is.

  He took a loop through the Lower East Side, Loisaida, past the welfare projects all in a line along the East River—the Smith, Wagner, Rutgers, Baruch, and Gouverneur Houses—patches of black and Latino and stranded poor whites, from South Street to the East Village.

  The loop brought the Mustang back toward Chrystie Slip, where the AJA had its community storefront, and where he knew Alexandra would be. AJA was the Asian American Justice Advocacy, a grassroots community organization providing outreach to victims of domestic abuse, violence against women, and sex trafficking, as well as to immigrants falling through the net of NYC social services. It got its juice from pro bono lawyers and local activists. Chinatown. Not just in Manhattan, but in Flushing, Queens, as well. Chinese grandmothers arrested for selling joong wraps and bok gwor shelled beans on the sidewalk. Chinese truckers harassed and ticketed by DOT. Complaints from shop owners and restaurants about unfair scrutiny of Chinatown businesses. The city should be glad for the tourist revenue.

  They’re fucking the golden goose, Billy’d said.

  The thought reminded him of the vulgar emails Alex had gotten her hands on, copied, and shown to him in her fury and alcoholic despair. The scumbag side of her husband she’d never seen before.

  He remembered a few of the emails in their brazen glory.

  Brianna Johnson: “Luv oral. My mouth on ur cock.”

  Frank Chow: “Sucking me.”

  B: “U came in my mouth.”

  F: “U swallowed.”

  B: “Luv the taste of U.”

  F: “I came 3 times.”

  B: “I lost count, how many 4 me . . .”

  F: “Luv ur Ass.”

  B: “Luv Anal.”

  F: “backdoor brianna, haha.”

  B: “Doggie do-right, hah.”

  F: “Hitter in the Shitter, hah . . .”

  The graphic content stunned them. And now he’d become part of the problem.

  Stopped at a red light, Jack hoped the sugary gelatins would sweeten Alex’s day.

  He turned onto Chrystie Slip and spotted an open space in front of the storefront, near the big black-on-yellow aja banner. The Mustang slipped into the space easily, giving him a front-row seat behind the car’s blacked-out windows. He could watch the entire storefront, like on a surveillance setup, observing without being seen.

  He killed the engine and waited.

  Through the big windows he could see Alex’s office door was closed. There was a receptionist working a desk out front, and he was wary of the security camera covering the main door and the desk. Alex didn’t depend on the camera protecting her, he knew, because she packed a .38-caliber Ladysmith and knew how to use it. He knew because he’d taught her.

  He picked over the leftover cha siew and the soy sauce chicken he’d brought back from the cemetery. Since they were in the lunch-hour swing, he hoped to catch a break, hoped the receptionist was a late-luncher.

  As he munched the last piece of see yow gai, Alex’s door swung open. She carried a stack of envelopes to the receptionist, who put on her coat. Hitting the post office before lunch?

  He watched her exit with the stack of envelopes, making a right toward the local post office on Houston.

  He saw Alex manning the reception area and casting a wary glance his way, at the old-school gangster ride with the black windows parked right outside. She seemed preoccupied, a lone lady honcho in an empty storefront.

  When the receptionist turned the corner Jack grabbed the container of bok tong go and slipped out of the Mustang. He saw Alex suddenly jerk her attention in the direction of her office. Great, he thought, a chance to surprise her with the sweets.

  He entered quietly after Alex retreated to her office. She was on the phone and he couldn’t help but overhear. Her angry words froze him at the receptionist’s desk.

  “You want the FourRunner that badly, Frank? I saw your emails. Blowjob in the backseat? Really, Frank? The two of you fucking in the FourRunner, huh? You want the car? YOU CAN HAVE IT! But you think I’m going to let my daughter ride in that car ever again? Screw you, Frank. Screw you and miss ‘Backdoor Blondie.’ I’ll see you in court, you lowlife piece of shit!”

  She slammed the phone down, hyperventilating, as upset as he’d seen her that day a year ago, when one of the female uniforms brought her into the Fifth Precinct on a possi
ble D&D, drunk and disorderly. He’d saved her from possibly being disbarred, putting his own reputation at risk. “Baggage,” Billy’d warned. “That lady comes with baggage.”

  Enraged, Alex stormed out of her office, then was startled seeing Jack at the desk. She caught her breath.

  “How long have you been standing there?” She was fighting back tears.

  “A couple of minutes,” he said quietly.

  “That son of a bitch. We have a court date in two weeks and he’s trying to drive me crazy. Sorry you had to hear all that.” She saw the container from the Tofu King in his hand. “That for me?”

  He handed it over, bringing a small smile to her face. He wanted to hug her, hold her close and comfort her. Glancing up at the security camera, he held back. A security camera had been the cause of their troubles.

  “You could come out to Brooklyn,” he offered, “if you need a break.” She’d never been to his apartment in Sunset Park, where they could have some privacy, maybe even some intimacy. “No one knows us out there,” he added.

  She moved closer to him in a way that partially shielded her from the security camera. She put a hand on his chest, over his heart. “I miss you too, Jack. But we need to cool it, like we agreed.”

  “I understand. Just trying to help.”

  “I know. And I’ve got Kimberly all week. Off school holidays.” He had no answer for that.

  “But it’s good to see your face, hear your voice,” he heard himself saying.

  “Can I get a rain check?”

  He smiled, remembering all the “rain checks” she’d given him before he accepted the cup of homemade espresso that led from her kitchen into her bedroom at Confucius Towers.

  “I miss you too,” she repeated in a hush. “I hope you know that.” She ran her hand across his chest again before leaning back. “Thanks for the bok tong go, but you better get going before Victoria gets back.”

  They glanced out the front window at the empty street.

  “She’s picking up our takeout lunch.” He was glad to see she’d calmed down a bit.